“No, is dat so? Chambers, you’s a-jokin’, ain’t you?”
“‘Clah to goodness I ain’t, Mammy; Marse Tom tole me so his own self.
But nemmine, ’tain’t enough.”
“My lan’, what de reason ’tain’t enough?”
“Well, I’s gwine to tell you, if you gimme a chanst, Mammy.
De reason it ain’t enough is ‘ca’se Marse Tom gambles.”
Roxy threw up her hands in astonishment, and Chambers went on:
“Ole marster found it out, ‘ca’se he had to pay two hundred
dollahs for Marse Tom’s gamblin’ debts, en dat’s true, Mammy,
jes as dead certain as you’s bawn.”
“Two–hund’d dollahs! Why, what is you talkin’ ’bout?
Two –hund’d–dollahs. Sakes alive, it’s ‘mos’ enough to buy a
tol’able good secondhand nigger wid. En you ain’t lyin’, honey?
You wouldn’t lie to you’ old Mammy?”
“It’s God’s own truth, jes as I tell you–two hund’d dollahs–
I wisht I may never stir outen my tracks if it ain’t so.
En, oh, my lan’, ole Marse was jes a-hoppin’! He was b’ilin’ mad,
I tell you! He tuck ‘n’ dissenhurrit him.”
“Disen_whiched_ him?”
“Dissenhurrit him.”
“What’s dat? What do you mean?”
“Means he bu’sted de will.”
“Bu’s–ted de will! He wouldn’t _ever_ treat him so! Take it back,
you mis’able imitation nigger dat I bore in sorrow en tribbilation.”
Roxy’s pet castle–an occasional dollar from Tom’s pocket–
was tumbling to ruin before her eyes. She could not abide such a
disaster as that; she couldn’t endure the thought of it.
Her remark amused Chambers.
“Yah-yah-yah! Jes listen to dat! If I’s imitation, what is you?
Bofe of us is imitation _white_–dat’s what we is–en pow’ful
good imitation, too. Yah-yah-yah! We don’t ‘mount to noth’n as
imitation _niggers_; en as for–”
“Shet up yo’ foolin’, ‘fo’ I knock you side de head, en tell me ’bout
de will. Tell me ’tain’t bu’sted–do, honey, en I’ll never forgit you.”
“Well, _’tain’t_–‘ca’se dey’s a new one made, en Marse Tom’s
all right ag’in. But what is you in sich a sweat ’bout it for,
Mammy? ‘Tain’t none o’ your business I don’t reckon.”
“‘Tain’t none o’ my business? Whose business is it den, I’d like
to know? Wuz I his mother tell he was fifteen years old, or wusn’t I?–
you answer me dat. En you speck I could see him turned out po’ and
ornery on de worl’ en never care noth’n’ ’bout it? I reckon if you’d
ever be’n a mother yo’self, Valet de Chambers, you wouldn’t talk
sich foolishness as dat.”
“Well, den, ole Marse forgive him en fixed up de will ag’in –do dat
satisfy you?”
Yes, she was satisfied now, and quite happy and sentimental over it.
She kept coming daily, and at last she was told that Tom had come home.
She began to tremble with emotion, and straightway sent to beg him
to let his “po’ ole nigger Mammy have jes one sight of him en die for joy.”
Tom was stretched at his lazy ease on a sofa when Chambers brought
the petition. Time had not modified his ancient detestation of the
humble drudge and protector of his boyhood; it was still bitter
and uncompromising. He sat up and bent a severe gaze upon the face
of the young fellow whose name he was unconsciously using and whose
family rights he was enjoying. He maintained the gaze until the victim
of it had become satisfactorily pallid with terror, then he said:
“What does the old rip want with me?”
The petition was meekly repeated.
“Who gave you permission to come and disturb me with the social
attentions of niggers?”
Tom had risen. The other young man was trembling now, visibly.
He saw what was coming, and bent his head sideways, and put up his
left arm to shield it. Tom rained cuffs upon the head and its shield,
saying no word: the victim received each blow with a beseeching,
“Please, Marse Tom!–oh, please, Marse Tom!” Seven blows–then Tom said,
“Face the door–march!” He followed behind with one, two,
three solid kicks. The last one helped the pure-white slave over
the door-sill, and he limped away mopping his eyes with his old,
ragged sleeve. Tom shouted after him, “Send her in!”
Then he flung himself panting on the sofa again, and rasped out