“Why, Bob, I believe you are crazy,” said his master, “or drunk.”

“I ain’t neder one, marster; but den I’m er jokin’ too much, mo’n de ‘lenity uv de cazhun inquires, an’ now I’ll splain de facks, sar.”

And Uncle Rob related Ann’s story to his master, and wound up by saying: 

“An’ now, marster, my min’, hit’s made up.  I wants ter buy de little chap, an’ give ’im ter his mammy, de one wat God give ’im to.  Hit’ll go mighty hard wid me ter part fum all dat money, caze I ben years pun top er years er layin’ uv it up, an’ hit’s er mighty, cumfut ter me er countin’ an’ er jinglin’ uv it; but hit ain’t doin’ nobody no good er buried in de groun’, an’ I don’t special need it myse’f, caze you gives me my cloes, an’ my shoes, an’ my eatin’s, an’ my backer, an’ my wisky, an’ I ain’t got no cazhun fur ter spen’ it; an’ let erlone dat, I can’t stay hyear fureber, er countin’ an’ er jinglin’ dat money, wen de angel soun’ dat horn, de ole nigger he’s got ter go; he’s boun’ fur ter be dar! de money can’t hol’ ’im!  De Lord, he ain’t gwine ter say, ’Scuze dat nigger, caze he got money piled up; lef ’im erlone, fur ter count dat gol’ an’ silver.’  No, sar!  But, marster, maybe in de jedgmun’ day, wen Ole Bob is er stan’in’ fo’ de Lord wid his knees er trim’lin’, an’ de angel fotches out dat book er hisn, and’ de Lord tell ’im fur ter read wat he writ gins ‘im, an’ de angel he ’gin ter read how de ole nigger drunk too much wisky, how he stoled watermillions in de night, how he cussed, how he axed too much fur doct’in’ uv hosses, an’ wen he wuz men’in’ cheers, how he wouldn’t men’ ’em strong, so’s he’d git ter men’ ’em ergin some time; an’ den’ wen he read all dat an’ shet de book, maybe de Lord he’ll say, ’Well, he’s er pow’ful sinful nigger, but den he tuck his money, he did, an’ buy’d de little baby fur ter give ‘im ter his mammy, an’ I sha’n’t be too hard on’ im.

“Maybe he’ll say dat, an’ den ergin maybe he won’t.  Maybe he’ll punish de ole nigger ter de full stent uv his ‘greshuns; an’ den, ergin, maybe he’ll let him off light; but dat ain’t neder hyear nur dar.  What’ll yer take fur de baby, caze my min’ hit’s made up?”

“And mine is too, Uncle Bob,” said his master, rising, and grasping in his the big black hand.  “Mine is too.  I will give Ann her freedom and her baby, and the same amount of money that you give her; that will take her to her husband’s relatives, and she can die happy, knowing that her baby will be taken care of.”

The next day Uncle Bob dug up his money, and the bag was found to contain three hundred dollars.

His master put with it a check for the same amount, and sent him into the laundry to tell Ann of her good fortune.

The poor woman was overcome with happiness and gratitude, and, throwing her arms around Uncle Bob, she sobbed and cried on his shoulder.

She wrote at once to her husband’s relatives, and a few weeks after Major Waldron took her to New Orleans, had the requisite papers drawn up for her freedom, and accompanied her on board of a vessel bound for New York; and then, paying her passage himself, so that she might keep her money for future emergencies, he bade adieu to the only slaves he ever bought.