“I tell you now, suh, dis skeer’d me. ’Twuz mo’ dan I bargain fer. Right at de minnit, I had de idee dat de man had jumped on me an’ wuz gwine ter kill me—you know how some folks is ’bout niggers. So I des give one squall—— “‘_Marse Tumlin! Run here, Marse Tumlin! He killin’ me! Oh, Marse Tumlin!_’ “Well, suh, dey tell me dat squall wuz so inhuman it made de country hosses break loose fum de racks. One white lady at de tavern hear it, an’ she had ter be put ter bed. Bless yo’ soul, honey! don’t never say you done hear anybody blate twel you hear ol’ Minervy Ann—an’ de Lord knows I hope you won’t never hear me. “Dey ain’t no use talkin’, suh, hit ’larmed de town. Eve’ybody broke an’ run to’rds de place whar de fuss come fum. Salem Birch got up des ez quick ez he kin, an’ I wuz up des ez quick ez he wuz, an’ by dat time my temper done run my skeer off, an’ I des blazed out at him. What I say I’ll never tell you, bekaze I wuz so mad I ain’t never hear myse’f talk. Some say I called ’im dis an’ some say I called ’im dat, but whatsomever ’twuz, hit wa’n’t no nice name—I kin promise you dat. [Illustration: “You see dat nigger ’oman?”] “’Twus ’nuff ter rise his dander, an’ he draw’d back his arm fer ter hit me, but des ’bout dat time Marse Tumlin shoved ’im back. Marse Tumlin ’low, ‘You dirty dog! You sneakin’, nasty houn’! is dis de way you does yo’ fightin’?’ “Well, suh, dis kinder skeer me ag’in, kaze I hear talk dat Salem Birch went ’bout wid dirks an’ pistols on ’im, ready fer ter use um. He look at Marse Tumlin, an’ his face got whiter an’ whiter, an’ he draw’d his breff, deep an’ long. “Marse Tumlin ’low, ‘You see dat nigger ’oman? Well, ef she wuz blacker dan de hinges er hell’—he say dem ve’y words, suh—‘ef she wuz blacker dan de hinges er hell, she’d be whiter dan you er any er yo’ thievin’ gang.’ An’ den, suh—I ’clar’ I’m mos’ shame ter tell you—Marse Tumlin rise up on his tip-toes an’ spit in de man’s face. Yasser! Right spang in his face. You may well look ’stonish’d, suh. But ef you’d ’a’ seed de way Marse Tumlin looked you’d know why Salem Birch ain’t raise his han’ ’cep’ ter wipe his face. Ef dey ever wuz blood an’ killin’ in anybody’s eyes, hit wuz in Marse Tumlin’s right dat minnit. He stan’ dar while you kin count ten, an’ den he snap his thumb an’ turn on his heel, an’ dat ar Salem Birch tuck’n walk ’cross de public squar’ an’ sot down on de court-house steps, an’ he sot dar, suh, wid his haid ’twix’ his han’s fer I dunner how long.