We ain't
he-eee-thens yer. Br-br-brother Wonnell's bringin' your taters and
pone."
"Come on, an' be damned to you?" Johnson cried to Wonnell. "What do we
want with this tolabon sauce?"
"Sw-w-wear not a-a-at all!" cried the parson of the islands. "'Twon't
l-l-lift ye over l-l-low tide, brother. Stay an' eat, an' t-t-talk a
little with us. Why, I have seen that f-f-face before!"
"Never in a gospel-ken before," the slave-dealer muttered, with an oath.
"B-but it can't be him," spoke the island parson, with solemnity. "Ole
Ebenezer Johnson died s-s-several year ago."
"Who was he?" cried the slave-dealer, with a little respectful interest.
"Ebenez-z-zer Johnson," Parson Thomas replied, with a mild and credulous
countenance, "was the wickedest man on the Eastern Sho' for twenty year.
P-pardon me, brother, fur a likin' ye to him, but somethin' in ye
y-y-yur," passing his hand upon his skull, "p-puts me in mind of him. It
was hyur he was shot"--still keeping his hand upon the skull--"through
an' through, an' died the death of the sinner. I have p-p-put my
f-finger through the two holes where the b-bullet come an' went, an' rid
this w-world of a d-d-demon!"
The story appeared to have a fascination for the slave-buyer, Levin
Dennis thought, and Johnson exclaimed:
"Well, hod, did he ever run afoul of _you_?"
"O y-y-yes," answered the genial island exhorter, with obliging
loquacity; "it was tw-w-enty-s-seven year ago that I see ole Eben-nezer
Johnson come on the camp-ground of P-p-pungoteague with a mob of
p-p-pirates to break up the f-f-fust Methodies camp-meetin' ever held
about these sounds.
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