"Ebenin' ter yer, marster," said the old man, scraping his foot and
bowing his head.
"How are you, Uncle Bob?" responded his master.
"I'm jes po'ly, thank God," replied Uncle Bob, in the answer
invariably given by Southern slaves to the query "How are you?" No
matter if they were fat as seals, and had never had a day's sickness
in their lives, the answer was always the same-- "I'm po'ly, thank
God."
"Well, Uncle Bob, what is it now?" asked Major Waldron. "The little
negroes been bothering your splits again?"
"Dey's all de time at dat, marster, an' dey gwine git hu't, mun, ef
dey fool long o' me; but den dat ain't wat I come fur dis time. I come
fur ter hab er talk wid yer, sar, ef yer kin spar de ole nigger de
time."
"There's plenty of time, Uncle Bob; take a seat, then, if we are to
have a talk;" and Major Waldron lit his cigar, and leaned back, while
Uncle Bob seated himself on a low chair, and said:
"Marster, I come ter ax yer wat'll yer take fur dat little boy yer
bought fum de specerlaters?"
"Ann's little boy?" asked his master; "why, I would not sell him at
all. I only bought him because his mother was dying of exposure and
fatigue, and I wanted to relieve her mind of anxiety on his account, I
would certainly never sell her child away from her,"
"Yes, sar, dat's so," replied the old man; "but den my min', hit's
made up.
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