"Had a great time at
the crossing to-day; killed two or three certain, and almost put
master on the plank."
"'Twarn't no matter, nohow: nobody lose nofin if old Boss do die:
nigger on e' plantation don' put e' hat in mournin'," mutters the
negro woman, with an air of hatred. She has eaten her share of the
meal, shrugs her shoulders, and again stretches her valuable body on
the ground.
"Uncle Sparton know'd old Boss warn't gwine t' be whar de debil
couldn't cotch 'em, so long as 'e tink. If dat old mas'r debil, what
white man talk 'bout so much, don' gib 'em big roasting win 'e git
'e dah, better hab no place wid fireins fo' such folks," speaks up
old Uncle Sparton, one of the negroes, whose face shines like a
black-balled boot.
"Neber mind dat, Uncle Sparton; 'taint what ye say 'bout he. Ven
mas'r debil cotch old Boss 'e don't cotch no fool. Mas'r debil down
yander find old Boss too tuf fo' he business; he jus' like old hoss
what neber die," rejoins another.
In a word, M'Fadden had told his negroes what a great democrat he
was-how he loved freedom and a free country-until their ideas of
freedom became strangely mystified; and they ventured to assert that
he would not find so free a country when the devil became his
keeper. "Mas'r tink 'e carry 'e plantation t' t'oder world wid him,
reckon," Uncle Sparton grumblingly concludes, joining the motley
conclave of property about to resume its repose.
Ellen returns to the house. Harry will remain, and have a few words
more with the boys.
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