"If there is any chance to catch my negroes," Mrs. Custis said, "I will
go right on after dinner. Samson, send Dave, my daughter's boy, to me
immediately; he is working in this hotel."
Samson found Dave to be none other than the black class-leader he had
failed to overcome at the beginning of our narrative, but changes were
visible in that individual Samson had not expected. From having a clean,
godly, modest countenance, becoming his professions, Dave now wore a
sour, evil look; his eyes were blood-shotten, and his straight, manly
shoulders and chest, which had once exacted Samson's admiration and
envy, were stooped to conform with a cough he ever and anon made from
deep in his frame.
"Dave," said Samson, "your missis's modder wants you, boy, to drive her
to Vienny. What ails you, Dave, sence I larned you to box?"
"Is you de man?" Dave exclaimed, hoarsely; "den may de Lord forgive you,
fur _I_ never kin. Dat lickin' I mos' give you, made me a po', wicked,
backslidin' fool."
"Why, Dave, I jess saw you was a _good_ man; I didn't mean you no harm,
boy."
"You ruined me, free nigger," repeated the huge slave, with a scowl,
partly of revenge and partly remorse. "You set up my conceit dat I could
box. I had never struck a chile till dat day; after dat I went aroun'
pickin' quarrels wid bigger niggers, an' low white men backed me to
fight. I was turned out o' my church; I turned my back on de Lord;
whiskey tuk hold o' me, Samson.
Pages:
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313