“What does the old rip want with me?”

The petition was meekly repeated.

“Who gave you permission to come and disturb me with the social attentions of niggers?”

Tom had risen.  The other young man was trembling now, visibly.  He saw what was coming, and bent his head sideways, and put up his left arm to shield it.  Tom rained cuffs upon the head and its shield, saying no word:  the victim received each blow with a beseeching, “Please, Marse Tom!—­oh, please, Marse Tom!” Seven blows—­then Tom said, “Face the door—­march!” He followed behind with one, two, three solid kicks.  The last one helped the pure-white slave over the door-sill, and he limped away mopping his eyes with his old, ragged sleeve.  Tom shouted after him, “Send her in!”

Then he flung himself panting on the sofa again, and rasped out the remark, “He arrived just at the right moment; I was full to the brim with bitter thinkings, and nobody to take it out of.  How refreshing it was!  I feel better.”

Tom’s mother entered now, closing the door behind her, and approached her son with all the wheedling and supplication servilities that fear and interest can impart to the words and attitudes of the born slave.  She stopped a yard from her boy and made two or three admiring exclamations over his manly stature and general handsomeness, and Tom put an arm under his head and hoisted a leg over the sofa back in order to look properly indifferent.

“My lan’, how you is growed, honey!  ’Clah to goodness, I wouldn’t a-knowed you, Marse Tom!  ’Deed I wouldn’t!  Look at me good; does you ‘member old Roxy?  Does you know yo’ old nigger mammy, honey?  Well now, I kin lay down en die in peace, ’ca’se I’se seed—­”

“Cut it short, Goddamn it, cut it short!  What is it you want?”

“You heah dat?  Jes the same old Marse Tom, al’ays so gay and funnin’ wid de ole mammy.  I’uz jes as shore—­”

“Cut it short, I tell you, and get along!  What do you want?”

This was a bitter disappointment.  Roxy had for so many days nourished and fondled and petted her notion that Tom would be glad to see his old nurse, and would make her proud and happy to the marrow with a cordial word or two, that it took two rebuffs to convince her that he was not funning, and that her beautiful dream was a fond and foolish variety, a shabby and pitiful mistake.  She was hurt to the heart, and so ashamed that for a moment she did not quite know what to do or how to act.  Then her breast began to heave, the tears came, and in her forlornness she was moved to try that other dream of hers—­an appeal to her boy’s charity; and so, upon the impulse, and without reflection, she offered her supplication: 

“Oh, Marse Tom, de po’ ole mammy is in sich hard luck dese days; en she’s kinder crippled in de arms and can’t work, en if you could gimme a dollah—­on’y jes one little dol—­”

Tom was on his feet so suddenly that the supplicant was startled into a jump herself.