all dat."

"VERY sick, Jupiter!--why didn't you say so at once? Is he
confined to bed?"

"No, dat he aint!--he aint find nowhar--dat's just whar de shoe
pinch--my mind is got to be berry hebby bout poor Massa Will."

"Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you are talking
about. You say your master is sick. Hasn't he told you what ails
him?"

"Why, massa, taint worf while for to git mad bout de matter--Massa
Will say noffin at all aint de matter wid him--but den what make
him go about looking dis here way, wid he head down and he
soldiers up, and as white as a gose? And den he keep a syphon all
de time----"

"Keeps a what, Jupiter?"

"Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on de slate--de queerest figgurs I
ebber did see. Ise gittin to be skeered, I tell you. Hab for to
keep mighty tight eye pon him noovers. Todder day he gib me slip
fore de sun up and was gone de whole ob de blessed day. I had a
big stick ready cut for to gib him d----d good beating when he did
come--but Ise sich a fool dat I hadn't de heart arter all--he look
so berry poorly."

"Eh?--what?--ah yes!--upon the whole I think you had better not be
too severe with the poor fellow--don't flog him, Jupiter--he can't