e boy in a
humble tone, but with the twinkle of a smouldering coal in his eye.

"Ye didn't? Who did ye think was gwine to caa'ry it back for ye? Maybe
it was de Colonel or de Mist'iss or _me_?" Chad's voice had now risen
to a high pitch, and with a touch of sarcasm in it which was biting.
"Pretty soon you'll 'spec' somebody gwine to call for ye in dere
caa'ridge. Yo' idea o' freedom is to wait on nobody and hab no
manners. What ye got in yo' hand?"

"Cigarette white boy gimme,"--and the boy dropped the burning end on
the brick pavement of the yard.

"Dat's mo' freedom, an' dat's all dis po' white trash is gwine to do
for ye--stuffin' yo' head wid lies, an' yo' mouf wid a wad o'
nastiness. Now go 'long an' git yo' pan."

Chad waited until the boy had mounted the steps and entered the house,
then he turned to me.

"Po' li'l chin'ka'pin--he don't know no better. How's he gwine to git
a bringin' up? Miss Nancy tryin' to teach him, but she ain't gwine
make nuffin' of him. He's got pizened by dis freedom talk, an' he
ain't gwine to git cured. Fust thing ye know he'll begin to think he's
good as white folks, an' when he's got dat in his head he's done for.
I'm gwine to speak to de Mist'iss 'bout dat boy, an' see if sumpin
can't be done to save him fo' it gits too late; ain't nuffin' gwine to
do him no good but a barr'l stave--hear dat--a barr'l stave!"

The Colonel had come in quietly and stood listening. I had heard the
click of the outer gate, but supposed it was the grocer returning with
the additional supplies.

"Who's Chad goin' to thresh, Major?" the Colonel asked, with a smile
as he put his arm over my shoulder.

"Miss Nancy's pickaninny," I answered.

"What, little Jim?" There was a tone of surprise now in the Colonel's
voice.

Chad stood abashed for a moment. He had stowed away the groceries, and
had the duck in his hand again, his fingers fumbling among its
feathers.

"'Scuse me, Colonel, I ain't gwine whale him, of co'se, 'thout yo'
permission, but he's dat puffed up he'll bust fo' long."

"What's he been up to?"

"Sassin' Misser Grocerman--runnin' to de gate wid his head out like a
tarr'pin's, smoking dese yer paper seegars dat smell de whole place up
vill'nous, 'stid of waitin' on de Mist'iss."

"And you think beatin' him will do him any good, Chad? How many times
did yo' Marster John beat you?"

Chad looked up, and a smile broke over his face.

"I don't reckellmember airy lick de Marster eve