“’Cou’se hit gwine kim back; er black cat allus do,” said Daddy Mose. “Hain’t no tree ebber sprouted er chunk dat’ll kill er black cat, lessen you does hit nine times, an’ I lay yo’ gwine be powerful sorry if you does hit den.” “But I’se gwine hang him wid er rope!” retorted the imp, with a grin. “Yo’ Sol’mun Hightower Dewberry!—Yo’ little black rapscallion!—Hain’t got de fear er debil er man! What you’ Mammy been er doin’ dat she hain’t larn yo’ better? Des er gwine out in de worl’ an’ er fetching in bad luck lack de mud on you’ foots! I lay I larn yo’ how ter hang er black cat—I larn yo’!” There was a fruitless plunge and a wild yell, with very spicy punctuations. Solly’s mother, from the tree where she was washing, grunted her endorsement, and, his wrath being appeased and his audience increased by two or three, for it was the noon hour, Daddy Mose took his seat on the washbench and fanned himself with his hat. “De free niggers is mighty big fools,” he mused, “des er flingin’ out de sense er dey daddies and mammies es fas’ es dey put book larnin’ in; an’ de chillen—de po’, impident free chillen!—dey hain’t lack white folks, an’ dey hain’t lack de niggers uster was—dey des hain’t nuffin!” There was hardly a unanimous endorsement of the assertion, but it was accorded a respectful hearing, and the quiescent state of his listeners and his “chaw er stingy green” at last rendered Daddy Mose pleasantly reminiscent. “Ebber telled yo’ all how ’Lish Stone fetched de ten-year bad luck on hisse’f?” he queried, thoughtfully. “No, yo’ hain’t ebber tole we all, Daddy Mose.” “An’ he couldn’ git shet uv hit twel dey burn up de cabin an’ de kivers?” “Po’ creetur!—Um, um.” “Yas, dey hatter burn up de cabin an’ de kivers,” repeated Daddy Mose, reflectively. “Tell erbout hit, Daddy—tell erbout hit!” came in chorus. “Well,” said Daddy Mose, “hit were ’bout dis way: ’Lish Stone wa’n’t much ’count no how, but he hab er mighty fine, peart ’oman, an’ dat how come Daddy Mose ’member hit ter dis day. “‘Lish hadn’ been pleasin’ er Ole Marse in de way he been er gwine, an’ Ole Marse gib him one mighty straight talk ’fore he put de oberseer’s whup arter him, ’case one nigger is mighty hard on ernuther nigger, bond er free—you knows dat—an’ Ole Marse’s oberseers was allus niggers. “‘Lish he wa’n’t no survigrous nigger, an’ he feel mighty sorry now ’bout de way he berhave hisse’f, an’ Ole Marse gib him so many chances, an’ he lack mighty well ter please Ole Marse now, an’ he mek hisse’f anxious waitin’ fur de time.