“La now, Chunk,” she replied, coming back, “ef I wuz lookin’ fer a fool I des stay right yere.  Ef you git a pa’r ob steps en look in my face you’d see I’se bettah fren’ ter you ner you ter me.  You stay yere en I brings you w’at you tink a heap on mor’n me,” and now she darted away with intentions satisfactory to her strategic admirer.

Chunk grinned and soliloquized, “Reck’n I kin fotch dat gyurl roun’ wid all her contrariations.  I des likes her skittishness, but I ain’ tellin’ her so, kaze I gwine ter hab my han’s full as ’tis.”

Zany soon returned with a plate well heaped, for at this time her argus-eyed mistress was sitting in the parlor, awaiting whatever fate the ruthless Yankees might impose.  Chunk sat Turk-fashion on the ground and fell to as if famished, meanwhile listening eagerly to the girl’s account of what had happened during his absence.

“Hi!” said Zany disdainfully, “you’d mek lub ter Aun’ Suke ef she fed you.”

“I kin mek mo’n lub,” Chunk answered, nodding at her portentously; “I kin mek mischief.”

“Reck’n you do dat anyhow.”

“See yere, Zany, does you tink Marse Scoville a fool?”

“Ob co’se not.”

“Well, he doan tink me a fool.  Whose ‘pinion’s wuth de mos’?  Who took keer on ’im?  Who got ’im off safe right un’er de nose ob one ob Mad Whately’s sogers?  Who brung ’im back des in time ter stop dat ar mar’age en gib we uns freedom?  You mighty peart, but you got a heap ter larn ‘fo’ you cut yo’ eye-tooths.”

“Some folks gits dere eye-tooths en doan git nuthin’ wid ’em,” Zany remarked nonchalantly.  “I’se ‘mit dough dat you comin’ on, Chunk.  W’en you gits growed up you’se be right smart.”

“I doan min’ de foolishness ob yo’ talk, Zany,” Chunk replied coolly, between his huge mouthfuls.  “Dat’s in you, en you kyant he’p hit any mo’n a crow cawin’.  I’se allus mek ’lowance fer dat.  I des ’proves dis ’casion ter ’zort you ter be keerful w’at you does.  Dere’s gwine ter be mighty ticklish times—­sorter flash-bang times, yer know.  I’se a free man—­des ez free as air, en I’se hired mysef ter Marse Scoville ter wait on ’im.  I’se growed up anuff ter know he kin tek de shine off eny man I eber see, or you neider.  He yo’ boss now well ez mine.  I’se gib ’im a good report on you ef I kin.  I’se feard, howsomeber, dat he say you outgrowed yo’ sense.”

“Dar now, Chunk, you puttin’ on mo’ airs dan Marse Scoville hissef.  He des ez perlite ter marster en ole miss ez ef he come ter pay his ’spects ter dem en he look at Miss Lou ez a cat do at cream.”

“Hi! dat so?  No won’er he want ter git ahaid ob de parson en dat weddin’ business.”

“Oh, yo’ orful growed up en ain’ fin’ dat out?”

“I ’spicioned it.  Well, de ting fer you’n me is ter he’p ’im.”

“La, now,” replied Zany, proposing to give a broad hint at the same time, “I ain’ gwine ter he’p no man in sech doin’s.  De cream neber goes ter de cat.”