However, he did the natural thing: he replied with bluster and mockery.
“_You’ll_ give me a chance–_you_! Perhaps I’d better get down
on my knees now! But in case I don’t–just for argument’s sake–
what’s going to happen, pray?”
“Dis is what is gwine to happen, I’s gwine as straight to yo’
uncle as I kin walk, en tell him every las’ thing I knows ’bout you.”
Tom’s cheek blenched, and she saw it. Disturbing thoughts
began to chase each other through his head. “How can she know?
And yet she must have found out–she looks it. I’ve had the will
back only three months, and am already deep in debt again, and moving
heaven and earth to save myself from exposure and destruction,
with a reasonably fair show of getting the thing covered up if I’m
let alone, and now this fiend has gone and found me out somehow or other.
I wonder how much she knows? Oh, oh, oh, it’s enough to break
a body’s heart! But I’ve got to humor her–there’s no other way.”
Then he worked up a rather sickly sample of a gay laugh and a hollow
chipperness of manner, and said:
“Well, well, Roxy dear, old friends like you and me mustn’t quarrel.
Here’s your dollar–now tell me what you know.”
He held out the wildcat bill; she stood as she was, and made
no movement. It was her turn to scorn persuasive foolery now,
and she did not waste it. She said, with a grim implacability in
voice and manner which made Tom almost realize that even a former
slave can remember for ten minutes insults and injuries returned
for compliments and flatteries received, and can also enjoy
taking revenge for them when the opportunity offers:
“What does I know? I’ll tell you what I knows, I knows enough to
bu’st dat will to flinders–en more, mind you, _more!_”
Tom was aghast.
“More?” he said, “What do you call more? Where’s there any room for more?”
Roxy laughed a mocking laugh, and said scoffingly, with a toss
of her head, and her hands on her hips:
“Yes!–oh, I reckon! _co’se_ you’d like to know–wid yo’ po’ little
ole rag dollah. What you reckon I’s gwine to tell _you_ for?–
you ain’t got no money. I’s gwine to tell yo’ uncle–en I’ll do it
dis minute, too–he’ll gimme FIVE dollahs for de news, en mighty glad, too.”
She swung herself around disdainfully, and started away.
Tom was in a panic. He seized her skirts, and implored her to wait.
She turned and said, loftily:
“Look-a-heah, what ‘uz it I tole you?”
“You–you–I don’t remember anything. What was it you told me?”
“I tole you dat de next time I give you a chance you’d git
down on yo’ knees en beg for it.”
Tom was stupefied for a moment. He was panting with excitement.
Then he said:
“Oh, Roxy, you wouldn’t require your young master to do such a
horrible thing. You can’t mean it.”
“I’ll let you know mighty quick whether I means it or not!
You call me names, en as good as spit on me when I comes here,
po’ en ornery en ‘umble, to praise you for bein’ growed up so
fine and handsome, en tell you how I used to nuss you en tend you en
watch you when you ‘uz sick en hadn’t no mother but me in de whole worl’,
en beg you to give de po’ ole nigger a dollah for to get her som’n’
to eat, en you call me names–_names_, dad blame you! Yassir,
I gives you jes one chance mo’, and dat’s _now_, en it las’ on’y
half a second–you hear?”
Tom slumped to his knees and began to beg, saying:
“You see I’m begging, and it’s honest begging, too! Now tell me,
Roxy, tell me.”
The heir of two centuries of unatoned insult and outrage looked down
on him and seemed to drink in deep draughts of satisfaction.
Then she said:
“Fine nice young white gen’l’man kneelin’ down to a nigger wench!
I’s wanted to see dat jes once befo’ I’s called. Now, Gabr’el,
blow de hawn, I’s ready . . . Git up!”