“What does I know?  I’ll tell you what I knows, I knows enough to bu’st dat will to flinders—­en more, mind you, more!”

Tom was aghast.

“More?” he said, “What do you call more?  Where’s there any room for more?”

Roxy laughed a mocking laugh, and said scoffingly, with a toss of her head, and her hands on her hips: 

“Yes!—­oh, I reckon! co’se you’d like to know—­wid yo’ po’ little ole rag dollah.  What you reckon I’s gwine to tell you for?—­you ain’t got no money.  I’s gwine to tell yo’ uncle—­en I’ll do it dis minute, too—­he’ll gimme FIVE dollahs for de news, en mighty glad, too.”

She swung herself around disdainfully, and started away.  Tom was in a panic.  He seized her skirts, and implored her to wait.  She turned and said, loftily: 

“Look-a-heah, what ’uz it I tole you?”

“You—­you—­I don’t remember anything.  What was it you told me?”

“I tole you dat de next time I give you a chance you’d git down on yo’ knees en beg for it.”

Tom was stupefied for a moment.  He was panting with excitement.  Then he said: 

“Oh, Roxy, you wouldn’t require your young master to do such a horrible thing.  You can’t mean it.”

“I’ll let you know mighty quick whether I means it or not!  You call me names, en as good as spit on me when I comes here, po’ en ornery en ‘umble, to praise you for bein’ growed up so fine and handsome, en tell you how I used to nuss you en tend you en watch you when you ’uz sick en hadn’t no mother but me in de whole worl’, en beg you to give de po’ ole nigger a dollah for to get her som’n’ to eat, en you call me names—­names, dad blame you!  Yassir, I gives you jes one chance mo’, and dat’s now, en it las’ on’y half a second—­you hear?”

Tom slumped to his knees and began to beg, saying: 

“You see I’m begging, and it’s honest begging, too!  Now tell me, Roxy, tell me.”

The heir of two centuries of unatoned insult and outrage looked down on him and seemed to drink in deep draughts of satisfaction.  Then she said: 

“Fine nice young white gen’l’man kneelin’ down to a nigger wench!  I’s wanted to see dat jes once befo’ I’s called.  Now, Gabr’el, blow de hawn, I’s ready . . .  Git up!”

Tom did it.  He said, humbly: 

“Now, Roxy, don’t punish me any more.  I deserved what I’ve got, but be good and let me off with that.  Don’t go to uncle.  Tell me—­I’ll give you the five dollars.”

“Yes, I bet you will; en you won’t stop dah, nuther.  But I ain’t gwine to tell you heah—­”

“Good gracious, no!”

“Is you ‘feared o’ de ha’nted house?”

“N-no.”

“Well, den, you come to de ha’nted house ’bout ten or ’leven tonight, en climb up de ladder, ’ca’se de sta’rsteps is broke down, en you’ll find me.  I’s a-roostin’ in de ha’nted house ’ca’se I can’t ‘ford to roos’ nowher’s else.”  She started toward the door, but stopped and said, “Gimme de dollah bill!” He gave it to her.  She examined it and said, “H’m—­like enough de bank’s bu’sted.”  She started again, but halted again.  “Has you got any whisky?”