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“Yas, sir, but I toted it purty nigh all day ‘fo’ I is sold it. De folks wharever I went dey say nobody don’t want to scour on Christmas Eve. An’ one time I set it down an’ made three nickels cuttin’ grass an’ holdin’ a white man’s horse, an’ dat gimme a res’. An’ I started out ag’in, an’ I walked inter a big house an’ ax de lady ain’t she want ter buy some pounded brick. An’, gran’dad, you know what meck she buy it? ‘Caze she say my bucket is mos’ as big as I is, an’ ef I had de grit ter tote it clean ter her house on Christmas Eve, she say I sha’n’t pack it back–an’ she gimme a dime fur it, too, stid a nickel. An’ she gimme two hole-in-de-middle cakes, wid sugar on ’em. Heah dey is.” Duke took two sorry-lookin’ rings from his hat and presented them to the old man. “I done et de sugar off ’em,” he continued. “‘Caze I knowed it’d give you de toofache in yo’ gums. An’ I tol’ ‘er what you say, gran’dad!”

Mose turned quickly.

“What you tol’ dat white lady I say, nigger?”

“I des tol’ ‘er what you say ’bout scrapin’ de plates into a pan.”

Mose grinned broadly. “Is you had de face ter tell dat strange white ‘oman sech talk as dat? An’ what she say?”

“She des looked at me up an’ down fur a minute, an’ den she broke out in a laugh, an’ she say: ‘You sho’ is de littles’ coon I ever seen out foragin’!’ An’ wid dat she say: ‘Ef you’ll come roun’ to-morrer night, ’bout dark, I’ll give you as big a pan o’ scraps as you kin tote.'”

There were tears in the old man’s eyes, and he actually giggled.

“Is she? Well done! But ain’t you ‘feerd you’ll los’ yo’self, gwine ‘way down town at night?”

“Los’ who, gran’dad? You can’t los’ me in dis city, so long as de red-light Pertania cars is runnin’. I kin ketch on berhine tell dey fling me off, den teck de nex’ one tell dey fling me off ag’in–an’ hit ain’t so fur dat-a-way.”

“Does dey fling yer off rough, boy? Look out dey don’t bre’k yo’ bones!”

“Dey ain’t gwine crack none o’ my bones. Sometimes de drivers kicks me off, an’ sometimes dey cusses me off, tell I lets go des ter save Gord’s name–dat’s a fac’.”

“Dat’s right. Save it when you kin, boy. So she gwine scrape de Christmas plates fur me, is she? I wonder what sort o’ white folks dis here tar-baby o’ mine done strucken in wid, anyhow? You sho’ dey reel quality white folks, is yer, Juke? ‘Caze I ain’t gwine sile my mouf on no po’ white-trash scraps.”

“I ain’t no sho’er’n des what I tell yer, gran’dad. Ef dey ain’t quality, I don’ know nothin’ ‘t all ’bout it. I tell yer when I walked roun’ dat yard clean ter de kitchen on dem flag-stones wid dat bucket o’ brick on my hade, I had ter stop an’ ketch my bref fo’ I could talk, an’ de cook, a sassy, fat, black lady, she would o’ sont me out, but de madam, she seed me ‘erse’f, an’ she tooken took notice ter me, an’ tell me set my bucket down, an’ de yo’ng ladies, beatin’ eggs in de kitchen, dey was makin’ sport o’ me, too–ax’ me is I weaned yit, an’ one ob ’em ax me is my nuss los’ me! Den dey gimme deze heah hole-in-de-middle cakes, an’ some reesons. I des fotched you a few reesons, but I done et de mos’ ob em–I ain’t gwine tell you no lie about it.”

“Dat’s right, baby. I’m glad you is et ’em–des so dey don’t cramp yer up–an’ come ‘long now an’ eat yo’ dinner. I saved you a good pan o’ greens an’ meat. What else is you et to-day, boy?”