“‘Julius’, sezee, ‘did yer knowed yer wuz wukkin’ long yer wid a ham?’

“I could n’ ’magine w’at he meant.  ‘G’way fum yer, Dave,’ says I.  ’Yer ain’ wearin’ no ham no mo’; try en fergit ’bout dat; ‘t ain’ gwine ter do yer no good fer ter ‘member it.’

“‘Look a-yer, Julius,’ sezee, ‘kin yer keep a secret?’

“‘Co’se I kin, Dave,’ says I.  ‘I doan go roun’ tellin’ people w’at yuther folks says ter me.’

“‘Kin I trus’ yer, Julius?  Will yer cross yo’ heart?’

“I cross’ my heart.  ‘Wush I may die ef I tells a soul,’ says I.

“Dave look’ at me des lack he wuz lookin’ thoo me en ’way on de yuther side er me, en sezee:—­

“‘Did yer knowed I wuz turnin’ ter a ham, Julius?’

“I tried ter ’suade Dave dat dat wuz all foolishness, en dat he oughtn’t ter be talkin’ dat-a-way,—­hit wa’n’t right.  En I tole ’im ef he ’d des be patien’, de time would sho’ly come w’en eve’ything would be straighten’ out, en folks would fine out who de rale rogue wuz w’at stole de bacon.  Dave ‘peared ter listen ter w’at I say, en promise’ ter do better, en stop gwine on dat-a-way; en it seem lack he pick’ up a bit w’en he seed dey wuz one pusson did n’ b’lieve dem tales ’bout ’im.

“Hit wa’n’t long atter dat befo’ Mars Archie McIntyre, ober on de Wimbleton road, ‘mence’ ter complain ‘bout somebody stealin’ chickens fum his hen-’ouse.  De chickens kep’ on gwine, en at las’ Mars Archie tole de ban’s on his plantation dat he gwine ter shoot de fus’ man he ketch in his hen-’ouse.  In less’n a week atter he gin dis warnin’, he cotch a nigger in de hen-’ouse, en fill’ ’im full er squir’l-shot.  W’en he got a light, he ‘skivered it wuz a strange nigger; en w’en he call’ one er his own sarven’s, de nigger tole ’im it wuz our Wiley.  W’en Mars Archie foun’ dat out, he sont ober ter our plantation fer ter tell Mars Dugal’ he had shot one er his niggers, en dat he could sen’ ober dere en git w’at wuz lef un ’im.

“Mars Dugal’ wuz mad at fus’; but w’en he got ober dere en hearn how it all happen’, he did n’ hab much ter say.  Wiley wuz shot so bad he wuz sho’ he wuz gwine ter die, so he up’n says ter ole marster:—­

“‘Mars Dugal’,’ sezee, ’I knows I’s be’n a monst’us bad nigger, but befo’ I go I wanter git sump’n off’n my mine.  Dave didn’ steal dat bacon w’at wuz tuk out’n de smoke-’ouse.  I stole it all, en I hid de ham under Dave’s cabin fer ter th’ow de blame on him—­en may de good Lawd fergib me fer it.’

“Mars Dugal’ had Wiley tuk back ter de plantation, en sont fer a doctor fer ter pick de shot out’n ‘im.  En de ve’y nex’ mawnin’ Mars Dugal’ sont fer Dave ter come up ter de big house; he felt kinder sorry fer de way Dave had be’n treated.  Co’se it wa’n’t no fault er Mars Dugal’s, but he wuz gwine ter do w’at he could fer ter make up fer it.  So he sont word down ter de quarters fer Dave en all de yuther han’s ter ’semble up in de yard befo’ de big house at sun-up nex’ mawnin’.