“De cunjuh man had n’ mo’ d’n come th’oo good, befo’ he wuz tuk sick wid a col’ w’at he kotch kneelin’ on de groun’ so long at de mou’ners’ bench.  He kep’ gittin’ wusser en wusser, en bimeby de rheumatiz tuk holt er ’im, en drawed him all up, ’tel one day he sont word up ter Mars Jim McGee’s plantation, en ax’ Pete, de nigger w’at tuk keer er de mules, fer ter come down dere dat night en fetch dat mule w’at his marster had bought fum de po’ w’ite man dyoin’ er de summer.

“Pete did n’ know w’at de cunjuh man wuz dribin’ at, but he did n’ daster stay way; en so dat night, w’en he ’d done eat his bacon en his hoe-cake, en drunk his ’lasses-en-water, he put a bridle on de mule, en rid ‘im down ter de cunjuh man’s cabin.  W’en he got ter de do’, he lit en hitch’ de mule, en den knock’ at de do’.  He felt mighty jubous ’bout gwine in, but he was bleedst ter do it; he knowed he could n’ he’p ’isse’f.

“‘Pull de string,’ sez a weak voice, en w’en Pete lif de latch en went in, de cunjuh man was layin’ on de bed, lookin’ pale en weak, lack he did n’ hab much longer fer ter lib.

“‘Is you fotch’ de mule?’ sezee.

“Pete say yas, en de cunjuh man kep’ on.

“‘Brer Pete,’ sezee, ’I’s be’n a monst’us sinner man, en I’s done a power er wickedness endyoin’ er my days; but de good Lawd is wash’ my sins erway, en I feels now dat I’s boun’ fer de kingdom.  En I feels, too, dat I ain’ gwine ter git up fum dis bed no mo’ in dis worl’, en I wants ter ondo some er de harm I done.  En dat’s de reason, Brer Pete, I sont fer you ter fetch dat mule down here.  You ’member dat shote I was up ter yo’ plantation inquirin’ ‘bout las’ June?’

“‘Yas,’ says Brer Pete, ‘I’member yo’ axin’ ’bout a shote you had los’.’

“‘I dunno whe’r you eber l’arnt it er no,’ says de cunjuh man, ’but I done knowed yo’ marster’s Primus had tuk de shote, en I wuz boun’ ter git eben wid ‘im.  So one night I cotch’ ’im down by de swamp on his way ter a candy-pullin’, en I th’owed a goopher mixtry on ’im, en turnt ’im ter a mule, en got a po’ w’ite man ter sell de mule, en we ’vided de money.  But I doan want ter die ‘tel I turn Brer Primus back ag’in.’

“Den de cunjuh man ax’ Pete ter take down one er two go’ds off’n a she’f in de corner, en one er two bottles wid some kin’ er mixtry in ’em, en set ’em on a stool by de bed; en den he ax’ ’im ter fetch de mule in.

“W’en de mule come in de do’, he gin a snort, en started fer de bed, des lack he was gwine ter jump on it.

“‘Hol’ on dere, Brer Primus!’ de cunjuh man hollered.  ’I’s monst’us weak, en ef you ’mence on me, you won’t nebber hab no chance fer ter git turn’ back no mo’.’

“De mule seed de sense er dat, en stood still.  Den de cunjuh man tuk de go’ds en bottles, en ‘mence’ ter wuk de roots en yarbs, en de mule ‘mence’ ter turn back ter a man,—­fust his years, den de res’ er his head, den his shoulders en arms.  All de time de cunjuh man kep’ on wukkin’ his roots; en Pete en Primus could see he wuz gittin’ weaker en weaker all de time.