yo' watchin' me fo',
and Ah done know I'se been doin' jess w'at yo' think. So I guess we
doan' need no mo' conversationin', unless yo' willing to talk right out
and tell me w'at's w'at."

"Sambo," said Reade solemnly, "I imagine I'm not very intelligent, after
all. I listened to you attentively, but, for the life of me, I couldn't
make out what you were talking about."

"Kain't yo'?" the negro demanded, mockingly. "Den Ah done reckon Ah must
be a good deal of a scholar, ef Ah can talk so dat er w'ite quality gemmen
kain't undahstan' me."

Mr. Sambo Ebony chuckled gleefully in appreciation of his own joke.

"There's one thing I guess you can tell me, Sambo," Reade suggested
hopefully.

"W'at am dat, massa?"

"When are you going to change your seat and stop making me feel like a
very thin pancake?"

"W'en Ah done get mah mind made up."

"When you have your mind made up about---what?"

"About w'at I'se gwine do wid yo', Massa Reade."

"Well, what do you think you're going to do with me?" insisted Tom. "I'll
admit, Sambo, that I'm about losing my patience. Unless you get up off
of me soon, and move away to a respectful distance, I shall be obliged to
do something on my own account."

"Go as far as yo' like, massa," returned the negro, unmoved. "I'se boun'
ter admit dat yo' done got me fo' curiosity. W'at yo' done think yo'
_can_ do?"

Plainly the negro meant to go on having sport with him. Tom decided that
it would be of no use to try to deceive this great mountain of black
flesh. So Reade, who had been doing some brisk thinking during the last
few moments, gave a sudden heave---a trick that he retained from the old
football days.

Much to Sambo's surprise he found himself going. Yet the black man was as
agile as he was big. He leaped to his feet, bounding one step sideways,
while Tom, who had been watching for this very chance, sprang to his own
feet.

"Not so fas', massa!" mocked the big black, reaching out and taking a
strong clutch on. Tom's coat collar.

Reade would have squirmed out of his coat and placed more distance between
them, but Mr. Ebony, with a stout twist, gathered the two ends of the coat
collar, holding the young engineer as though in the noose of a halter.

Quick as a flash Reade struck out with his right fist for the black man's
belt-line. Had the blow landed even the huge Sambo would have gone down
to earth. But the negro parried with his own disengaged fist, then gav