jawin' an' fightin' with me."

"What text was it?" I asked.

But he was almost asleep, and his wife signalled me not to wake him. So
I was stealing away toward the door, when he opened his eyes and
murmured, drowsily:

"De tex', oh yes, seh. I fo'got--'twas a Scripcheh tex'--'Be thou
faithful unto--'"

He then turned over, settling himself comfortably in his pillows, and in
a moment dropped asleep.

In due course of time, he made his appearance in the office again, being
anxious to "resume his duties," he said. But that blow on the head has
proved to be a serious affair, affecting the old man's memory
permanently, and giving a violent shock to his system, from which it
will never entirely recover. He is no longer the clear-headed messenger
he was, when he was wont to assert--no idle boast either--that he could
"fetch an' cai' eq'il to any man." Now and then, in these latter days,
he confuses things a little, always suffering the keenest mortification
when he discovers his mistakes. As I said in the beginning, he is still
our office-boy and messenger, although a smart young mulatto is hired to
come betimes, make things tidy, and leave before the old man gets down,
so his feelings mayn't be hurt. He sometimes remarks on our being the
"cleanis' gentlemun in de wueld," but we contrive that no whisper of the
real state of the case ever reaches his ear, and he is allowed to sweep
and dust a little to satisfy his mind.