look in any direction you pleased till yo' eyes bulged fit to
bust, but you couldn't look past the Blake land for all yo'
tryin'. These same fields here we're passin' through I've seen
set out in Blake tobaccy time an' agin, an' the farm I live on
three miles beyond the Hall belonged to the old gentleman, God
bless him! up to the day he died. Lord save my soul! three
hunnard as likely niggers as you ever clap sight on, an' that not
countin' a good fifty that was too far gone to work."

"All scattered now, I suppose?"

"See them little cabins over yonder?" With a dirty forefinger he
pointed to the tiny trails of smoke hanging low above the distant
tree-tops. "The county's right speckled with 'em an' with thar
children--all named Blake arter old marster, as they called him,
or Corbin arter old miss. When leetle Mr. Christopher got turned
out of the Hall jest befo' his pa died, an' was shuffled into the
house of the overseer, whar Bill Fletcher used to live himself,
the darkies all bought bits o'land here an' thar an' settled down
to do some farmin' on a free scale. Stuck up, suh! Why, Zebbadee
Blake passed me yestiddy drivin' his own mule-team, an' I heard
him swar he wouldn't turn out o' the road for anybody less'n God
A'mighty or Marse Christopher!"

"A-ahem!" exclaimed Carraway, with relish; "and in the meantime,
the heir to all this high-handed authority is no better than an
illiterate day-labourer."

Peterkin snorted. "Who? Mr. Christopher? Well, he warn't more'n
ten years old when his pa went doty an' died, an' I don't reckon