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Updated: August 14, 2024
But what do you mean, Uncle Simon, you don't mean to say that you want to resign. Why what would your old wife think if she was living?" "No, no, Mas' Gawge, I don't ezzactly want to 'sign, but I'd jes' lak to have a few Sundays off." "A few Sundays off! Well, now, I do believe that you are crazy. What on earth put that into your head?"
The cup Mis' Alice gave him was a-settin' on the mantel, an' Mars' Nat was stewin' up some sawt of cough tonic for him. The white folks up Nawth must a thought a heap of him. He'd just got a lettah from one of the college professahs 'quirin' bout his health. Mars' Nat read out what was on the back of it: 'Rev'und Gawge W. Chadwick, an' some lettahs on the end that I kain't remembah.
A person, now, would take you for ninety, and to my positive knowledge, you're not more than eighty-five." "Oh, Lawd. Mastah, do heish." "I'm not flattering you, that's the truth." "Well, now, Mawse Gawge, couldn' you mek me' look lak eighty-fo', an' be a little youngah?" "Why, what do you want to be younger for?" "You see, hit's jes' lak dis, Mawse Gawge.
Presently the tightness in my face relaxed, I moved my lips, smiling vaguely. "In love," I repeated. "Yaas, Mars' Ormon'." "When?" "'Fore yo' know h'it, honey." "Tell me more." "'Spec' ah done tole yo' too much, honey." She looked at me steadily. "Pore Mars' Gawge," she murmured, "'spec' ah done tole yo' too much.
It was a funny old figure, stooped and so one-sided that the tail of the long and shabby coat he wore dragged on the ground. The face was black and shrewd, and little patches of snow-white hair fringed the shiny pate. "Good-morning, Uncle Simon," said Mr. Marston, heartily. "Mornin' Mas' Gawge. How you come on?" "I'm first-rate. How are you? How are your rheumatics coming on?"
"Look hyeah, Mis' M'ree," she exclaimed, without the formality of prefacing her remarks, "I wants to know whut's de mattah wif Brothah Simon what mek him ac' de way he do?" "Why, I do not know, Eliza, what has Uncle Simon been doing?" "Why, some o' you all mus' know, lessn' he couldn' 'a' done hit. Ain' he ax you nuffin', Marse Gawge?" "Yes, he did have some talk with me." "Some talk!
"What you doin' here, Gawge Washington? Ain't I done tole you sebenty times seben to keep outa my kitchen at dis time o' day?" "I wanter see Miss Phyl." "Then I low you kin take it out in wantin'. Think she got time to fool away on a nigger sprout like you-all? Light a shuck back to the stable, where you belong."
In John Jay the man saw his own childhood with all its unanswered questions and dumb, groping ambitions; while the boy, looking up to his "Rev'und Gawge" as the highest standard of all manliness, felt faint stirrings within, of the possibility of such growth for himself.
An' he said, laughin'-like, sezee, 'well, Uncle Billy, you'd nevah take that as meanin' Jintsey's boy, would you now? It's a mighty fine soundin' title, sezee. Gawge gave a little moanful sawt of smile, same as to say, well, aftah all, it wasn't wuth what it cost him. An' it wasn't! No, it wasn't," repeated Uncle Billy, solemnly shaking the ashes from his pipe.
The more interested he grew, it seemed to him, the lower they pitched their voices. Creeping carefully across the floor, he curled up on his pillow just inside the doorway, where the shadows fell heaviest, and where he could enjoy every word of the conversation, without straining his ears to listen. "Gawge Chadwick came home yestiddy," announced Uncle Billy. "Sho now!" exclaimed Mammy.
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