“What did you do?”

“Me?  I’m a mighty long-sufferin’ nigger, but he hadn’t no mo’n totch me ‘fo’ I flung dese yer bones in his face.”  Here Uncle Remus held up his damaged hand triumphantly.  “I sorter sprained my han’, boss, but dog my cats if I don’t bleeve I spattered de nigger’s eyeballs on de groun’, and w’en he riz his count’nence look fresh like beef-haslett.  I look mighty spindlin’ an’ puny now, don’t I, boss?” inquired the old man, with great apparent earnestness.

“Rather.”

“Well, you des oughter see me git my Affikin up.  Dey useter call me er bad nigger long ‘fo’ de war, an hit looks like ter me dat I gits wuss an’ wuss.  Brer John Henry say dat I oughter subdue my rashfulness, an’ I don’t ’spute it, but tu’n a Mobile nigger loose in dis town, fote er July or no fote er July, an’, me er him, one is got ter lan’ in jail.  Hit’s proned inter me.”