Part 15 (2/2)
”Well, upon my word!” she exclaimed, after critically surveying her daughter, ”I don't see how girls can be so weak-minded. Many a man as good as George Denham has crossed Murder Creek in a freshet. I don't see but what he's big enough and ugly enough to take care of himself.”
”Oh,” exclaimed Kitty, going from window to window, and vainly endeavouring to peer out into the darkness, ”why didn't he stop?”
”Well,” said Mrs. Kendrick, resuming the use of her shears, ”if you'll try to worry along and stand it this time, I'll send out and have a fence built across the big road, and get the n.i.g.g.e.rs to light a bonfire; and we'll stop him the next time he comes along. I'll have to do my duty by my own children, I reckon. But don't be alarmed,” she continued, perceiving that Kitty's distress was genuine. ”You may have to fly around here and get George some supper, after all. I've been waiting on n.i.g.g.e.rs all day; and even if I hadn't, I'm too old and f.a.gged out to be rus.h.i.+ng in amongst the pots and kettles to please George Denham.”
George Denham rattled down the road, singing of ”Barbara Allen,” but thinking of Kitty Kendrick. Suddenly his horse s.h.i.+ed, and then he heard somebody call him.
”Mars. George! Is dat you, Mars. George?”
”Unless you want to make a ghost of me by frightening my horse,”
exclaimed the young man, checking the animal with some difficulty.
”What do you want?”
”Mars. George, is you see Miss Kitty w'en you come by des now?”
”No, I didn't stop. Is anything the matter?”
”No, sir, nothin' in 'tickler ain't de matter, 'ceppin' dat Miss Kitty had sump'n' ter tell you.”
”Are you one of the Kendrick negroes?”
”No, sir; I don't b'long dar.”
”Who are you?”
”I 'clar' ter goodness, I skeer'd ter tell you, Mars. George; kaze you mought fly up en git mad.”
The young man laughed with such genuine heartiness that it did the negro good to hear it.
”Well, I know who you are,” he said; ”you are Blue Dave, and you've come to tell me that you want me to carry you to jail, where Bill Brand can get his hands on you.”
The negro was thunderstruck. ”To' de Lord, Mars. George! how you know who I is?”
”Why, I know by your looks. You've got horns and a club foot. That's the way the Old Boy fixes himself.”
”Now, Mars. George,” said the negro in a grieved tone, ”ef you could see me good you wouldn't set dar en say I'm a bad-lookin' n.i.g.g.e.r.”
”Are you really Blue Dave?” the young man asked, dropping his bantering tone and speaking seriously.
”Ya.s.ser, Mars. George; I'm dat ve'y n.i.g.g.e.r.”
”What do you want with me?”
”I des wanter tell you, Mars. George, dat dey's a freshet come fum 'bove, en Murder Creek is 'way out'n hits banks. You can't cross dar wid no hoss en buggy dis night.”
The young man reflected a moment. He was more interested in the att.i.tude of the negro than he was in the extent of the freshet or the danger of an attempt to cross the creek.
”I've a knack of crossing Murder Creek in a freshet,” he said. ”But why should you want to keep me out of it?”
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