FullReads

“Wat’s in de win’, Jeff, dat yer so scrumptious an’ bumptious like dis ebenin’?” Suky asked a trifle scornfully.

“Wen de ‘freshments parse ‘roun’, I’se ‘steem it a oblergation ter me ef yer’ll let me bring yer de cake an’ cider. I’se sumpin fer yer. Gemmen an’ ladies, took yer places,” he added in a stentorian voice; “I ax yer’ sideration fer bein’ late, cose I had ‘portant business; now,

“Bow dar, scrape dar;
Doan hang about de doah.
Shine up ter de pretty gals,
An’ lead ’em on de floah”–

his fiddle seconding his exhortation with such inciting strains that soon there was not a foot but was keeping time.

Suky observed that the musician had eyes for her only, and that toward all others he maintained his depressing superiority. In vain did Mandy lavish tokens of favor on “Mister Johnsing.” Jeff did not lose his sudden and unexpected indifference; while the great ring glistening on his finger added to the mystery. There were many whispered surmises; but gradually the conjecture that he had “foun’ a heap ob Linkum money” was regarded as the best explanation of the marked change in his bearing.

Curiosity soon became more potent than Jeff’s fiddle, and the “‘freshments” were hurried up. So far from resenting this, Jeff put his violin under his arm and stalked across the improvised ball-room to Miss Suky, oblivious of the fact that she had a suitor on either side.

“Gemmen,” he remarked with condescension, “dis lady am degaged ter me durin’ de ‘freshments period,'” and he held out his arm in such a way that the massive ring glittered almost under Suky’s nose. The magnet drew. His arm was taken in spite of the protests of the enamored swains.

“Permit me de suggestation,” continued Jeff, “dat ter a lady ob yer ‘finement, dis place am not fit ter breve in. Wha’s mo’, I doan ‘cline ter hab dese yer common niggahs a-whisperin’ an’ a- pintin’ an’ a-‘jecturin’ about us. Lemme yet yer a seat under de lite ob de risin’ moon. De dusk’ll obscuate yer loveleness so I’se dar’ tell all de news.”

Suky, mystified and expectant, but complacent over another conquest, made no objections to these whispered “suggestations,” and was led to a seat under the shadow of a tree. A chorus of not very flattering remarks broke out, ceasing as suddenly when Jeff returned for a portion of the cake and cider.

“Mister Wobbles, yer’s prettin’ on high de airs ter-night,” Suky remarked, with an interrogation point in her voice.

“Here’s ter de health ob Mrs. Wobbles,” he answered, lifting the cider to his lips.

“I’se no ‘jections ter dat. Who is she ter be?” replied Suky, very innocently.

“It’s not my ‘tention ter go furder and far’ wuss. Dis am a case wha de presen’ company am not ‘cepted.”

“No, not axcepted jes’ yet, Mr. Wobbles, if yer’se ‘dressin’ yer remarks ter me. Yer is goin’ on jes’ a little too far.”

“P’raps a little far; but yer’ll soon catch up wid me. Yer’se a lady dat got a min’ ob her own, I hope?”

“It’s mine yet, anyhow.”

“An’ yer kin keep as mum as a possum w’en de cawn is in de milk?”

“Dat ‘pends.”

“Ob cose it does. But I’ll trus’ yer; yer ain’ de one ter bite yer own nose off. Does yer see dat ar ring, Suky? Law! how pretty dat look on yer degaged finger!”

“‘Tain’ dar yet.”

“Lemme put it dar. Ki! wouldn’t dey look an’ gape an’ pint in dar yonder w’en yer come a-sailin’ in wid dat ring on?”

“Yes; dey tink me a big fool ter be captivated by a ring–brass, too, like anuff.”

“No, Suky, it’s gole–yallow gole, di ‘plexion ob yer own fair han’. But, law! dis ain’ nuffin ter what I’se ‘ll git yer. Yer’se shall hab rings an’ dresses an’ jules till yer ‘stinguish de oder gals like de sun put out de stars.”

“What yer foun’, Jeff Wobbles?”

“I’se foun’ what’ll make yer a lady if yer hab sense. I’se gib yer de compliment ob s’lecting yer ter shar’ my fine if yer’ll lemme put dis ring on yer degaged finger.”