’er pa mad, she’d look at you like she ain’t know what you talkin’ ’bout.
Fum de time she has been born, suh, down ter dis ve’y day, she ain’t
never hear a cross word come from his mouf. She’s seed ’im frownin’ an’
she’s seed ’im frettin’, but she ain’t never hear no cross word. An’ dat
what make I say what I does. ’Tain’t nobody but de quality dat kin show
der breedin’ right in der own fambly.”
“Why, I’ve heard that the Major has something of a temper,” I remarked.
[Illustration: “Marse Tumlin never did pass a nigger on de road.”]
“_Temper!_” exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann, holding up both hands; “temper, I
hear you say! Well, suh, dat ain’t no name fer it. I done seed bad men,
but Marse Tumlin is de wuss man when he git his dander up dat I yever
come ’cross in all my born days. De fust time I seed ’im mad, suh, wuz
right atter de folks come home fum der fightin’ and battlin’. It make me
open my eyes. I been livin’ wid ’im all dem years, an’ I never is know
how servigrous dat man is.
“An’ de funny part wuz, suh, dat he got mad ’bout a ole nigger ’oman.”
Aunt Minervy Ann paused to indulge in a very hearty laugh. “Yasser, all
’bout a ole nigger ’oman. In dem times we all had ter scuffle ’roun’
right smart fer ter git vittles ter eat, let ’lone cloze ter w’ar. Miss
Vallie wuz w’arin’ a frock what her mammy had when she wuz a gal. An’ de
clof wuz right good an’ look’ mighty well on ’er. Ez fer me, I dunner
whedder I had on any frock—ef I did ’twuz ’bout ter drap off’n me. ’Long
’bout dat time, court-week wuz comin’ on, de fust court-week we had sence
de folks come home fum battlin’. Dey wuz a great miration ’bout it,
bekaze dey say ev’ybody gwine ter come an’ see de lawyers rastle.
“Well, suh, it come ’cross my min’ dat ef I kin bake some ginger-cakes
an’ make some chicken-pies, maybe I kin pick up a little money. De dime
an’ thrip species had all done gone, but dey wuz oodles er shinplasters
floatin’ ’roun’ ef you had sump’n fer ter git um wid. I dunner whar in
de worl’ we got ’nuff flour an’ ’lasses fer ter make de cakes. I know I
got one chicken, an’ Hamp he went off one night and borried two mo’. I
ain’t ax ’im whar he borry um, suh, bekaze ’twan’t none er my business.
We made de cakes, an’ den we made de pies. Ef you ain’t know how ter make
um, suh, you’d be ’stonished ter know how fur dem ar chickens went. We
made twelve pies ef we made one. Yasser! ez sho’ ez I’m settin’ here. We
strung um out—a wing here, a piece er de back dar, an’ a neck yonner.
Twelve pies, suh, an’ nuff chicken lef’ over fer ter gi’ Miss Vallie a
right smart bait; an’ de Lord knows she need it, an’ need it bad.
“Well, suh, I make de ginger-cakes de week ’fo’ court, bekaze it he’ps a
ginger-cake ef you bake ’im an’ den shet ’im up in a tight box whar he
kin sweat, an’ Monday we sot in ter bake de pies. I make de dough wid my
own han’s, an’ I lef’ Miss Vallie fer ter bake um, wid Hamp ter keep de
fire gwine. De word wuz dat ’bout half-pas’ ten Hamp wuz ter fetch me all
de pies dey had ready, an’ den go back fer de yuthers.
[Illustration: “We made twelve pies ef we made one.”]
“I ain’t say nothin’ ’bout de balance er de cakes; bekaze I ’low’d ter
myse’f dat I had ’nuff. I had many ez I kin tote widout gittin’ tired,
an’ I ain’t no baby when it comes ter totin’ cakes. Well, suh, I been
livin’ a mighty long time, but I ain’t never see folks wid such a cravin’
fer ginger-cakes. Fum de word go dey wuz greedy fer ’m. Hit mought er
been ’kaze dey wuz des natchally hongry, en den ag’in hit mought er been
bekaze de cakes call up ol’ times; but no matter ’bout dat, suh, dey des
showered de shinplasters down on me. ’Twa’n’t de country folks doin’
de most er de buyin’ at fust. It ’uz de town boys an’ de clerks in de
stores; an’ mos’ ’fo’ I know’d it de cakes wuz all gone, an’ Hamp ain’t
come wid de pies.
“I would ’a’ waited, suh, but dey kep’ callin’ fer cakes so ravenous dat
bimeby I crumpled my shinplasters up in a wad an’ tuck my basket an’ went
polin’ home fer ter hurry Hamp up. He wuz des gittin’ ready ter start
when I got dar. I gi’ Miss Vallie de money—you kin count it up yourse’f,
suh; ’twuz fer fo’ dozen ginger-cakes at a thrip a-piece—an’ tol’ her
ter sen’ Hamp atter some mo’ flour an’ ’lasses ’fo’ night, ’kaze de
ginger-cakes half-gone an’ court-week ain’t skacely open up. Hamp, he
tuck de pies an’ de cakes, an’ I got me one er de low cheers out’n de
kitchen, ’kaze I done tired er settin’ on de een’ uv a box.
“I ’speck you know right whar I sot at, suh; ’twuz dar by dat big
chany-tree front er Sanford’s sto’. Hit sho’ wuz a mighty tree. De win’
done blow’d up an’ blew’d it down, but de stump stan’in’ dar sproutin’
right now. Well, suh, right under de shadder er dat tree, on de outer
aidge er de sidewalk, I tuck my stan’, an’ I ain’t been dar long ’fo’ de
folks ’gun ter swarm atter my cakes, an’ den when dey seed my pies—well!
hit look like dey fair dribble at de mouf.
“I sol’ um all ’cep’ one, an’ ef I’d ’a’ sol’ dat un, I don’t ’speck
dey’d ’a’ been any trouble; but you know what a fool a nigger kin be,
suh, speshually a nigger ’oman. I tuck a notion in my min’ dat I done so
pow’ful well, I’d save dat pie fer Marse Tumlin an’ Miss Vallie. So ev’y
time somebody’s come ’long an’ want ter buy de pie, I’d up an’ say it
done sold.
“Bimeby, who should come ’long but dat ar Salem Birch! He dead now, but
I ’speck you done hear talk un ’im, bekaze he made matters mighty hot in
deze parts twel—twel—well, suh, twel he ’gun ter hone atter dat pie, ez
you may say.” Aunt Minervy Ann paused and rubbed her hands together, as
if reflecting. Then she shook her head and laughed somewhat doubtfully.
[Illustration: “I gi’ Miss Vallie de money.”]
“What dey want ter name ’im Salem fer, I’ll never tell you. Hit’s a
Bible name, an’ mo’ dan dat, hit’s a church name. You know it yo’se’f,
suh, bekaze dey’s a Salem church not mo’n sev’m mile fum whar we settin’
at right now. _Salem_ Birch! Hit bangs my time how some folks kin go
on—an’ I ain’t nothin’ but a nigger. Dey’s mo’ chillun ruint by der
names, suh, dan any udder way. I done notice it. Name one un um a Bible
name, an’ look like he bleedze ter go wrong. Name one un um atter some
high an’ mighty man, an’ dey grows up wid des ’bout much sense ez a
gate-post. I done watch um, suh.
“I ’speck dis yer Salem Birch would ’a’ been a right good man but fer dat
ar Bible name. Dat ruint ’im. I don’t b’lieve dey’s a man in de worl’
what kin walk straight under dat name less’n he done been called fer ter
be a preacher, an’ Salem Birch ain’t had no sech call up ter dat time.
Dat much I know.
“Well, suh, dar sot de pie, an’ dar wuz de ginger-cakes, ol’ timers,
big ter look at, but light ter handle. Eve’ybody want de pie, but my
min’ done made up. Some bought cakes stidder de pie, an’ some des wipe
der mouf an’ go on. But, bimeby, here come Salem Birch, six feet high,
an’ his hat sot on de side er his haid like he done bought de whole
town. I know’d de minnit I laid eyes on ’im dat he had dram in ’im, an’
dat he wuz up ter some devilment. Him an’ his bre’r, Bill-Tom, suh,
had tarryfied de whole county. Dey wuz constant a-fightin’, an’ ef dey
couldn’t git nobody else ter fight, dey’d fight ’mongst deyse’f. Yassir!
dem ar Birches had done whip der own daddy.
“An’ yit, suh, dis yer Salem wa’n’t no bad-lookin’ man. He had long curly
ha’r, an’ he wuz constant a-laughin’. Ef de fac’ troof wuz ter come out,
I ’speck he had more devilment in ’im dan downright meanness; an’ he wuz
mean nuff, de Lord knows. But, be sech as it mought, bimeby here he come,
sorter half tip-toein’, like some folks do when dey feel der dram an’
dunner how ter show it. He stop right front er me, suh, an’ time his eye
fell on me he sung out:
“‘_Whoopee! Ef here ain’t ol’ Minervy Ann! Wid pies! An’ cakes! Come on,
boys! Have some pies! An’ cakes!_’
[Illustration: “Ef here ain’t ol’ Minervy Ann wid pies!”]
“Well, suh, you mought er heer’d ’im a mile. He holler des like de
She’ff do when he stick his haid out’n de court-house winder an’ call
somebody in ter court—des dat ve’y way. He say, ‘How much you take fer
yo’ chicken-pie?’ I ’low, ‘Hit done sol’, suh.’ He say, ‘I’ll gi’ you a
quarter fer dat pie.’ I ’low, ‘De pie done sol’, suh.’ By dat time dey
wuz a right smart clump er folks come up fer see what Salem Birch wuz
holl’in’ ’bout, an’ you know yo’se’f, suh, how a half-drunk man’ll do
when dey’s a crowd lis’nin’ at him.
“He say, ‘Who done bought dat pie?’ I ’low, ‘Marse Tumlin Perdue.’ He
sorter draw’d hisse’f up, he did, an’ say, ‘Ain’t I des ez good ez Tumlin
Perdue?’ I ’low, ‘I ain’t know nothin’ ter de contrary, suh, but ef you
is, you got ter be a monstus good man.’ He say, ‘I is! I’m de bes’ man in
de county.’ I ’low, ‘Dat may be, suh; I ain’t ’sputin’ it.’ By dat time
I ’gun ter feel de Ol’ Boy kinder ranklin’ in my gizzard. He say, ‘Why
can’t I git dat pie?’ I ’low, ‘Bekaze it done sol’, suh.’ He say, ‘Fer
cash?’ I ’low, ‘No, suh; but Marse Tumlin’s word is lots better’n some
folks’ money.’
“Well, suh, I know’d ’fo’ I open my mouf dat I ought’n ter say dat, but
I couldn’t he’p it fer ter save my neck. He say, ‘Well, blast yo’ black
hide, my money’s better’n anybody’s money!’ Wid dat he flung down a
shinplaster quarter an’ retch fer de pie. By de time he grabbed it, I
grabbed it, an’ he pulled an’ I pulled. I dunner whedder ’twuz de strenk
in me er de dram in ’im, but in de pullin’, de box what de pie wuz on
turnt over, an’ my cheer turnt over, an’ down come Salem Birch right
spang on top er me.
“I tell you now, suh, dis skeer’d me. ’Twuz mo’ dan I bargain fer. Right
at de minnit, I had de idee dat de man had jumped on me an’ wuz gwine
ter kill me—you know how some folks is ’bout niggers. So I des give one
squall——
“‘_Marse Tumlin! Run here, Marse Tumlin! He killin’ me! Oh, Marse
Tumlin!_’
“Well, suh, dey tell me dat squall wuz so inhuman it made de country
hosses break loose fum de racks. One white lady at de tavern hear it, an’
she had ter be put ter bed. Bless yo’ soul, honey! don’t never say you
done hear anybody blate twel you hear ol’ Minervy Ann—an’ de Lord knows I
hope you won’t never hear me.
“Dey ain’t no use talkin’, suh, hit ’larmed de town. Eve’ybody broke an’
run to’rds de place whar de fuss come fum. Salem Birch got up des ez
quick ez he kin, an’ I wuz up des ez quick ez he wuz, an’ by dat time my
temper done run my skeer off, an’ I des blazed out at him. What I say
I’ll never tell you, bekaze I wuz so mad I ain’t never hear myse’f talk.
Some say I called ’im dis an’ some say I called ’im dat, but whatsomever
’twuz, hit wa’n’t no nice name—I kin promise you dat.
[Illustration: “You see dat nigger ’oman?”]
“’Twus ’nuff ter rise his dander, an’ he draw’d back his arm fer ter hit
me, but des ’bout dat time Marse Tumlin shoved ’im back. Marse Tumlin
’low, ‘You dirty dog! You sneakin’, nasty houn’! is dis de way you does
yo’ fightin’?’
“Well, suh, dis kinder skeer me ag’in, kaze I hear talk dat Salem Birch
went ’bout wid dirks an’ pistols on ’im, ready fer ter use um. He look
at Marse Tumlin, an’ his face got whiter an’ whiter, an’ he draw’d his
breff, deep an’ long.
“Marse Tumlin ’low, ‘You see dat nigger ’oman? Well, ef she wuz blacker
dan de hinges er hell’—he say dem ve’y words, suh—‘ef she wuz blacker dan
de hinges er hell, she’d be whiter dan you er any er yo’ thievin’ gang.’
An’ den, suh—I ’clar’ I’m mos’ shame ter tell you—Marse Tumlin rise up on
his tip-toes an’ spit in de man’s face. Yasser! Right spang in his face.
You may well look ’stonish’d, suh. But ef you’d ’a’ seed de way Marse
Tumlin looked you’d know why Salem Birch ain’t raise his han’ ’cep’ ter
wipe his face. Ef dey ever wuz blood an’ killin’ in anybody’s eyes, hit
wuz in Marse Tumlin’s right dat minnit. He stan’ dar while you kin count
ten, an’ den he snap his thumb an’ turn on his heel, an’ dat ar Salem
Birch tuck’n walk ’cross de public squar’ an’ sot down on de court-house
steps, an’ he sot dar, suh, wid his haid ’twix’ his han’s fer I dunner
how long.
“Well, suh, I know in reason dat de een’ er dat business ain’t come. You
know how our white folks is; you kin spit in one man’s face an’ he not
take it up, but some er his kinnery er his frien’s is sho ter take it
up. So I say ter myse’f, ‘Look here, nigger ’oman, you better keep yo’
mouf shot an’ bofe eyes open, kaze dey gwine ter be hot times in deze
diggin’s.’ When I come ter look at um, suh, my ginger-cakes wa’n’t hurt,
an’ de chicken-pie wuz safe an’ soun’ ’cep’ dat er little er de gravy had
sorter run out. When I git thoo brushin’ an’ cleanin’ um, I look up, I
did, an’ dar wuz Marse Bolivar Blasengame walkin’ up an’ down right close
at me. You oughter know ’im, suh, him an’ Marse Tumlin married sisters,
an’ dey wuz ez thick ez two peas in a pod. So I ’low, ‘Won’t you have a
ginger-cake, Marse Bolivar? I’d offer you de pie, but I’m savin’ dat fer
Miss Vallie.’ He say he don’t b’lieve his appetite run ter cakes an’ pies
right dat minnit. Dat make me eye ’im, suh, an’ he look like he mighty
glum ’bout sump’n. He des walk up an’ down, up an’ down, wid his han’s in
his pockets. It come back ter me atterwards, but I ain’t pay no ’tention
den, dat de folks all ’roun’ town wuz kinder ’spectin’ anudder fuss. Dey
wuz all standin’ in clumps here an’ dar, some in de middle er de street,
an’ some on de sidewalks, but dey wa’n’t nobody close ter me ’cep’ Marse
Bolivar. Look like dey wuz givin’ us elbow room.
[Illustration: “An’ he sot dar, suh, wid his haid ’twix’ his han’s fer I
dunner how long.”]
“De bigges’ clump er folks, suh, wuz down at de public well, at de fur
side er de squar’, an’ I notice dey kep’ movin’, now dis way, an’ now
dat, sorter swayin’ like some un wuz shovin’ um ’bout an’ pushin’ um
’roun’. An’ dat des de way it wuz, ’kaze ’twa’n’t long ’fo’ somebody
broke loose fum um an’ come runnin’ to’rds whar I wuz settin’ at.
“I know’d in a minnit, suh, dat wuz Bill-Tom Birch. He wuz holdin’ his
han’ on his wes’cut pocket fer ter keep his watch fum fallin’ out. He
come runnin’ up, suh, an’ he wuz so mad he wuz cryin’. His face wuz
workin’ des like it hurted ’im. He holler at me. ‘Is you de——?’ I won’t
name de name what he call me, suh. But I know ef he’d ’a’ been a nigger
I’d ’a’ got up fum dar an’ brained ’im. I ain’t say nothin’. I des sot
dar an’ look at ’im.
“Well, suh, he jerk a cowhide fum under his cloze—he had it run down his
britches leg, an’ say, ‘I’ll show you how you _erfuse_ ter sell pies when
a gemman want ter buy um.’ I dunner what I’d ’a’ done, suh, ef he’d ’a’
hit me, but he ain’t hit me. Marse Bolivar walk right ’twix’ us an’ ’low,
‘You’ll settle dis wid me, right here an’ now.’ Wid dat, Bill-Tom Birch
step back an’ say, ‘Colonel, does you take it up?’ Marse Bolivar ’low,
‘Dat’s what I’m here fer.’ Bill-Tom Birch step back a little furder and
make as ef ter draw his pistol, but his han’ ain’t got ter his pocket
’fo’ _bang!_ went Marse Bolivar’s gun, an’ down went Bill-Tom Birch, des
like somebody tripped ’im up.
“I know mighty well, suh, dat I ain’t no hard-hearted nigger—anybody what
know me will tell you dat—but when dat man drapt, I ain’t keer no mo’ dan
ef he’d ’a’ been a mad dog. Dat’s de Lord’s trufe, ef I ever tol’ it. I
ain’t know wharbouts de ball hit ’im, an’ I wa’n’t keerin’. Marse Bolivar
ain’t move out’n he tracks. He stood dar, he did, an’ bresh de cap off’n
de bairl what shot, an’ fix it fer ter shoot ag’in. ’Twuz one er deze yer
ervolvers, suh, what move up a notch er two when you pull de trigger.
[Illustration: “You’ll settle dis wid me.”]
“Well, suh, time de pistol went off, folks come runnin’ fum eve’ywhars.
Salem Birch, he come runnin’ ’cross de public squar’, bekaze he had de
idee dat sump’n done happen. Marse Bolivar, he see Salem Birch a-comin’,
an’ he walk out fum de crowd ter meet ’im. Dat make me feel sorter
quare, kaze hit look like he wuz gwine ter shoot de man down. But Salem
Birch seed ’im, an’ he stop an’ say, ‘Colonel, what de name er God is de
matter?’ Marse Bolivar make answer, ‘Salem, I had ter shoot yo’ bre’r.’
Salem Birch say, ‘Is he dead?’ Marse Bolivar ’spon’, ‘He ain’t nigh dead.
I put de ball ’twix’ de hip an’ de knee-j’int. He’ll be up in a week.’
Salem Birch say, ‘Colonel, I thank you fer dat. Will you shake han’s?’
Marse Bolivar say dey ain’t nothin’ suit ’im better, bekaze he ain’t got
a thing ag’in’ de Birches.
“An’ ’twuz des like Marse Bolivar say. Bill-Tom Birch wuz wuss skeer’d
dan hurt, an’ ’twa’n’t long ’fo’ he wuz well. Salem Birch, he went off
ter Texas, an’ dem what been dar an’ come back, say dat he’s one er
deze yer ervival preachers, gwine ’bout doin’ good an’ takin’ up big
collections. Dat what dey say, an’ I hope it’s des dat way. I don’t
begrudge nobody de money dey makes preachin’ ter sinners, bekaze hit’s
des natchally w’arin’ ter de flesh.”
At this juncture Aunt Minervy Ann called to Hamp and informed him, in
autocratic tones, that it was time to cut wood with which to cook dinner.
“I don’t keer ef you is been ter de legislatur’,” she added, “you better
cut dat wood, an’ cut it quick.”
I suggested that she had started to tell me about Paul Conant’s shoulder,
but had neglected to do so.
“Ain’t I tell you ’bout dat? Well, ef dat don’t bang my time! Hamp, you
hear dat? You better go an’ make ’rangements fer ter have me put in de
as’lum, bekaze I sho’ I’s gittin’ light-headed. Well, suh, dat beats all!
But I’ll tell you ’bout it ’fo’ you go back.”
Then Aunt Minervy Ann went to see about dinner.
VI
HOW SHE AND MAJOR PERDUE FRAILED OUT THE GOSSETT BOYS
During the progress of the fair, there was some discussion of financial
matters in Major Perdue’s family. As I remember, someone had given Paul
Conant a check which was thrown out by the Atlanta bank on which it was
drawn. The sum was not a considerable one, but it was sufficiently large
to attract Aunt Minervy Ann’s attention.
“I ’speck dey got mo’ banks in Atlanty dan what we-all got down here,”
she remarked, the next time I had an opportunity to talk with her. She
laughed so heartily as she made the remark that I regarded her with some
astonishment. “You may look, suh, but I ain’t crazy. When I hear anybody
say ‘bank’ it allers puts me in min’ er de time when me an’ Marse Tumlin
frailed out de Gossett boys.”
“Frailed out the Gossett boys?” I exclaimed.
“Yasser, frailed is de word.”
“But what has that to do with a bank?” I inquired.
“Hit got all ter do wid it, suh,” she replied. We were in the
sitting-room, and Aunt Minervy Ann sank down on a footstool and rested
one arm on the lounge. “Right atter freedom dey wa’n’t nothin’ like no
bank down whar we live at; you know dat yo’se’f, suh. Folks say dat banks
kin run widout money, but ’fo’ you start um, dey got ter have money, er
sump’n dat look like money. An’ atter freedom dey wa’n’t no money ’roun’
here ’cep’ dat kin’ what nobody ain’t hankerin’ atter.
“But bimeby it ’gun ter dribble in fum some’rs; fus’ dem ar little
shinplasters, an’ den de bigger money come ’long. It kep’ on dribblin’
in an’ dribblin’ in twel atter while you could git a dollar here an’ dar
by workin’ yo’ han’s off, er spraining’ yo’ gizzard to git it. Bimeby de
news got norated ’roun’ dat ol’ Joshaway Gossett gwine ter start a bank.
Yasser! ol’ Joshaway Gossett. Dat make folks open der eyes an’ shake der
head. I ’member de time, suh, when ol’ Joshaway wuz runnin’ a blacksmith
shop out in de country. Den he sot in ter make waggins. Atter dat, he
come ter be overseer fer Marse Bolivar Blasengame, but all de time he
wuz overseein’ he wuz runnin’ de blacksmith shop an’ de waggin fact’ry.
“When de war come on, suh, dey say dat ol’ Joshaway tuck all de money
what he been savin’ an’ change it inter gol’; de natchul stuff. An’ he
had a pile un it. He kep’ dat up all endurin’ er de turmoil, and by de
time freedom come out he had mo’ er de natchul stuff dan what Cyarter
had oats. Dat what folks say, suh, an’ when eve’ybody talk one way you
may know dey ain’t fur fum de trufe. Anyhow, de word went ’roun’ dat ol’
Joshaway gwine ter start a bank. Folks wa’n’t ’stonished ’kaze he had
money, but bekaze he gwine ter start a bank, an’ he not much mo’ dan
knowin’ B fum bullfoot. Some snicker, some laugh, an’ some make fun er
ol’ Joshaway, but Marse Tumlin say dat ef he know how ter shave a note,
he bleeze ter know how ter run a bank. I ain’t never see nobody shave a
note, suh, but dat ’zackly what Marse Tumlin say.
“But ol’ Joshaway, he ain’t a-keerin’ what folks say. He start de bank,
an’ he kep’ it up twel de time I’m gwine tell you ’bout. He bought ’im
a big strong safe, an’ he had it walled up in de back er de bank, an’
dar ’twuz. Don’t make no diffunce what folks say ’bout ol’ Joshaway, dey
can’t say he ain’t honest. He gwine ter have what’s his’n, an’ he want
yuther folks fer ter have what’s der’n. When dat de case, ’tain’t no
trouble ter git folks ter trus’ you. Dey put der money in ol’ Joshaway’s
bank, whar he kin take keer un it, bekaze dey know’d he wa’n’t gwine ter
run off wid it.
“Well, suh, de bank wuz runnin’ ’long des like ’twuz on skids, an’ de
skids greased. Ol’ Joshaway ain’t move ter town, but he hired ’im a
clerk, an’ de clerk stayed in de bank night an’ day, an’ I hear folks say
de town wuz better’n bigger on ’count er ol’ Joshaway’s bank. I dunner
how dey make dat out, ’kaze de bank wa’n’t much bigger dan de kitchen
back dar. Anyhow, dar she wuz, and dar she stayed fer a time an’ a time.
“But one day Marse Tumlin Perdue tuck de notion dat he got ter borry some
money. He seed yuther folks gwine in dar an’ borryin’ fum ol’ Joshaway,
an’ he know he got des ez much bizness fer ter borry ez what dey is. Mo’
dan dat, when he had plenty er money an’ niggers, he done ol’ Joshaway
many a good turn. I know’d dat myse’f, suh, an’ ’tain’t no hearsay; I
done seed it wid my own eyes. On de day I’m talkin’ ’bout, Miss Vallie
sont me up town fer ter ax Marse Tumlin kin he spar’ two dollars—dat wuz
befo’ Miss Vallie wuz married; ’bout a mont’ befo’, an’ she wuz makin’
up her weddin’ fixin’s.
“’Twa’n’t no trouble ter fin’ Marse Tumlin. He wuz settin’ in de shade
wid a passel er men. He seed me, he did, an’ he come ter meet me. When
I tell ’im what Miss Vallie want, he kinder scratch his head an’ look
sollum. He studied a minit, an’ den he tell me ter come go ’long wid
’im. He cut ’cross de squar’ an’ went right ter ol’ Joshaway’s bank, me
a-follerin’ right at his heels. He went in, he did, an’ ’low, ‘Hello,
Joshaway!’ Ol’ Joshaway, he say, ‘Howdy, Maje?’ He wuz settin’ in dar
behime a counter what had wire palin’s on top un it, an’ he look fer all
de worl’ like some ongodly creetur what dey put in a cage for ter keep
’im fum doin’ devilment.
“Marse Tumlin ’low, ‘Joshaway, I want ter borry a hunderd dollars for a
mont’ er so.’ Ol’ Joshaway kinder change his cud er terbacker fum one
side ter de yuther, an’ cle’r up his th’oat. He say, ‘Maje, right dis
minit, I ain’t got fifty dollars in de bank.’ Nigger ez I is, I know’d
dat wuz a lie, an’ I couldn’t help fum gruntin’ ef I wuz gwine to be kilt
fer it. At dat ol’ Joshaway look up. Marse Tumlin stood dar drummin’ on
de counter. Bimeby ol’ Joshaway say, ’Spoze’n I had it, Maje, who you
gwine git fer yo’ skyority?’ des so. Marse Tumlin ’low, ‘Fer my what?”
‘Fer yo’ skyority,’ sez ol’ Joshaway. I up an’ say, ‘Des lissen at dat!’
Marse Tumlin ’low, ‘Who went yo’ skyority when I use ter loan you money?’
‘Times is done change, Maje,’ sez ol’ Joshaway. Marse Tumlin flirted de
little gate open, an’ went ’roun’ in dar so quick it made my head swim.
He say, ‘_I_ ain’t change!’ an’ wid dat, he took ol’ Joshaway by de
coat-collar an’ cuff’d ’im ’roun’ considerbul. He ain’t hurt ol’ Joshaway
much, but he call ’im some names dat white folks don’t fling at one an’er
widout dey’s gwine ter be blood-lettin’ in de neighborhoods.
“Den Marse Tumlin come out fum behime de counter, an’ stood in de do’ an’
look up town. By dat time I wuz done out on de sidewalk, ’kaze I don’t
want no pistol-hole in my hide. When it come ter fa’r fis’ an’ skull, er
a knock-down an’ drag-out scuffle, I’m wid you; I’m right dar; but deze
yer guns an’ pistols what flash an’ bang an’ put out yo’ lights—an’ maybe
yo’ liver—when it come ter dem, I lots druther be on t’er side de fence.
Well, suh, I fully ’spected ol’ Joshaway to walk out atter Marse Tumlin
wid de double-bairl gun what I seed behime de counter; an’ Marse Tumlin
’spected it, too, ’kaze he walk up an’ down befo’ de bank, an’ eve’y once
in a while he’d jerk his wescut down in front like he tryin’ ter t’ar de
bindin’ off. Bimeby I see Marse Bolivar Blasengame git up fum whar he
settin’ at, an’ here he come, swingin’ his gol’-head cane, an’ sa’nt’in’
’long like he gwine on a promenade.