Pumble was a boy who in age and tastes corresponded closely with Sam, as he did in complexion.  His real name, at full length, was Pumblechook,—­he having been so christened at the instance of Mahs’r George, in honor of the immortal corn-and-seedsman.  Off went Sam in search of this boy; and he found him at the back of the maternal mansion splitting up pine-knots for kindlings.  Sam approached him with a very slow, dignified step, and a look of commiseration.

“Hey, nigger!” said Sam, “dat’s all you fit for, is to work.  Why don’t you be a gemman like me, whut aint a-gwine to do a lick o’ work dis whole day?”

“Done runned away, is you?” answered Pumble.  “Well, I’ll come ’round dis ebenin, when de ole ooman gibs you a dose ob hickory-tea.”

“Dat’ll do, boy;” said Sam.  “Let you know dis is my buff-day, an’ I wont work for nobody, on my buff-day.  Go ax yo’ mammy kin you come up an’ play wid me; tell her my mammy sont word for you to come.”

Pumble dropped the hatchet, stared ecstatically, and ran in to obtain the desired permission.  It was granted.  Then this dialogue occurred: 

“Be a good chile!”

“Yes’m.”

“Don’t forgit yo’ manners!”

“Nome.”

“’Member you’s my son!”

“Yes’m.”

“Don’t you git into no mischuf!”

“Nome.”

“Ef you dose, I’ll w’ar you out, sah!  Now, go ’long!”

The boys trotted merrily away together.  But they had not gone fifty rods before they heard Pumble’s mother calling him.  They stopped to listen.

“Take—­keer—­ob yo’—­clo’es!” she shouted, and then went back into her house.

Under a great pecan-tree, on the lawn before the “big house,” Sam and Pumble sat down to consider and consult, or, as they expressed it, “to study up whut us gwine to do.”

“Shill I tell a story?” asked Pumble.

“Does you know a good one?” inquired Sam.

“Dis story’s gwine to be a new one,” said Pumble “beakase I’ll make it up as I go ’long.”

“Tell ahead,” said Sam.

“Wunst apon a time—­” began Pumble.

“What time?” interrupted Sam.

“Shut up!  Wunst upon a time.  Dey wuz a man.  An’ dis heah man lighted up he pipe, an’ started out on de big road.  An’ he went walkin’ along.  Right stret along.  An’ walkin’ along, an’ walkin’ along, an’ walkin’ along.  An’ walkin’ along.  An’ walkin’ along, an’ walkin’ along—­”

“Dat man wuz gwine all de way, wuzn’t he?” interjected the listener.

[Illustration:  “THE BOYS TROTTED MERRILY AWAY TOGETHER.”]

“He hadn’t got no way, hardly, yit,” said Pumble, “but he kep’ a-walkin’ along.  An’ walkin’ along, an’ walkin’ along, an’ walkin’ along, an’ walkin’ along, an’ walkin’ along, an’ walkin’ along, an’ walkin’ along, an’ walkin’ along—.”

“Stop dat walkin’ now,” said Sam, “and tell whut he done when he got froo walkin’.”