the assemblage, as the person alluded to
sprang to his feet, his face on fire, and his voice thick and broken
with intense rage, and yelled out: 'Andy Jones, by ----, you shall
answer for this!'

'Sartin', said Andy, coolly inserting his thumbs in the armholes of his
waistcoat; 'eny whar you likes--har--now--ef 'greeable to you.'

'I've no weapon here, sir, but I'll give you a chance mighty sudden,'
was the fierce reply.

'Suit yourself' said Andy, with perfect imperturbability; 'but as you
han't jest ready, s'pose you set down and har me tell 'bout your
relation: they're a right decent set--them as I knows--and I'll swar
they're 'shamed of you.'

A buzz went through the crowd, and a dozen voices called out, 'Be civil,
Andy'--'Let him blow'--'Shet up'--'Go in, Jones'--with other like
elegant exclamations.

A few of his friends took the aggrieved gentleman aside, and, soon
quieting him, restored order.

'Wal, gentlemen,' resumed Andy, 'all on you know whar I was raised--over
thar in South-Car'lina. I'm sorry to say it, but it's true. And you all
know my father was a pore man, who couldn't give his boys no chance--and
ef he could, thar warn't no schules in the district--so we couldn't hev
got no book-larning ef we'd been a minded to. Wal, the next plantation
to whar we lived was old Cunnel J----'s, the father of this Cunnel. He
was a d--d old nullifier, jest like his son--but not half so decent a
man. Wal, on his plantation was an old nigger called Uncle Pomp, who'd
sumhow larned to read. He was a mighty good nigger, and he'd hev been in
heaven long afore now ef the Lord hadn't a had sum good use for him down
har--but he'll be thar yet a d--d sight sooner than sum on us white
folks--that's sartin. Wal, as I was saying, Pomp could read, and when I
was 'bout sixteen, and had never seed the inside of a book, the old
darkey said to me one day--he was old then, and thet was thirty years
ago--wal, he said to me: 'Andy, chile, ye orter larn to read--'twould be
ob use to ye when you're grow'd up, and it moight make you a good and
'spected man. Now, come to ole Pomp's cabin, and he'll larn you, Andy,
chile.' I reckon I went. He hadn't nothin' but a Bible and Watts' Hymns;
yet we used to stay thar all the long winter evenings, and by the light
of the fire--we war both so durned pore we couldn't raise a candle
atween us--wal, by the light of the fire he larned me, and 'fore long I
could spell right smart.

'Now, jest think