The Deliverance | Page 6

lettin' 'em down as soon as Mr. Christopher comes along
with his team of oxen. You kin fool the quality 'bout the quality, but I'll
be blamed if you kin fool the niggers."
Ahead of them there was a scattered group of log cabins, surrounded by
little whitewashed palings, and at their approach a decrepit old Negro,

followed by a slinking black-and-tan foxhound, came beneath the
straggling hopvine over one of the doors and through the open gate out
into the road. His bent old figure was huddled within his carefully
patched clothes of coarse brown homespun.
"Howdy, marsters," he muttered, in answer to the lawyer's greeting,
raising a trembling hand to his wrinkled forehead. "Y'all ain' seen
nuttin' er ole miss's yaller cat, Beulah, I reckon?"
Peterkin, who had eyed him with the peculiar disfavour felt for the
black man by the low-born white, evinced a sudden interest out of all
proportion to Carraway's conception of the loss.
"Ain't she done come back yet, Uncle Boaz?" he inquired.
"Naw, suh, dat she ain', en ole miss she ain' gwine git a wink er sleep
dis blessed night. Me en Spy we is done been traipsin' roun' atter dat ar
low-lifeted Beulah sence befo' de dinner-bell."
"When did you miss her first?" asked Peterkin, with concern.
"I dunno, suh, dat I don't, caze she ain' no better'n one er dese yer
wish-wishys,* an' I ain' mek out yit ef'n twuz her er her hant. Las' night
'bout sundown dar she wuz a-lappin' her sasser er milk right at ole miss
feet, en dis mawnin' at sunup dar she warn't. Dat's all I know, suh, ef'n
you lay me out."
* Will-o'-the-wisp.
"Well, I reckon she'll turn up agin," said Peterkin consolingly. "Cats air
jest like gals, anyway--they ain't never happy unless they're eternally
gallyvantin'. Why, that big white Tom of mine knows more about this
here county than I do myself."
"Days so, suh; days de gospel trufe; but I'se kinder flustered 'bout dat
yaller cat caze ole miss sutney do set a heap er sto' by 'er. She ain' never
let de dawgs come in de 'oom, nohow, caze once she done feel Beulah
rar 'er back at Spy. She's des stone blin', is ole miss, but I d'clar she kin
smell pow'ful keen, an' 'taro' no use tryin' ter fool her wid one houn' er
de hull pack. Lawd! Lawd! I wunner ef dat ar cat kin be layin' close
over yonder at Sis Daphne's?"
He branched off into a little path which ran like a white thread across
the field, grumbling querulously to the black-and-tan foxhound that
ambled at his heels.
"Dar's a wallopin' ahaid er you, sho's you bo'n," he muttered, as he
limped on toward a small log hut from which floated an inviting

fragrance of bacon frying in fat. "I reckon you lay dat you kin cut yo'
mulatter capers wid me all you please, but you'd better look out sharp
'fo' you begin foolin' 'long er Marse Christopher. Dar you go agin, now.
Ain' dat des like you? Wat you wanter go sickin' atter dat ole hyar fer,
anyhow?"
"So that is one of young Blake's hangers-on?" observed Carraway, with
a slight inflection of inquiry.
"Uncle Boaz, you mean? Oh, he was the old gentleman's body-servant
befo' the war. He used to wear his marster's cast-off ruffles an' high hat.
A mighty likely nigger he was, too, till he got all bent up with the
rheumatics."
The lawyer had lifted his walking-stick and was pointing straight ahead
to a group of old brick chimneys huddled in the sunset above a grove of
giant oaks.
"That must be Blake Hall over there," he said; "there's not another
house like it in the three counties."
"We'll be at the big gate in a minute, suh," Peterkin returned. "This is
the first view of the Hall you git, an' they say the old gentleman used to
raise his hat whenever he passed by it." Then as they swung open the
great iron gate, with its new coat of red, he touched Carraway's sleeve
and spoke in a hoarse whisper. "Thar's Mr. Christopher himself over
yonder," he said, "an' Lord bless my soul, if he ain't settin' out old
Fletcher's plants. Thar! he's standin' up now--the big young fellow with
the basket. The old gentleman was the biggest man twixt here an'
Fredericksburg, but I d'clar Mr. Christopher is a good half-head taller!"
At his words Carraway stopped short in the road, raising his useless
glasses upon his brow. The sun had just gone down in a blaze of light,
and the great bare field was slowly darkening against the west.
Nearer at hand there were the long road, already in twilight, the rail
fence wrapped in creepers, and