That is what Dick thought, when Dick rode up to the gate. Dick was a negro boy of fourteen summers or about that. His face was a bright, intelligent one, and he looked a good deal of the coming athlete as he sat barebacked upon the large roan that served him for steed. Dick wore a shirt and trousers, and nothing else, except a dilapidated straw hat which imperfectly covered his closely cropped wool. His feet were bare, but the young man made mental note of the fact that they bore the appearance of feet accustomed to be washed at least once in every twenty four hours. “Does your mammy make you wash your feet every night, or do you do it of your own accord?” The question was the young man’s rather informal beginning of a conversation. “Mammy makes me,” answered the boy, with a look of resentment in his face. “Mammy’s crazy about washin’. She makes me git inter a bar’l o’ suds ev’ry night an’ scrub myself like I was a floor. That’s cause she’s de head washerwoman at Wyanoke. She’s got washin’ on de brain.” “So you’re one of the Wyanoke people, are you? Whom do you belong to now?” “I don’t jes’ rightly know, Mahstah”--Dick sounded his a’s like “aw” in “claw.” “I don’t jes’ rightly know, Mahstah. Ole Mas’r he’s done daid, an’ de folks sez a young Yankee mahstah is a comin’ to take position.” “To take possession, you mean, don’t you?” “I dunno. Somefin o’ dat sort.” “Why do you call him a Yankee master?” “O ’cause he libs at de Norf somewhar. I reckon mebbe he ain’t quite so bad as dat. Dey say he was born in Ferginny, but I reckon he’s done lib in de Norf among the Yankees so long dat he’s done forgit his manners an’ his raisin.” “What’s your name?” asked the young man, seemingly interested in Dick. “My name’s Dick, Sah.” “Dicksah--or Dick?” “Jes’ Dick, so,” answered the boy. “Oh! Well, that’s a very good name. It’s short and easy to say.” “_Too_ easy!” said the boy. “‘Too easy?’ How do you mean?” queried the young man. “Oh, nuffin’, only it’s allus ‘Dick, do dis!’ ‘Dick do dat.’ ‘Dick go dar,’ ’Dick come heah,’ an’ ‘Dick, Dick, Dick’ all de day long.” “Then they work you pretty hard do they? You don’t look emaciated.” “Maishy what, Mahstah?” “Oh, never mind that. It’s a Chinese word that I was just saying to myself. Do they work you too hard? What do you do?” “Oh, I don’t do nuffin’ much. Only when I lays down in de sun an’ jes’ begins to git quiet like, Miss Polly she calls me to pick some peas in de gyahden, er Miss Dorothy she says, ‘Dick, come heah an’ help me range dese flowers,’ or Mammy, she says, ‘Dick, you lazy bones, come heah an’ put some wood under my wash biler.’” “But what is your regular work?” “Reg’lar wuk?” asked the boy, his eyes growing saucer-like in astonishment, “I ain’t [Illustration: “_WHO IS YOUR MISS DOROTHY?_”]