Southern States -- Social life and customs -- 1775-1865 -- Fiction
“Oh, yes, Pawson, I see--see it all clear as day,” interrupted St.
George--“have been seeing it for some months past, although neither
you nor Gadgem seem to have been aware of that fact.” This came with so
grave a tone that Pawson raised his eyes inquiringly. “And who is this
man,” Temple went on, “who wants to step into my shoes? Be sure you
tell him they are half-soled,” and he held up one boot. He might want
to dance or hunt in them--and his toes would be out the first thing he
knew.”
“He is Mr. Gorsuch's attorney, sir, a Mr. Fogbin,” Pawson answered,
omitting any reference to the boots and still concerned over the gravity
of the situation. “He did some work once for Colonel Rutter, and that's
how Gorsuch got hold of him. That's why I suspect the colonel. This
would make the interest sure, you see--rather a sly game, is it not,
sir? One I did not expect.”
St. George pondered for a moment, and his eye fell on his servant.
“And what will I do with Todd?”
The darky's eyes had been rolling round in his head as the talk
continued, Pawson, knowing how leaky he was, having told him nothing of
the impending calamity for fear he would break it to his master in the
wrong way.
“I should say take him with you,” came the positive answer.
“Take him with me! You didn't think I would be separated from him, did
you?” cried St. George, indignantly, the first note of positive anger he
had yet shown.
“I didn't think anything about it, sir,” and he looked at Todd
apologetically.
“Well, after this please remember, Mr. Pawson, that where I go Todd
goes.”
The darky leaned forward as if to seize St. George's hand; his eyes
filled and his lips began to tremble. He would rather have died than
have left his master.
St. George walked to the door, threw it open, and stood for an instant,
his eyes fixed on the bare trees in the park. He turned and faced the
two again:
“Todd!”
“Yes, Marse George--” Two hot ragged tears still lingered on the darky's
eyelids.
“To-day is Monday, is it not?--and to-morrow is boat day?”
“Yes, Marse George,” came the trembling answer.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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