able fuh specify. Dem wife lazy tummuch fuh patch’um.” And so Abram,
always backward in company, put on the best front he could for a while
and, unlike Edward Bellamy, never looked behind him. At last the
raillery told on him, however, and he made up his mind to take another
plunge into the roiling waters of married life. Not the “uncertain sea
of matrimony” beloved of poets, but just the black and sluggish current
of the branch or run, in which, among snags and cypress knees, swam
the slimy catfish and the venomous moccasin. The hazard was not great,
for, however forbidding they looked, the waters were shallow, and the
low-country negro, stepping into matrimony, keeps at least one big toe
on dry ground, and, if one steps in the wrong place, one can always
step out again, and try elsewhere. So, with more than a toe-hold of
mental reservation, Abram at last, like the storied frog, “would a
wooing go”--and he went. “Uh gwine Cross Road’. Uh gwine Sat’d’y night
w’en ’nuf ’ooman dey dey, en’ uh gwine saa’ch dem eb’ry Gawd’ one ’tell
uh git one wuh kin specify. Uh yent wan’ no settle’ ’ooman, ’cause dem
done hab ’nuf man fuh marri’d, en’ dem know tummuch. Dem too schemy!
Seem lukkuh de mo’ husbun’ en’ t’ing dem fuh hab, de mo’ schemy dem
git! Ef uh tek uh nyung gal fuh wife, wuh ent know nutt’n’, uh kin
bruk’um fuh suit, same lukkuh oxin bruk fuh pull plow. Uh kin fetch’um
onduhneet’ me han’!”
With these masterful masculine reflections, Abram went his ways to the
Cross Roads, and having, like Poe’s Raven, acquired the sitting habit,
down he sat near the store on a convenient log which offered at once
rest for his weary bones and camouflage for his sartorial infirmities.
For an hour or more he watched with an appraising eye the women coming
and going, acknowledging the salutations of those who passed near
him. At last, his approving regard rested upon what the ante-bellum
advertisements would have called a “likely girl” who curtseyed as she
came opposite him. “Come’yuh, gal,” he called. “Wuh you name?”
“Sukey, suh.”
“You duh An’ Minda’ gal, enty?”
“Yaas, suh, him duh my Grumma en’ me duh him gran’.”
“You onduhstan’ ’bout cook en’ wash, enty?”
“Yaas, suh, uh well acquaintun wid alltwo.”
“Berry well. You know how fuh patch man’ britchiz en’ t’ing?”
“No, suh, uh know how fuh patch ’ooman’ frock, but uh yent know nutt’n’
’bout no britchiz ’cause none ent fuh dey een we house.”
“You hab Pa, enty?”
“No, suh, uh yent hab no Pa. Uh yeddy ’bout’um but uh nebbuh shum.
Grumma tell me suh one time uh bin hab Pa, but Ma run’um off en’ ’e
’f’aid fuh come back, en’ attuhw’ile w’en uh biggin fuh grow big, Ma
sen’ me fuh lib ’long Grumma, ’cause ’e say suh uh tek attuh Pa ’tell
eb’ry time ’e look ’puntop me ’e bex ’tell him haffuh lick me, en’ him
say suh ’e yent hab time fuh fuhrebbuh duh lick me.”
“You tek attuh yo’ Pa, enty?”
“Yaas, suh, uh nebbuh shum, but eb’rybody say suh uh look luk’um en’
tek attuhr’um alltwo.”
“You ent tek attuh yo’ Ma, iz you?”
“No, suh, uh yent tek attuh _him_.”
“Berry well, uh gwine hab you fuh wife. You know who uh yiz, enty? Me
duh Ebbrum Drayton, en’ uh lib todduh side Adam’ Run deepo, en’ uh hab
uh two-chimbly house en’ ’e got two story, en’ uh bin hab uh mare, but
him gone en’ dead. En’ w’en you gone home, tell yo’ Grumma uh gwine fuh
shum Sunday night fuh tell’um uh gwine hab you fuh wife.”
“Yaas, suh. Well, good ebenin’, suh,” and, with another curtsy, she was
gone.
But Abram’s plans they gang’d agley, for old John, in putting the
word-of-mouth entail on the Dower House, had tied the “’tail” so
loosely that its terms and conditions were constantly subject to family
discussion and interpretation, and Abram’s son now objected to his
father’s marriage, believing that it would break the entail and deprive
him of the right of succession to “de Two-Chimbly House.” “W’en Grumpa
him tie de ’tail ’puntop de house, ’e say ’sponsubble suh ’e yent fuh
tek off, en’ suh ’e yent fuh tie ’puntop no ’ooman. Pa ent know uh
Gawd’ t’ing ’bout da’ gal him duh talk ’bout hab fuh wife. ’E nebbuh
see ’e Ma, ’e nebbuh shum fight. Da’ gal’ Ma iz de debble! W’en da’
’ooman fight da’ gal’ Pa, ’e run’um ’long hoe en’ hatchitch alltwo! Da’
nigguh run ’tell ’e cross Jacksinburruh. ’E nebbuh stop’ ’tell ’e gone
spang Ti Ti! W’en ’e bog up to ’e crotch ’mong dem waa’ment’ en’ t’ing
’e git sattify een ’e mine’. No, suh! Pa ent study nutt’n’ ’cep’ hab
wife fuh sweep ’e house en’ patch ’e britchiz. Bumbye, w’en da’ gal’
maamy’ sperrit git een’um en’ ’e bex fuh true! Ki! Da’ gal gwine tek
de ’tail off Grumpa’ house en’ none uh we gwine shum ’gen! W’en Pa duh
bog up to ’e crotch een Ti Ti, wuh saa’bis den fuh hab patch ’puntop ’e
britchiz? No, suh!”
His daughter sought to comfort Abram, who, in the short space of 36
hours, had loved and wooed, and won and lost. “Nemmine’, Pa, you got
yo’ Two-Chimbly House.”
“Yaas, but uh cyan’ seddown befo’ alltwo de chimbly one time.”
AT THE CROSS ROADS STORE
For many years after freedom came to the negroes of the low-country,
they were cruelly and ignobly cheated by the tradespeople who set up
little Cross Roads stores in every community. Many of these were German
corner-shopkeepers from the cities. Others were wandering Jews, whose
predatory instincts took them wherever there were pickings to be had.
Yet others, to their shame, were certain low-class South Carolinians
that did not scruple to take advantage of the ignorant freedmen who,
a wasteful and improvident people, whose needs had all been supplied
under slavery, squandered the money they were unaccustomed to handling
and unable to compute.
Imitative as monkeys, however, it is to the credit of their
intelligence, if not of their morality, that they soon learned to
retaliate, and many a brick and rusty plowshare was weighed in their
bags of seed cotton and paid for by the tricky shopkeeper who, knowing
that in many cases the cotton was stolen from the planter for whom the
negro worked, and brought stealthily by night to the sophisticated
merchant, did not scan his purchase too closely, and many an ancient
nest egg, too, was sold to the shopkeeper as a new-laid “yaa’d aig” and
shipped away to city customers.
The marks upon the brass beams of the counter-scales with which the
negroes’ purchases were weighed, were so obscured and tarnished
that they could not be deciphered, even by customers who could
read, but the wily shopman knew exactly where to put his weight to
give a twelve-ounce pound, which is what the negro usually got.
Always suspecting “de buckruh” of cheating him, and being unable to
do even the smallest addition, the negro soon learned to protect
himself, if not from short weights, at least from short change, and
it was interesting to observe a shopper making her week’s purchases
on Saturday nights at one of these neighborhood stores. The women,
commonly more alert, and always more suspicious, than the men, were
usually charged with the buying. If a customer had a dollar to spend,
she would first price the various commodities under consideration.
“Hummuch you ax fuh sugar?”
“Ten cents a pound.”
“Ten cent’ uh poun’?”
“Yes.”
“Hummuch fuh fibe cent’?”
“Half a pound.”
“Gimme fibe cent’ wut.”
The short-weight sugar wrapped up and handed out, the customer would
draw it to her bosom and, leaning on the counter, put her protecting
arms around it. The dollar, ceremonially unwrapped from a corner of her
apron, would be handed over, and ninety-five cents in change returned,
which she would count over carefully before proceeding with her next
purchase.
“You got any bakin’?”
“Yes.”
“Wuh kind’uh bakin’?”
“Side meat and shoulder meat.”
“Hummuch fuh him?”
“Ten cents for the shoulders and twelve and a half cents for the sides.”
“Gimme ten cent’ wut uh side meat.”
When that was delivered, ten cents would be slowly taken from the
little pile and paid over.
“Wuh kinduh clawt’ you got?”
“Homespun, gingham, calico. What kind you want?”
“Lemme shum.”
Bolts of each would be placed before her.
“Hummuch da’ speckly kin’?” (pointing to the gingham).
“Ten cents a yard.”
“Gimme ten cent’ wut.”
A thirty-three-inch yard would be torn off.
“You got any salt?”
“Yes.”
“Hummuch fuh him?”
“Five cents a quart.”
“Gimme t’ree cent’ wut.”
“You got any flour?”
“Yes.”
“Hummuch you ax fuh him?”
“Five cents a pound.”
“Gimme ten cent’ wut.”
The flour and the salt would come within the encircling arms, fifteen
cents be counted out, and all transactions suspended until the two
cents change was returned to her.
“Wuh kinduh tubackuh you got?”
Two or three samples of plug tobacco, the only sort in common use,
would be offered for inspection, and perhaps the advice of a colored
sister asked before deciding upon a selection.
By the time the dollar was expended, the clerk had walked a hundred
yards or so, had used up lots of brown paper and paper twine and had
had his patience sorely tried, but he charged liberally for his time
and trouble, and the poor darkey got far less than she paid for.
In the funny columns of Northern periodicals, and in the immemorial
minstrel jokes and songs, the negro not only steals chickens, but
eats them. The low-country negroes, however, while all of them keep
chickens, seldom, if ever, eat them, the coarsest fat bacon being far
more to the negro’s taste than the juiciest broiler. Then, too, eggs
and chickens are currency in most negro communities and can always be
converted into cash at the country store or at the back door of the
nearest white family.
The country negroes on the coast still speak of “fo’punce” chickens
and “seb’npunce” chickens, meaning the sizes that were sold for four
pence and seven pence respectively before the Revolution, when British
coinage was the currency of the country.
“Gal, ketch da’ seb’npunce chickin en’ dem t’ree fo’punce chickin’ en
tek dese’yuh six aig’, en’ tek’um to de Cross Road’, en’ buy de six
aig’ wut’uh tubackuh en’ de seb’npunce chickin wut’uh flour, en’ one de
fo’punce chickin’ wut’uh sugar, en’ norruh one uh de fo’punce chickin’
wut’uh side meat, en’ de todduh fo’punce chickin wut’uh muhlassis, en’
tek dish’yuh bucket fuh fetch’um een, en’ don’ ’low de buckruh fuh
cheat you, en’ tie de aig’ een yo’ hengkitchuh, en’ tie all fo’ de
fowl’ foot so dem cyan’ git’way, en’ hol’um een yo’ ap’un, en’ don’
stay duh sto’ too long, en’ w’en you tek de chickin’ out de ap’un,
hol’um by ’e two foot fuh mek ’e head heng down, so ’e wing’ kin ’pread
out fuh mek’um look big so de buckruh t’ink suh de fo’punce chickin’
duh seb’npunce chickin’, en’ w’en de buckruh po’ out de muhlassis,
mek’um fuh po’rum ’tell de muhlassis stop run out de medjuh, ’cause
ef you ent watch’um ’e sho’ fuh lef’ some een de quawt cup, en’ w’en
you come back duh night’time, walk middle’uh de paat’, ’cause ’e rain’
teday en’ toadfrog does jump ’bout w’en de ground en’ t’ing wet, en’
moccasin does folluhr’um fuh ketch’um, en’ uh yent wan’ you fuh git
’structed by no snake duh paat’.”
The little girl leaned on the counter, slowly unrolled an old bandanna
handkerchief, and spread the six eggs before her, carefully keeping the
unhappy chickens concealed in her apron.
“Ebenin’, suh. Ma tell me fuh git uh plug’uh tubackuh wid dese aig’.”
“You can get only half a plug for half a dozen eggs. Eggs are ten cents
a dozen!”
“Yaas’suh, but Ma tell me fuh git’uh whole plug,” said the shrewd
little trader. “Ma tell me fuh ax you ef you ent g’em uh whole plug uh
tubackuh fuh de six aig’, please, suh, fuh gimme uh gunjuh--tengky,
suh,” as the obliging clerk handed her a big scalloped molasses cake
and short-cut the plug of tobacco enough to pay for it.
The tobacco trade consummated, the girl fumbled furtively in her apron,
and, feeling about deftly, located and drew forth the “seb’npunce”
chicken. That adolescent fowl, a rooster whose voice was changing,
alternately peeped and squawked, as the seller with outstretched
arm dangled him by the legs high over the counter, his outspread
wings making him look a full size larger, but the shopkeeper was
country-bred, and felt the rooster’s breastbone. “Fifteen cents,” he
said.
“Ma tell me fuh git twenty-fibe cent’ wut uh flour ’long dish’yuh one,”
she fibbed.
“I’ll give you twenty cents’ worth,” he countered, and, as she nodded
in acquiescence, jubilant at the thought of having outwitted him, he
plunged his scoop into a barrel and weighed out twelve cents’ worth of
flour. When this had been wrapped and delivered, the clerk, knowing by
her expectant look that further commercial transactions were imminent,
stood at attention, while the girl abstracted the first of the three
“fo’punce” chickens from her apron and held the noisy fledgling, naked
and unashamed, at arm’s length above the counter. “Ma tell me fuh
git dis seb’npunce chickin wut uh side meat,” she ventured, craftily
watching the face of the Caucasian whom she sought to overreach.
“Why, that’s a fo’punce chicken. He ain’t half the size of the other
one.”
“Yaas’suh, alltwo come out de same nes’ en’ alltwo hatch out de same
time. Da’ todduh one duh dish’yuh one bubbuh, en’ dish’yuh one duh
da’ todduh one tittie. Him look big mo’nuh dish’yuh one ’cause him
duh roostuh en’ him hab comb, en’ dish’yuh one duh pullet en’ him
ent hab no comb, en’ de roostuh greedy mo’nuh de pullet, en’ him
nyam de mor’is’ bittle, en’ dat mek ’e stan’ so,” she prevaricated
unblushingly. These earnest asseverations had no effect on the
purchaser, however, and, appraising the gallinaceous juveniles at ten
cents each, he stood pat, and one by one they were withdrawn from the
apron and exchanged for bacon, sugar and molasses. Upon the pouring of
the latter commodity, however, Aryan and African again locked horns.
The weather was warm, and as even the thick “blackstrap” molasses
flowed freely, the careless shopman very nearly gave his customer the
full quart for which she had paid--an inadvertence which, it should be
said in justice to his commercial acumen, he very seldom committed.
Realizing too late that nearly all the molasses had run into the tin
bucket out of the quart measure (false-bottomed as it was) he gave it
a quick upward flirt to save what he could, and started back to the
barrel, but was checked by the girl’s scream of protest. “Ma tell’ me
fuh tell you ’sponsubble fuh mek you fuh po’rum out ’tell eb’ry drop
done dreen een de bucket,” she cried excitedly, and, in shame-faced
compliance, he let her hold the measure till the uttermost drop had
been “dreened” out. With a sideswipe of a very questionable finger, she
garnered the dulcet drops that clung to the curved lip of the cup and,
sucking the sweetened digit greedily, she grinned with satisfaction.
And now, with the packages carefully tied up in the bandanna in one
hand, and the covered tin bucket in the other, she dropped a curtsy,
for she was a polite little darkey, and went her ways homeward,
sweetened in soul and saliva.
The night was dark, and the path traversed a small bay, where the
sweetgums spread their limbs above the track, and their heavy foliage
hid the stars and deepened the shadows along the way. Along the edge
of the bay, in the sodden soil, grew lush water-grasses, and they
were very sweet to a vagabond ox, as he cropped them, undisturbed by
flies, in the cool night air. But the peaceful ox, playing truant, poor
wretch, from his negro master, was full of tragedy, for the ox was
white, and no solitary negro in the low-country, where the forests are
full of little negro graveyards, can bear the sight of anything white
in the woods at night. The fear of ghosts is always with them, and a
white cow, grazing in or near a graveyard, will often stampede a road
full of worshipers returning from a prayer-meeting.
As she reached the shadowy places along the way, the child heard a
rustling sound in the bushes that suggested snakes. She instinctively
jumped to the other side of the path, at the same time looking over
her shoulder in the direction of the sound. One glance was enough! The
pallid ox loomed gigantic in her affrighted eyes, and, with a scream of
terror, she fled homeward and was soon, wide-eyed and trembling, before
her mother. Faithful to her trust, she had held on to bundle and tin
bucket, but the molasses was spattered liberally over her bare legs and
had soaked her homespun skirt and apron.
“_Wuh ’smattuh, gal?_ You done t’row’way half de muhlassis! Wuh de
debble mek you duh trimble?”
“Ma, w’en uh binnuh walk t’ru de branch, een da’ daa’k t’icket
onduhneet’ dem gum tree, uh yeddy sump’nurruh duh shake de bush, en’ uh
t’ink ’e duh snake, en’ uh jump en’ look ’roun’, en’ uh see uh sperrit,
one big w’ite sump’n’ high mo’nuh dis house, en’ de t’ing groan’ at me,
en’ uh dat ’f’aid’um, uh run’way, en’ ’e nebbuh ketch me, en’ uh mek de
buckruh gimme twenty cent’ wut uh flour fuh de seb’npunce chickin, en’
’e gimme uh gunjuh!”
“Tell yo’ bubbuh fuh git da’ hom’ny spoon en’ ’crape da’ muhlassis off
yo’ two knee, en’ pit’um een da’ pan, en’ tek off yo’ ap’un, en’ you
en’ yo’ bubbuh alltwo kin chaw’um, so de muhlassis ent fuh t’rowway.”
MINGO, THE DRILL MASTER
At the close of the war, thousands of disbanded negro troops, how many,
only the Lord knows and the pension roll shows, swarmed over the Coast
Counties comprising the South Carolina Black Belt. Swagger in their
new-minted freedom, and resplendent in the light blue trousers and
dark blue coats of the Federal uniform, with ridiculous little forage
caps perched aslant upon the sides of their kinky heads, like chickens
roosting on leaning poles, girdled with great brass-buckled U. S.
Belts, and shouldering army muskets, full of insolence and of ribaldry,
they took the highways and the by-ways for their own. Their former
masters, however kindly they had been to them before and since freedom,
were frequently spoken of behind their backs as “de rebel,” and the
days of slavery were referred to as “rebel time” (times). Some of these
soldiers had served for years, perhaps, others for months or weeks,
few of them had smelt powder, all of them had smelt and fattened upon
the bad--wickedly bad--bacon with which the loyal sutlers had supplied
the invading army. (And, by the way, thousands of tierces of that same
sutler’s bacon of the years ’64 and ’65 were still at large for full
five years thereafter, supplied by the Charleston and Savannah factors
to the low-country planters for their plantation commissaries.)
In addition to the disbanded troops, thousands of other negroes, who
had never seen service, wore cheaply bought Federal uniforms and
long, light blue overcoats, and sported caps and belts and condemned
muskets, so that the whole countryside was black and blue, and they
were constantly drilling, while the women, peahens that they were,
worked for them and admired the strutting of their lordly peacocks.
Often at night, from the quarters of a distant plantation, instead of
the peaceful “tap, tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap,” of the sticks
which the negroes beat on the floor to mark time for their dancing and
“shouting,” there would come the rattle of a snaredrum, and one knew
that an awkward squad was being put through awkward evolutions in the
compound or “nigguhhouse yaa’d” for the edification of the quarters.
It was a psychological study to watch one of these squads or companies
drilling or parading on the public highway, when a white man of a
former slave-holding family approached. Neither stern disciplinary
eye, nor sharp command, could keep the lines straight until after “de
buckruh” had passed. There were sure to be some members of the squad
whose hereditary respect--stronger far than the fear of the drill
master--would impel them to scrape a foot or pull wool, till the
alignment was as wabbly as a swimming moccasin.
One August day in the early ’70s, Prince Manigo, captain of the
Adams Run Company, ordered his command out for drill, inspection and
maneuvers. Sixty-five men reported; these were of all ages from 17
to 70. Some of them belonged around the village, but most of them
came from about Toogoodoo, “down on de Salt,” as the inland negroes
designate the sea coast and the contiguous lands lying along the salt
rivers and creeks.
The place of assembly indicated by Captain Manigo was about a mile
south of the village on the way to Toogoodoo. Once a member of Col
Thomas Wentworth Higginson’s negro regiment, the “First South Carolina
Volunteers,” organized at Beaufort in 1862, he had known picket duty
about Port Royal Ferry during the war, and wished to familiarize his
dusky outfit with service in the field. The road ran along the edge
of a deep swamp, or bay. The growth on the rich lowlands was heavy,
and beautiful magnolias, close-limbed and tall, as is their habit of
growth in thick places, rose to a height of sometimes a hundred feet,
the sunlight flashing from the curved backs of their dark and glossy
leaves. Under these great trees, sweet bay, red bay, beech and maple
grew in a tangle, and below these, tall canes and great sword ferns,
with riotous vines of bamboo and wild grape, thickened into an almost
impenetrable chaparral. In these woods, dimmed to a twilight darkness,
Captain Manigo established his picket posts. Fifteen or twenty men
were selected for this dangerous duty, for, at this season, the swamp
was full of rattlesnakes and some of those picked for outpost duty
objected. “Man, I cyan’ go een da’ t’icket. Snake dey dey tummuch.”
“Snake cyan’ see fuh bite now,” said another. “Ent you know suh
rattlesnake’ hab skin ’puntop ’e yeye een Augus’ munt’? ’E bline’. ’E
cyan’ see fuh bite.”
“Uh dunkyuh ef ’e yiz bline’, ef uh ’tep ’puntop’um ’e gwine bite me.”
“Go ’way, man, snake ent gwine bite you w’en you hab muskick een you
han’ wid dat shaa’p bay’net en t’ing ’puntop’um.”
So all objections were overruled, and the posts established at
intervals of a few hundred yards, the password “raccoon” was given
to the corporals, and the captain and his inspectors, dismissing the
remaining members of the company for a rest period, prepared to test
the line of outposts. Making a wide detour they sneaked through the
woods almost noiselessly. The dead leaves, fallen during the preceding
winter, had softened long ago and were rapidly settling into the thick
mold that covered the damp earth. Sneaking up on the farthest sentinel
from the rear, Prince was almost upon him before the startled negro
challenged “Halt! Weh oonuh gwine? Gimme de passwu’d!”
“Raccoon,” Prince responded.
“Oonuh cyan’ go t’ru ’puntop dat wu’d.”
Prince expostulated. “Raccoon” was the password he had given the
corporals to pass on to their men, and having been selected as a word
of singular appeal to the negroes, should have been one of the easiest
to remember, so he repeated petulantly “_Raccoon, raccoon, raccoon_.”
“_’E yent wut_,” insisted the sentinel, as the long bayonet projected
threateningly through the gum bushes. “Dat passwu’d cyan’ specify. Da’
longmout’ nigguh f’um Slann’ Ilun’, name Mingo, him dull de cawprul en’
him done tell me de wu’d two time, en’ ’scusin’ oonuh hab dat wu’d,
oonuh yent fuh pass.”
As the corporal was several hundred yards away, Prince retired
grumbling, and attempted the line at another point. He approached a
wary old picket, a noted ’coon hunter, whose experienced ear detected
even the soft footfalls of the inspectors, and he hailed them at a
distance of 50 yards, in most unmilitary language. “Haw, buck! Oonuh
try fuh sneak ’puntop me, enty? Uh binnuh hunt rokkoon en’ dem todduh
waa’ment en’ t’ing ’fo’ you bawn! Come out, bubbuh! Uh yeddy you’ foot
en’ uh see bush duh shake alltwo. Come out de t’icket. Exwance en’
gimme de passwu’d!”
But they couldn’t give it; not at least intelligibly to the ear of
old Cæsar. Prince spoke with only a slight taint of Gullah, and when
he had given “raccoon” to his Toogoodoo corporals, who understood him
only after several repetitions, he didn’t realize that they would pass
it on as “rokkoon” and that as “rokkoon” the “open sesame” of the
countersign must be given. Again, therefore, with his own password
correctly pronounced, the Captain had reached an impasse, and as Cæsar
truculently stuck out both his mouth and his bayonet, the Corporal of
the guard was demanded.
“Cawprul uh de gyaa’d! Pos’ number t’ree!” he bellowed. “Mek’ace en’
come’yuh! T’ree mans dey yuh duh try fuh git t’ru bedout no passwu’d.
Ef dem got’um dem cyan’ call ’e name. Uh dunkyuh ef one is de cap’n,
oonuh done tell me ’sponsubble suh ’e yent fuh pass bedout ’e got de
wu’d.”
The thick-lipped corporal came.
“’Smattuh, Unk’ Cæsar? Yuh fuh call me?”
“Yaas, uh fuh call you fuh true. Mek dese’yuh man fuh gi’ we de sign.”
“Raccoon!” bellowed Prince.
“You shum, enty! Enty uh tell you ’e yent hab’um!”
“Yaas, man, da’ duh him! ’Rokkoon’ duh de passwu’d wuh Buh Prince gi’
we, but him ent call ’e name lukkuh we call’um, ’cause him bin Beefu’t
rebel time ’long dem Nyankee en’ t’ing, en’ duh so dem call’um.”