“Yearly in de mawnin’ de niggers all swarm’ up in de yard.  Mars Dugal’ wuz feelin’ so kine dat he had brung up a bairl er cider, en tole de niggers all fer ter he’p deyselves.

“All de han’s on de plantation come but Dave; en bimeby, w’en it seem lack he wa’n’t comin’, Mars Dugal’ sont a nigger down ter de quarters ter look fer ‘im.  De sun wuz gittin’ up, en dey wuz a heap er wuk ter be done, en Mars Dugal’ sorter got ti’ed waitin’; so he up’n says:—­

“’Well, boys en gals, I sont fer yer all up yer fer ter tell yer dat all dat ‘bout Dave’s stealin’ er de bacon wuz a mistake, ez I s’pose yer all done hearn befo’ now, en I ‘s mighty sorry it happen’.  I wants ter treat all my niggers right, en I wants yer all ter know dat I sets a heap by all er my han’s w’at is hones’ en smart.  En I want yer all ter treat Dave des lack yer did befo’ dis thing happen’, en mine w’at he preach ter yer; fer Dave is a good nigger, en has had a hard row ter hoe.  En de fus’ one I ketch sayin’ anythin’ ‘g’in’ Dave, I’ll tell Mister Walker ter gin ‘im forty.  Now take ernudder drink er cider all roun’, en den git at dat cotton, fer I wanter git dat Persimmon Hill trac’ all pick’ ober ter-day.’

“W’en de niggers wuz gwine ‘way, Mars Dugal’ tole me fer ter go en hunt up Dave, en bring ’im up ter de house.  I went down ter Dave’s cabin, but could n’ fine ‘im dere.  Den I look’ roun’ de plantation, en in de aidge er de woods, en ‘long de road; but I could n’ fine no sign er Dave.  I wuz ‘bout ter gin up de sarch, w’en I happen’ fer ter run ’cross a foot-track w’at look’ lack Dave’s.  I had wukked ’long wid Dave so much dat I knowed his tracks:  he had a monst’us long foot, wid a holler instep, w’ich wuz sump’n skase ‘mongs’ black folks.  So I follered dat track ‘cross de fiel’ fum de quarters ’tel I got ter de smoke-’ouse.  De fus’ thing I notice’ wuz smoke comin’ out’n de cracks; it wuz cu’ous, caze dey had n’ be’n no hogs kill’ on de plantation fer six mont’ er so, en all de bacon in de smoke-’ouse wuz done kyoed.  I could n’ ’magine fer ter sabe my life w’at Dave wuz doin’ in dat smoke-’ouse.  I went up ter de do’ en hollered:—­

“‘Dave!’

“Dey didn’ nobody answer.  I didn’ wanter open de do’, fer w’ite folks is monst’us pertickler ’bout dey smoke-’ouses; en ef de oberseah had a-come up en cotch me in dere, he mou’t not wanter b’lieve I wuz des lookin’ fer Dave.  So I sorter knock at de do’ en call’ out ag’in:—­

“‘O Dave, hit’s me—­Julius!  Doan be skeered.  Mars Dugal’ wants yer ter come up ter de big house,—­he done ‘skivered who stole de ham.’

“But Dave didn’ answer.  En w’en I look’ roun’ ag’in en didn’ seed none er his tracks gwine way fum de smoke-’ouse, I knowed he wuz in dere yit, en I wuz ‘termine’ fer ter fetch ‘im out; so I push de do’ open en look in.

“Dey wuz a pile er bark burnin’ in de middle er de flo’, en right ober de fier, hangin’ fum one er de rafters, wuz Dave; dey wuz a rope roun’ his neck, en I didn’ haf ter look at his face mo’ d’n once fer ter see he wuz dead.