“Not so, Mas’r Deacon, (turning to Deacon Rosebrook,) “’t won’t square t’ believe all old Boss tell, dat it won’t!  Mas’r take care ob de two cabins in de yard yonder, while I tends de big house.”  Rachel was more than a match for Marston; she could beat him in quick retort.  The party, recognising Aunt Rachel’s insinuation, joined in a hearty laugh.  The conversation was a little too pointed for Marston, who, changing the subject, turned to Harry, saying, “now, my old boy, we’ll have a little more of your wisdom on religious matters.”  Harry had been standing the while like a forlorn image, with a red cap in his hand.

“I can preach, mas’r; I can do dat, fo’h true,” he replied quickly.  “But mas’r, nigger got to preach against his colour; Buckra tink nigger preachin’ ain’t good, cus he black.”

“Never mind that, Harry,” interrupts Marston:  “We’ll forget the nigger, and listen just as if it were all white.  Give us the very best specimen of it.  Daddy Bob, my old patriarch, must help you; and after you get through, he must lift out by telling us all about the time when General Washington landed in the city; and how the people spread carpets, at the landing, for him to walk upon.”  The entertainment was, in Marston’s estimation, quite a recherch‚ concern:  that his guests should be the better pleased, the venerable old Daddy Bob, his head white with goodly years of toil, and full of genuine negro humour, steps forward to perform his part.  He makes his best bows, his best scrapes, his best laughs; and says, “Bob ready to do anything to please mas’r.”  He pulls the sleeves of his jacket, looks vacantly at Harry, is proud to be in the presence of mas’r’s guests.  He tells them he is a better nigger “den” Harry, points to his extremes, which are decorated with a pair of new russet broghans.

“Daddy’s worth his weight in gold,” continues Marston, “and can do as much work as any nigger on the plantation, if he is old.”

“No, no, mas’r; I ain’t so good what I was.  Bob can’t tote so much wid de hoe now.  I work first-rate once, mas’r, but ’a done gone now!”

“Now, Bob, I want you to tell me the truth,—­niggers will lie, but you are an exception, Bob; and can tell the truth when there’s no bacon in the way.”

“Gih!  Mas’r, I do dat sartin,” replied Bob, laughing heartily, and pulling up the little piece of shirt that peeped out above the collar of his jacket.

“How did Harry and you come by so much knowledge of the Bible? you got one somewhere, hav’n’t you?” enquired Marston, laconically.

This was rather a “poser” on Bob; and, after stammering and mumbling for some time-looking at Harry slyly, then at Marston, and again dropping his eyes on the floor, he ejaculated,

“Well, mas’r, ’spose I might as well own ’im.  Harry and me got one, for sartin!”

“Ah, you black rascals, I knew you had one somewhere.  Where did you get it?  That’s some of Miss Franconia’s doings.”