“Now don’t yer take on like dat, er makin’ uv yerse’f sick,” said Uncle Bob; “I know wat I gwine do; my min’ hit’s made up; hit’s true, I’m brack, but den my min’ hit’s made up.  Now you go on back ter de house, outn dis damp a’r, an’ tuck cyar er yerse’f, an’ don’t yer be er frettin’, nuther, caze my marster, he’s de bes’ man dey is; an’ den, ‘sides dat, my min’ hit’s made up.  Hyear, honey,” addressing the child, “take deze hyear white-oak splits an’ go’n make yer er baskit ‘long o’ yer ma.”

Ann and her baby returned to the house, but Uncle Snake-bit Rob, long after the sun went down, still sat on his little bench in front of his shop, his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands; and when it grew quite dark he rose, and put away his splits and his baskets, saying to himself,

“Well, I know wat I’m gwine do; my min’ hit’s made up.”

CHAPTER VIII

 Uncle bob’s proposition

The night after Ann’s interview with Uncle Bob, Major Waldron was sitting in his library looking over some papers, when some one knocked at the door, and, in response to his hearty “Come in,” Uncle Snake-bit Bob entered.

“Ebenin’ ter yer, marster,” said the old man, scraping his foot and bowing his head.

“How are you, Uncle Bob?” responded his master.

“I’m jes po’ly, thank God,” replied Uncle Bob, in the answer invariably given by Southern slaves to the query “How are you?” No matter if they were fat as seals, and had never had a day’s sickness in their lives, the answer was always the same—­ “I’m po’ly, thank God.”

“Well, Uncle Bob, what is it now?” asked Major Waldron.  “The little negroes been bothering your splits again?”

“Dey’s all de time at dat, marster, an’ dey gwine git hu’t, mun, ef dey fool long o’ me; but den dat ain’t wat I come fur dis time.  I come fur ter hab er talk wid yer, sar, ef yer kin spar de ole nigger de time.”

“There’s plenty of time, Uncle Bob; take a seat, then, if we are to have a talk;” and Major Waldron lit his cigar, and leaned back, while Uncle Bob seated himself on a low chair, and said: 

“Marster, I come ter ax yer wat’ll yer take fur dat little boy yer bought fum de specerlaters?”

“Ann’s little boy?” asked his master; “why, I would not sell him at all.  I only bought him because his mother was dying of exposure and fatigue, and I wanted to relieve her mind of anxiety on his account, I would certainly never sell her child away from her,”

“Yes, sar, dat’s so,” replied the old man; “but den my min’, hit’s made up.  I’ve laid me up er little money fum time ter time, wen I’d be er doct’in uv hosses an’ mules an’ men’-in’ cheers, an’ all sich ez dat; de folks dey pays me lib’ul; an’, let erlone dat, I’m done mighty well wid my taters an’ goobers, er sellin’ uv ’em ter de steamboat han’s, wat takes ’em ter de town, an’ ’sposes uv ’em.  So I’m got er right smart chance uv money laid up, sar; an’ now I wants ter buy me er nigger, same ez white folks, fur ter wait on me an’ bresh my coat an’ drive my kerridge; an’ I ’lowed ef yer’d sell de little white nigger, I’d buy ’im,” and Uncle Bob chuckled and laughed.