a _slave!_–en you’s a nigger en a slave dis minute; en if I opens my
mouf ole Marse Driscoll’ll sell you down de river befo’ you is two days
older den what you is now!”
“It’s a thundering lie, you miserable old blatherskite!”
“It ain’t no lie, nuther. It’s just de truth, en nothin’ _but_ de truth,
so he’p me. Yassir–you’s my _son_–”
“You devil!”
“En dat po’ boy dat you’s be’n a-kickin’ en a-cuffin’ today
is Percy Driscoll’s son en yo’ _marster_–”
“You beast!”
“En _his_ name is Tom Driscoll, en _yo’s_ name’s Valet de Chambers,
en you ain’t GOT no fambly name, beca’se niggers don’t _have_ em!”
Tom sprang up and seized a billet of wood and raised it, but his mother
only laughed at him, and said:
“Set down, you pup! Does you think you kin skyer me? It ain’t in you,
nor de likes of you. I reckon you’d shoot me in de back, maybe,
if you got a chance, for dat’s jist yo’ style–_I_ knows you,
throo en throo–but I don’t mind gitt’n killed, beca’se all dis is
down in writin’ and it’s in safe hands, too, en de man dat’s got it
knows whah to look for de right man when I gits killed.
Oh, bless yo’ soul, if you puts yo’ mother up for as big a fool as
_you_ is, you’s pow’ful mistaken, I kin tell you!
Now den, you set still en behave yo’self; en don’t you git up
ag’in till I tell you!”
Tom fretted and chafed awhile in a whirlwind of disorganizing
sensations and emotions, and finally said, with something like
settled conviction:
“The whole thing is moonshine; now then, go ahead and do
your worst; I’m done with you.”
Roxy made no answer. She took the lantern and started for the door.
Tom was in a cold panic in a moment.
“Come back, come back!” he wailed. “I didn’t mean it, Roxy;
I take it all back, and I’ll never say it again! Please come back, Roxy!”
The woman stood a moment, then she said gravely:
“Dat’s one thing you’s got to stop, Valet de Chambers. You can’t
call me _Roxy_, same as if you was my equal. Chillen don’t speak to
dey mammies like dat. You’ll call me ma or mammy, dat’s what you’ll
call me–leastways when de ain’t nobody aroun’. _Say_ it!”
It cost Tom a struggle, but he got it out.
“Dat’s all right. don’t you ever forgit it ag’in, if you knows
what’s good for you. Now den, you had said you wouldn’t ever call
it lies en moonshine ag’in. I’ll tell you dis, for a warnin’:
if you ever does say it ag’in, it’s de LAS’ time you’ll ever say
it to me; I’ll tramp as straight to de judge as I kin walk,
en tell him who you is, en _prove_ it. Does you b’lieve me when I says dat?”
“Oh,” groaned Tom, “I more than believe it; I _know_ it.”
Roxy knew her conquest was complete. She could have proved nothing
to anybody, and her threat of writings was a lie; but she knew the
person she was dealing with, and had made both statements without any
doubt as to the effect they would produce.
She went and sat down on her candle box, and the pride and pomp of
her victorious attitude made it a throne. She said:
“Now den, Chambers, we’s gwine to talk business, en dey ain’t gwine
to be no mo’ foolishness. In de fust place, you gits fifty dollahs
a month; you’s gwine to han’ over half of it to yo’ ma. Plank it out!”
But Tom had only six dollars in the world. He gave her that,
and promised to start fair on next month’s pension.
“Chambers, how much is you in debt?”
Tom shuddered, and said:
“Nearly three hundred dollars.”
“How is you gwine to pay it?”
Tom groaned out: “Oh, I don’t know; don’t ask me such awful questions.”
But she stuck to her point until she wearied a confession out of him:
he had been prowling about in disguise, stealing small valuables from
private houses; in fact, he made a good deal of a raid on his fellow