Peter had stayed by
his master until his master's death. Then he had worked for a
railroad contractor, until exposure and overwork had laid him up with
a fever. After his recovery, he had been employed for some years at
cutting turpentine boxes in the pine woods, following the trail of the
industry southward, until one day his axe had slipped and wounded him
severely. When his wound was healed he was told that he was too old
and awkward for the turpentine, and that they needed younger and more
active men.
"So w'en I got my laig kyo'ed up," said the old man, concluding his
story, "I come back hyuh whar I wuz bo'n, suh, and whar my w'ite folks
use' ter live, an' whar my frien's use' ter be. But my w'ite folks wuz
all in de graveya'd, an' most er my frien's wuz dead er moved away,
an' I fin's it kinder lonesome, suh. I goes out an' picks cotton in de
fall, an' I does arrants an' little jobs roun' de house fer folks w'at
'll hire me; an' w'en I ain' got nothin' ter eat I kin gor oun' ter de
ole house an' wo'k in de gyahden er chop some wood, an' git a meal er
vittles f'om ole Mis' Nichols, who's be'n mighty good ter me, suh.
She's de barbuh's wife, suh, w'at bought ouah ole house. Dey got mo'
dan any yuther colored folks roun' hyuh, but dey he'ps de po', suh,
dey he'ps de po'."
"Which speaks well for them, Peter. I'm glad that all the virtue has
not yet gone out of the old house."
The old man's talk rambled on, like a sluggish stream, while the
colonel's more active mind busied itself with the problem suggested by
this unforeseen meeting.
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