"See them little cabins over yonder?" With a dirty forefinger he pointed to the tiny trails of smoke hanging low above the distant tree-tops."The county's right speckled with 'em an' with thar children--all named Blake arter old marster, as they called him, or Corbin arter old miss.When leetle Mr.Christopher got turned out of the Hall jest befo' his pa died, an' was shuffled into the house of the overseer, whar Bill Fletcher used to live himself, the darkies all bought bits o'land here an' thar an' settled down to do some farmin' on a free scale.Stuck up, suh! Why, Zebbadee Blake passed me yestiddy drivin' his own mule-team, an' I heard him swar he wouldn't turn out o' the road for anybody less'n God A'mighty or Marse Christopher!""A-ahem!" exclaimed Carraway, with relish; "and in the meantime, the heir to all this high-handed authority is no better than an illiterate day-labourer."Peterkin snorted."Who? Mr.Christopher? Well, he warn't more'n ten years old when his pa went doty an' died, an' I don't reckon he's had much larnin' sence.I've leant on the gate myself an'
watched the nigger children traipsin' by to the Yankee woman's school, an' he drivin' the plough when he didn't reach much higher than the handle.He' used to be the darndest leetle brat, too, till his sperits got all freezed out o' him.Lord! Lord!
thar's such a sight of meanness in this here world that it makes a body b'lieve in Providence whether or no."Carraway meditatively twirled his walking-stick."Raises tobacco now like the rest, doesn't he?""Not like the rest--bless you, no, suh.Why, the weed thrives under his very touch, though he can't abide the smell of it, an'
thar's not a farmer in the county that wouldn't ruther have him to plant, cut, or cure than any ten men round about.They do say that his pa went clean crazy about tobaccy jest befo' he died, an' that Mr.Christopher gets dead sick when he smells it smokin'
in the barn, but he kin pick up a leaf blindfold an' tell you the quality of it at his first touch."For a moment the lawyer was silent, pondering a thought he evidently did not care to utter.When at last he spoke it was in the measured tones of one who overcomes an impediment in his speech.
"Do you happen to have heard, I wonder, anything of his attitude toward the present owner of the Hall?""Happen to have heard!" Peterkin threw back his head and gasped.
"Why, the whole county has happened to hear of it, I reckon.It's been common talk sence the day he got his first bird-gun, an' his nigger, Uncle Boaz, found him hidin' in the bushes to shoot old Fletcher when he came in sight.I tell you, if Bill Fletcher lay dyin' in the road, Mr.Christopher would sooner ride right over him than not.You ask some folks, suh, an' they'll tell you a Blake kin hate twice as long as most men kin love.""Ah, is it so bad as that?" muttered Carraway.
"Well, he ain't much of a Christian, as the lights go," continued Sol, "but I ain't sartain, accordin' to my way of thinkin', that he ain't got a better showin' on his side than a good many of 'em that gits that befo' the preacher.He's a Blake, skin an' bone, anyhow, an' you ain't goin' to git this here county to go agin him--not if he was to turn an' spit at Satan himself.Old Bill Fletcher stole his house an' his land an' his money, law or no law--that's how I look at it--but he couldn't steal his name, an'
that's what counts among the niggers, an' the po' whites, too.
Why, I've seen a whole parcel o' darkies stand stock still when Fletcher drove up to the bars with his spankin' pair of bays, an'
then mos' break tha' necks lettin' 'em down as soon as Mr.
Christopher comes along with his team of oxen.You kin fool the quality 'bout the quality, but I'll be blamed if you kin fool the niggers."Ahead of them there was a scattered group of log cabins, surrounded by little whitewashed palings, and at their approach a decrepit old Negro, followed by a slinking black-and-tan foxhound, came beneath the straggling hopvine over one of the doors and through the open gate out into the road.His bent old figure was huddled within his carefully patched clothes of coarse brown homespun.
"Howdy, marsters," he muttered, in answer to the lawyer's greeting, raising a trembling hand to his wrinkled forehead.
"Y'all ain' seen nuttin' er ole miss's yaller cat, Beulah, Ireckon?"
Peterkin, who had eyed him with the peculiar disfavour felt for the black man by the low-born white, evinced a sudden interest out of all proportion to Carraway's conception of the loss.
"Ain't she done come back yet, Uncle Boaz?" he inquired.
"Naw, suh, dat she ain', en ole miss she ain' gwine git a wink er sleep dis blessed night.Me en Spy we is done been traipsin'
roun' atter dat ar low-lifeted Beulah sence befo' de dinner-bell.""When did you miss her first?" asked Peterkin, with concern.
"I dunno, suh, dat I don't, caze she ain' no better'n one er dese yer wish-wishys,* an' I ain' mek out yit ef'n twuz her er her hant.Las' night 'bout sundown dar she wuz a-lappin' her sasser er milk right at ole miss feet, en dis mawnin' at sunup dar she warn't.Dat's all I know, suh, ef'n you lay me out."* Will-o'-the-wisp.
"Well, I reckon she'll turn up agin," said Peterkin consolingly.
"Cats air jest like gals, anyway--they ain't never happy unless they're eternally gallyvantin'.Why, that big white Tom of mine knows more about this here county than I do myself.""Days so, suh; days de gospel trufe; but I'se kinder flustered 'bout dat yaller cat caze ole miss sutney do set a heap er sto'
by 'er.She ain' never let de dawgs come in de 'oom, nohow, caze once she done feel Beulah rar 'er back at Spy.She's des stone blin', is ole miss, but I d'clar she kin smell pow'ful keen, an'
'taro' no use tryin' ter fool her wid one houn' er de hull pack.
Lawd! Lawd! I wunner ef dat ar cat kin be layin' close over yonder at Sis Daphne's?"He branched off into a little path which ran like a white thread across the field, grumbling querulously to the black-and-tan foxhound that ambled at his heels.
