s listen to dat! If I's imitation, what is you? Bofe of
us is imitation _white_--dat's what we is--en pow'ful good imitation,
too. Yah-yah-yah! We don't 'mount to noth'n as imitation _niggers_; en
as for--"
"Shet up yo' foolin', 'fo' I knock you side de head, en tell me 'bout de
will. Tell me 'tain't bu'sted--do, honey, en I'll never forgit you."
"Well, _'tain't_--'ca'se dey's a new one made, en Marse Tom's all right
ag'in. But what is you in sich a sweat 'bout it for, Mammy? 'Tain't
none o' your business I don't reckon."
"'Tain't none o' my business? Whose business is it den, I'd like to
know? Wuz I his mother tell he was fifteen years old, or wusn't I?--you
answer me dat. En you speck I could see him turned out po' and ornery on
de worl' en never care noth'n' 'bout it? I reckon if you'd ever be'n a
mother yo'self, Valet de Chambers, you wouldn't talk sich foolishness as
dat."
"Well, den, ole Marse forgive him en fixed up de will ag'in--do dat
satisfy you?"
Yes, she was satisfied now, and quite happy and sentimental over it. She
kept coming daily, and at last she was told that Tom had come home. She
began to tremble with emotion, and straightway sent to beg him to let his
"po' ole nigger Mammy have jes one sight of him en die for joy."
Tom was stretched at his lazy ease on a sofa when Chambers brought the
petition. Time had not modified his ancient detestation of the humble
drudge and protector of his boyhood; it was still bitter and
uncompromising. He sat up and bent a severe gaze upon the face of the
young fellow whose name he was unconsciously using and whose family
rights he was enjoying. He maintained the gaze until the victim of it
had become satisfactorily pallid with terror, then he said:
"What does the old rip want with me?"
The petition was meekly repeated.
"Who gave you permission to come and disturb me with the social
attentions of niggers?"
Tom had risen. The other young man was trembling now, visibly. He saw
what was coming, and bent his head sideways, and put up his left arm to
shield it. Tom rained cuffs upon the head and its shield, saying no
word: the victim received each blow with a beseeching, "Please, Marse
Tom!--oh, please, Marse Tom!" Seven blows--then Tom said, "Face the
door--march!" He followed behind with one, two, three solid kicks. The
last one helped the pure-white slave over the door-sill, and he limped
away mopping his eyes with his old, ragged sleeve. Tom shouted after
him, "Send her in!"
Then he flung himself p