baskets, saying to himself,

"Well, I know wat I'm gwine do; my min' hit's made up."

CHAPTER VIII

UNCLE BOB'S PROPOSITION

THE night after Ann's interview with Uncle Bob, Major Waldron was
sitting in his library looking over some papers, when some one knocked
at the door, and, in response to his hearty "Come in," Uncle Snake-bit
Bob entered.

"Ebenin' ter yer, marster," said the old man, scraping his foot and
bowing his head.

"How are you, Uncle Bob?" responded his master.

"I'm jes po'ly, thank God," replied Uncle Bob, in the answer
invariably given by Southern slaves to the query "How are you?" No
matter if they were fat as seals, and had never had a day's sickness
in their lives, the answer was always the same-- "I'm po'ly, thank
God."

"Well, Uncle Bob, what is it now?" asked Major Waldron. "The little
negroes been bothering your splits again?"

"Dey's all de time at dat, marster, an' dey gwine git hu't, mun, ef
dey fool long o' me; but den dat ain't wat I come fur dis time. I come
fur ter hab er talk wid yer, sar, ef yer kin spar de ole nigger de