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.