CHAPTER VIII.

SUSPICIOUS ACTIONS

“Are you hurt?” asked Tom as he leaned his motor-cycle against the fence and stood beside the negro.

“Hurt?” repeated the darky.  “I’se killed, dat’s what I is!  I ain’t got a whole bone in mah body!  Good landy, but I suttinly am in a awful state!  Would yo’ mind tellin’ me if dat ar’ mule am still alive?”

“Of course he is,” answered Tom.  “He isn’t hurt a bit.  But why can’t you turn around and look for yourself?”

“No, sah!  No, indeedy, sah!” replied the colored man.  “Yo’ doan’t catch dis yeah nigger lookin’ around!”

“Why not?”

“Why not?  ‘Cause I’ll tell yo’ why not.  I’m so stiff an’ I’m so nearly broke t’ pieces, dat if I turn mah head around it suah will twist offen mah body.  No, sah!  No, indeedy, sah, I ain’t gwine t’ turn ‘round.  But am yo’ suah dat mah mule Boomerang ain’t hurted?”

“No, he’s not hurt a bit, and I’m sure you are not.  I didn’t strike you hard, for I had almost stopped my machine.  Try to get up.  I’m positive you’ll find yourself all right.  I’m sorry it happened.”

“Oh, dat’s all right.  Doan’t mind me,” went on the colored man.  “It was mah fault fer gittin in de road.  But dat mule Boomerang am suttinly de most outrageous quadruped dat ever circumlocuted.”

“Why do you call him Boomerang?” asked Tom, wondering if the negro really was hurt.

“What fo’ I call him Boomerang?  Did yo’ eber see dem Australian black mans what go around wid a circus t’row dem crooked sticks dey calls boomerangs?”

“Yes, I’ve seen them.”

“Well, Boomerang, mah mule, am jest laik dat.  He’s crooked, t’ begin wid, an’ anudder t’ing, yo’ can’t never tell when yo’ start him whar he’s gwine t’ land up.  Dat’s why I calls him Boomerang.”

“I see.  It’s a very proper name.  But why don’t you try to get up?”

“Does yo’ t’ink I can?”

“Sure.  Try it.  By the way, what’s your name?”

“My name?  Why I was christened Eradicate Andrew Jackson Abraham
Lincoln Sampson, but folks most ginnerally calls me Eradicate
Sampson, an’ some doan’t eben go to dat length.  Dey jest calls me
Rad, fo’ short.”

“Eradicate,” mused Tom.  “That’s a queer name, too.  Why were you called that?”

“Well, yo’ see I eradicates de dirt.  I’m a cleaner an’ a whitewasher by profession, an’ somebody gib me dat name.  Dey said it were fitten an’ proper, an’ I kept it eber sence.  Yais, sah, I’se Eradicate Sampson, at yo’ service.  Yo’ ain’t got no chicken coops yo’ wants cleaned out, has yo’?  Or any stables or fences t’ whitewash?  I guarantees satisfaction.”

“Well, I might find some work for you to do,” replied the young inventor, thinking this would be as good a means as any of placating the darky.  “But come, now, try and see if you can’t stand.  I don’t believe I broke any of your legs.”