"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