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"He know many, many t'ings, but he 'fraid come tell you hisself." "I should think he would be," replied the captain, "and I wonder you are not afraid, too." "Oh, I is, I is," said Maka. "I's all w'ite inside. But somebody got speak boss 'fore he go 'way. If nobody speak, den you go 'way no boss. All crooked. Nobody b'long to anybody.
You understand, the voice of the people has made Galleo President, but no one forgets that he is not one of us." Her youthful countryman twisted his mustache with trembling fingers. "It is politics!" he declared. "And yet Galleo is a great man; I am honor' to be his Secretary. But by the grace of God our next President will be w'ite." "Ramon's father, Don Anibal, you know."
"Mos' lackly he 's a mulatter man f'om up de country somewhar. He don' look lack dese yer niggers roun' yere, ner yet lack a w'ite man. But de po' boy's in a bad fix, w'ateber he is, an' I 'spec's we bettah do w'at we kin fer 'im, an' w'en he comes to he 'll tell us w'at he is er w'at he calls hisse'f.
"Think Ise gwine leave yere an' go live in dat little house down dere by dem noisy tracks whar all dem odds an' ends of pore w'ite trash lives dem scourin's an' sweepin's whut come yere to wuk in de new cotton mill! Think Ise gwine be corntent to wuk in a gyarden whilst I knows Ise needed right yere to run dis place de way which it should be run!
He didn't mind if it was a little "stingy" too. "Yo' all come in yere yo' little w'ite folks," said Mammy June, "and we'll make some 'lasses taffy. I got plenty sorgum 'lasses. We can make it w'ile this catfish boy is getting dry." She continued to call Russ "the catfish boy" and chuckled over his adventure.
"Hoddy, Mars Geo'ge!" he exclaimed, bobbing his head and kicking his heel out behind in approved plantation style. "Hello, Plato," replied the young man, "what are you doing here?" "Gwine ter school, Mars Geo'ge," replied the lad; "larnin' ter read an' write, suh, lack de w'ite folks." "Wat you callin' dat w'ite man marster fur?" whispered a tall yellow boy to the acrobat addressed as Plato.
"Is dat you, Doctuh Miller?" "Yes. Who are you, and what's the trouble?" "What's de trouble, suh? Why, all hell's broke loose in town yonduh. De w'ite folks is riz 'gins' de niggers, an' say dey're gwine ter kill eve'y nigger dey kin lay han's on." Miller's heart leaped to his throat, as he thought of his wife and child.
And so about three o'clock Mike Breyette surveyed the orderly cabin, the pile of chopped wood, and the venison drying in the sun, and said briskly: "Well, M'sieu Thompson, Ah theenk we go show you hon Lone Moose village now. Dere's one w'ite man Ah don' know 'tall. But der's breed familee call Lachlan, eef she's not move 'way somew'ere. Dat familee she's talk Henglish, and ver' fond of preacher.
"'I reckon I'll hab a look at de mule, says Mars Jim, 'en ef he suit me, I dunno but w'at I mought buy 'im. "So de po' w'ite man tuk Mars Jim 'roun' back er de sto', en dere stood a monst'us fine mule. W'en de mule see Mars Jim, he gun a whinny, des lack he knowed him befo'. Mars Jim look' at de mule, en de mule 'peared ter be soun' en strong.
"Well, I dunno whe'r you b'lieves in cunj'in' er not, some er de w'ite folks don't, er says dey don't, but de truf er de matter is dat dis yer ole vimya'd is goophered." "Is what?" I asked, not grasping the meaning of this unfamiliar word. "Is goophered, cunju'd, bewitch'."
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