"
"Kain't yo'?" the negro demanded, mockingly. "Den Ah done reckon Ah must
be a good deal of a scholar, ef Ah can talk so dat er w'ite quality gemmen
kain't undahstan' me."
Mr. Sambo Ebony chuckled gleefully in appreciation of his own joke.
"There's one thing I guess you can tell me, Sambo," Reade suggested
hopefully.
"W'at am dat, massa?"
"When are you going to change your seat and stop making me feel like a
very thin pancake?"
"W'en Ah done get mah mind made up."
"When you have your mind made up about---what?"
"About w'at I'se gwine do wid yo', Massa Reade."
"Well, what do you think you're going to do with me?" insisted Tom. "I'll
admit, Sambo, that I'm about losing my patience. Unless you get up off
of me soon, and move away to a respectful distance, I shall be obliged to
do something on my own account."
"Go as far as yo' like, massa," returned the negro, unmoved. "I'se boun'
ter admit dat yo' done got me fo' curiosity. W'at yo' done think yo'
_can_ do?"
Plainly the negro meant to go on having sport with him. Tom decided that
it would be of no use to try to deceive this great mountain of black
flesh. So Reade, who had been doing some brisk thinking during the last
few moments, gave a sudden heave---a trick that he retained from the old
football days.
Pages:
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148