You ’m jokin’, Mass’ Tump?”
“No, I ain’t.”
“Gorramity! Wa—dey do make won’full journey on dese hyur prairas.
I reck’n dat ere hoss must a trabbled two hunner mile de odder night.”
“What hoss?”
“De ole sorrel dere—in dat furrest ’tand from de doos—Massa Cahoon hoss.”
“What makes ye think he travelled two hunder mile?”
“Kase he turn home all kibbered ober wif de froff.
Beside, he wa so done up he scace able walk, when dis chile lead um down to de ribba fo’ gib um drink.
Hee ’tagger like new-drop calf.
Ho! ho! he wa broke down—he wa!”
“O’ what night air ye palaverin’, Plute?”
“Wha night?
Le’ss see!
Why, ob coas de night Massa Henry wa missed from de plantashun. Dat same night in de mornin’, ’bout an hour atter de sun git up into de hebbings.
I no see de ole sorrel afore den, kase I no out ob my skeeta-bar till after daylight.
Den I kum ’cross to de ’table hya, an den I see dat quadrumpid all kibbered ober wif sweet an froff—lookin’ like he’d swimmed through de big ribba, an pantin’ ’s if he jes finish a fo’ mile race on de Metairie course at New Orlean.”
“Who had him out thet night?”
“Doan know, Mass’ Tump.
Only dat nobody ’lowed to ride de sorrel ’cept Massa Cahoon hisself.
Ho! ho!
Ne’er a body ’lowed lay leg ober dat critter.”
“Why, wan’t it himself that tuk the anymal out?”
“Doan know, Massa Tump; doan know de why nor de whafor.
Dis chile neider see de Cap’n take um out nor fotch um in.”
“If yur statement air true ’beout his bein’ in sech a sweat, someb’dy must a hed him out, an been ridin’ o’ him.”
“Ha! ha!
Someb’dy muss, dat am certing.”
“Looke hyur, Plute!
Ye ain’t a bad sort o’ a darkie, though your skin air o’ a sut colour. I reck’n you’re tellin’ the truth; an ye don’t know who rud out the sorrel that night.
But who do ye think it war?
I’m only axin’ because, as ye know, Mr Peintdexter air a friend o’ mine, an I don’t want his property to be abused—no more what belongs to Capen Calhoun.
Some o’ the field niggers, I reck’n, hev stole the anymal out o’ the stable, an hev been ridin’ it all roun’ the country.
That’s it, ain’t it?”
“Well, no, Mass’ Tump. Dis chile doan believe dat am it.
De fiel’ hands not ’lowed inside hyur.
Dey darn’t kum in to de ’table no how. ’Twan’t any nigger upon dis plantashun as tooked out de sorrel dat night.”
“Durn it, then, who ked a tuk him out?
Maybe the overseer?
War it him d’ye think?”
“’Twan’t him needer.”
“Who then ked it be; unless it war the owner o’ the hoss hisself?
If so, thur’s an end o’ it.
He hed the right to ride his critter wharever he pleased, an gallop it to hell ef thet war agreeable to him.
It ain’t no bizness o’ myen.”
“Ho! ho! Nor myen, needer, Mass’ Tump.
Wish I’d thought dat way dis mornin’.”
“Why do ye weesh that?
What happened this mornin’ to change yur tune?”
“Ho! what happen dis mornin’?