“You en Mis’ Annie would n’ wanter b’lieve me, ef I wuz ter ’low dat dat man was oncet a mule?”

“No,” I replied, “I don’t think it very likely that you could make us believe it.”

“Why, Uncle Julius!” said Annie severely, “what ridiculous nonsense!”

This reception of the old man’s statement reduced him to silence, and it required some diplomacy on my part to induce him to vouchsafe an explanation.  The prospect of a long, dull afternoon was not alluring, and I was glad to have the monotony of Sabbath quiet relieved by a plantation legend.

“W’en I wuz a young man,” began Julius, when I had finally prevailed upon him to tell us the story, “dat club-footed nigger—­his name is Primus—­use’ ter b’long ter ole Mars Jim McGee ober on de Lumbe’ton plank-road.  I use’ ter go ober dere ter see a ’oman w’at libbed on de plantation; dat ’s how I come ter know all erbout it.  Dis yer Primus wuz de livelies’ han’ on de place, alluz a-dancin’, en drinkin’, en runnin’ roun’, en singin’, en pickin’ de banjo; ‘cep’n’ once in a w’ile, w’en he ’d ’low he wa’n’t treated right ’bout sump’n ernudder, he’d git so sulky en stubborn dat de w’ite folks could n’ ha’dly do nuffin wid ’im.

“It wuz ‘gin’ de rules fer any er de han’s ter go ’way fum de plantation at night; but Primus did n’ min’ de rules, en went w’en he felt lack it; en de w’ite folks purten’ lack dey did n’ know it, fer Primus was dange’ous w’en he got in dem stubborn spells, en dey ’d ruther not fool wid ’im.

“One night in de spring er de year, Primus slip’ off fum de plantation, en went down on de Wim’l’ton Road ter a dance gun by some er de free niggers down dere.  Dey wuz a fiddle, en a banjo, en a jug gwine roun’ on de outside, en Primus sung en dance’ ’tel ’long ’bout two o’clock in de mawnin’, w’en he start’ fer home.  Ez he come erlong back, he tuk a nigh-cut ’cross de cottonfiel’s en ’long by de aidge er de Min’al Spring Swamp, so ez ter git shet er de patteroles w’at rid up en down de big road fer ter keep de darkies fum runnin’ roun’ nights.  Primus was sa’nt’rin’ ‘long, studyin’ ’bout de good time he ’d had wid de gals, w’en, ez he wuz gwine by a fence co’nder, w’at sh’d he heah but sump’n grunt.  He stopped a minute ter listen, en he heared sump’n grunt ag’in.  Den he went ober ter de fence whar he heard de fuss, en dere, layin’ in de fence co’nder, on a pile er pine straw, he seed a fine, fat shote.

“Primus look’ ha’d at de shote, en den sta’ted home.  But somehow er ‘nudder he could n’ git away fum dat shote; w’en he tuk one step for’ards wid one foot, de yuther foot ’peared ter take two steps back’ards, en so he kep’ nachly gittin’ closeter en closeter ter de shote.  It was de beatin’es’ thing!  De shote des ’peared ter cha’m Primus, en fus’ thing you know Primus foun’ hisse’f ’way up de road wid de shote on his back.