“Well, suh, dar sot de pie, an’ dar wuz de ginger-cakes, ol’ timers, big ter look at, but light ter handle. Eve’ybody want de pie, but my min’ done made up. Some bought cakes stidder de pie, an’ some des wipe der mouf an’ go on. But, bimeby, here come Salem Birch, six feet high, an’ his hat sot on de side er his haid like he done bought de whole town. I know’d de minnit I laid eyes on ’im dat he had dram in ’im, an’ dat he wuz up ter some devilment. Him an’ his bre’r, Bill-Tom, suh, had tarryfied de whole county. Dey wuz constant a-fightin’, an’ ef dey couldn’t git nobody else ter fight, dey’d fight ’mongst deyse’f. Yassir! dem ar Birches had done whip der own daddy. “An’ yit, suh, dis yer Salem wa’n’t no bad-lookin’ man. He had long curly ha’r, an’ he wuz constant a-laughin’. Ef de fac’ troof wuz ter come out, I ’speck he had more devilment in ’im dan downright meanness; an’ he wuz mean nuff, de Lord knows. But, be sech as it mought, bimeby here he come, sorter half tip-toein’, like some folks do when dey feel der dram an’ dunner how ter show it. He stop right front er me, suh, an’ time his eye fell on me he sung out: “‘_Whoopee! Ef here ain’t ol’ Minervy Ann! Wid pies! An’ cakes! Come on, boys! Have some pies! An’ cakes!_’ [Illustration: “Ef here ain’t ol’ Minervy Ann wid pies!”] “Well, suh, you mought er heer’d ’im a mile. He holler des like de She’ff do when he stick his haid out’n de court-house winder an’ call somebody in ter court—des dat ve’y way. He say, ‘How much you take fer yo’ chicken-pie?’ I ’low, ‘Hit done sol’, suh.’ He say, ‘I’ll gi’ you a quarter fer dat pie.’ I ’low, ‘De pie done sol’, suh.’ By dat time dey wuz a right smart clump er folks come up fer see what Salem Birch wuz holl’in’ ’bout, an’ you know yo’se’f, suh, how a half-drunk man’ll do when dey’s a crowd lis’nin’ at him. “He say, ‘Who done bought dat pie?’ I ’low, ‘Marse Tumlin Perdue.’ He sorter draw’d hisse’f up, he did, an’ say, ‘Ain’t I des ez good ez Tumlin Perdue?’ I ’low, ‘I ain’t know nothin’ ter de contrary, suh, but ef you is, you got ter be a monstus good man.’ He say, ‘I is! I’m de bes’ man in de county.’ I ’low, ‘Dat may be, suh; I ain’t ’sputin’ it.’ By dat time I ’gun ter feel de Ol’ Boy kinder ranklin’ in my gizzard. He say, ‘Why can’t I git dat pie?’ I ’low, ‘Bekaze it done sol’, suh.’ He say, ‘Fer cash?’ I ’low, ‘No, suh; but Marse Tumlin’s word is lots better’n some folks’ money.’ “Well, suh, I know’d ’fo’ I open my mouf dat I ought’n ter say dat, but I couldn’t he’p it fer ter save my neck. He say, ‘Well, blast yo’ black hide, my money’s better’n anybody’s money!’ Wid dat he flung down a shinplaster quarter an’ retch fer de pie. By de time he grabbed it, I grabbed it, an’ he pulled an’ I pulled. I dunner whedder ’twuz de strenk in me er de dram in ’im, but in de pullin’, de box what de pie wuz on turnt over, an’ my cheer turnt over, an’ down come Salem Birch right spang on top er me.