Growing bolder, they quizzed his little “nig” about him, to the former’s utter demoralization, poking fun at the bare feet and broadcloth; and one of the smart house-negroes disrespectfully propounded a conundrum, in effect, “If all work an’ no play make Cage er dull nigger, what do all play make him?” Milly’s brother, a field-hand, had actually shouted out, “A big fool nigger!” at which Cage and his fan-bearer walked away in dignified silence. But the fan-bearer was far from satisfactory; there was that in his manner which betokened sullenness rather than the awe with which he was at first infused; and though he habitually dodged, it was rather from the fear of the missile than of the man. There was even a symptom of rebellion, which Micajah, finding the arts of civilization deficient, promptly put down by threatening to hoodoo him with a ’gater. The imp was quelled for a few days, and during that time he spent all the spare moments when Cage was asleep in the careful examination of his legs and arms for the first indication of the ’gater, guardedly holding his breath to feel an internal or external wiggle; but, as no signs appeared, he turned a pirouette on his great toe and whispered to the watermelons in the patch that “Marse ’Cajah wa’n’t nuffin but er nigger man, arter all.” But something had surely gone wrong with Micajah’s fortunes. Was Milly’s charm working? There it lay in the chimney lock, and Cage dared not touch it. “I knows she put hit dar fur me ’case I mek her so mad ’bout stan’in’ when I eats, an’ now she won’t set down when I axes her; an’ if hit air workin’—my Lord! den I’m done fur!” moaned Cage. So the Big-house coffee was not half as delicious as it had been, and Cage took to praising Milly’s buttermilk, sharing her side meat, and he courteously left her a piece of fried chicken on one occasion; but Milly would not touch it. Then, after one sleepless night in which the crown of freedom pressed more heavily upon the monarch’s brow, Micajah sought his master, leaving the bearer of the fan sobbing in the cabin from a reprimand more vigorous than pleasant. The Judge was preparing to ride, and he smiled upon the forlorn figure of Micajah. “Well, Micajah,” said he, flecking the head of a zinnia with his whip, “have you thought of something else to go with freedom?” Micajah studied his bare toes sheepishly, then covered them with dust. “Naw, Ole Marse.” The Judge drew nearer. “Are you sick, Micajah?” “Naw, Ole Marse.” “Then what do you want? Don’t stand there all day like a dolt.” Micajah hesitated; something seemed to clog his throat, and he cleared it. “I thought maybe, Ole Marse—I thought es how de time mought be up, an’ I come ter gib up de freedom and de book.” “What? Are you tired already? Why, it is not half up. Go on and have a good time, Micajah.” [Illustration: “‘GO ON AND HAVE A GOOD TIME, MICAJAH’”]