Pudd’nhead Wilson · Chapter 8 (2/2)

“Fine nice young white gen’l’man kneelin’ down to a nigger-wench! I’s wanted to see dat jes once befo’ I’s called. Now, Gabr’el, blow de hawn, I’s ready⁠ ⁠… Git up!”

Tom did it. He said, humbly⁠—

“Now, Roxy, don’t punish me any more. I deserved what I’ve got, but be good and let me off with that. Don’t go to uncle. Tell me⁠—I’ll give you the five dollars.”

“Yes, I bet you will; en you won’t stop dah, nuther. But I ain’t gwine to tell you heah⁠—”

“Good gracious, no!”

“Is you ’feared o’ de ha’nted house?”

“N-no.”

“Well, den, you come to de ha’nted house ’bout ten or ’leven tonight, en climb up de ladder, ’ca’se de sta’r-steps is broke down, en you’ll find me. I’s a-roostin’ in de ha’nted house ’ca’se I can’t ’ford to roos’ nowhers’ else.” She started toward the door, but stopped and said, “Gimme de dollah bill!” He gave it to her. She examined it and said, “H’m⁠—like enough de bank’s bu’sted.” She started again, but halted again. “Has you got any whisky?”

“Yes, a little.”

“Fetch it!”

He ran to his room overhead and brought down a bottle which was two-thirds full. She tilted it up and took a drink. Her eyes sparkled with satisfaction, and she tucked the bottle under her shawl, saying, “It’s prime. I’ll take it along.”

Tom humbly held the door for her, and she marched out as grim and erect as a grenadier.