ef you
eva seed some pussun tu'n' w'ite!"

"Reckon dat heifa 'Milky' look black side li'le Verdon dat time,"
chuckled Aunt Belindy.

"Jis' uz w'ite uz Unc' Hiurm's shurt an' a trimblin', an' neva say no
mo' 'bout shootin'. Den ole Grammont, he kine o' hang back an' say,
'You git de jestice de peace, 'hine you, kiarrin' conceal' weepons dat
a-way, Gregor.' "

"Dat ole Grammont, he got to git he gab in ef he gwine die fu' it,"
interrupted Aunt Belindy.

"Gregor say--'I don't 'lows to kiarr no conceal' weepons,' an he draw
nudda pistol slow out o' he udda pocket an' lay et on de table. By dat
time he gittin' all de money, he crammin' de money in he pocket; an'
dem fellas dey gits up one arta d'udda kine o' shy-like, an' sneaks
out. Den Gregor, he git up an come out o' de room, he coat 'crost he
arm, an' de pistols a stickin' out an him lookin' sassy tell ev'y body
make way, same ef he ben Jay Goul'. Ef he look one o' 'em in de eye
dey outs wid, 'Howdy, Gregor--how you come on, Gregor?' jis' uz pelite
uz a peacock, an' him neva take no trouble to yansa 'em. He jis' holla
out fu' somebody bring dat hoss tu de steps, an' him stan'in' 's big
uz life, waitin'. I gits tu de hoss fus', me, an' leads 'im up, an' he
gits top dat hoss stidy like he ain't tetch a drap, an' he fling me
big dolla."

"Whar de dolla, Mista Pierson?" enquired Betsy.

"De dolla in my pocket, an' et gwine stay dah. Didn' ax you fu' no
'Mista Pierson.' Whar yu' all tink he went on dat hoss?"

"How you reckon we knows whar he wint; we wasn't dah," replied Aunt
Belindy.

"He jis' went a lopin' twenty yards down to Chartrand's sto'. I goes
on 'hine 'im see w'at he gwine do. Dah he git down f'um de hoss an' go
a stompin' in de sto'--eve'ybody stan'in' back jis' same like fu' Jay
Goul', an' he fling bill down on de counta an' 'low, 'Fill me up a
bottle, Chartrand, I'se gwine travelin'.' Den he 'lows, 'You treats
eve'y las' man roun' heah at my 'spence, black an' w'ite--nuttin' fu'
me,' an' he fole he arms an' lean back on de counta, jis' so.
Chartrand, he look skeerd, he say 'Francois gwine wait on you.' But
Gregor, he 'low he don't wants no rusty skileton a waitin' on him w'en
he treat, 'Wait on de gemmen yo'se'f--step up gemmen.' Chartrand 'low,
'Damn ef nigga gwine drink wid w'ite man in dat sto',' all same he
kine git 'hine box tu say dat."

"Lord, Lord, de ways o' de transgressor!" groaned Uncle Hiram.

"You want to see dem niggas sneaking 'way