The negroes had come to accept this, and it seemed that
they verily believed that anything not discovered by the constable was
permissible. Mr. Dawson Bobbs was Niggertown's conscience. It was best
for Peter to take from this atmosphere what was dearest to him, and go
at once.
The brown man's thoughts came trailing back to the old negro parson
hobbling at his side. He looked at the old man, hesitated a moment, then
told him what was in his mind.
Parson Ranson's face wrinkled into a grin.
"You's gwine to git ma'ied?"
"And I thought I'd have you perform the ceremony."
This suggestion threw the old negro into excitement.
"Me, Mr. Peter?"
"Yes. Why not?"
"Why, Mr. Peter, I kain't jine you an' Miss Cissie Dildine."
Peter looked at him, astonished.
"Why can't you?"
"Whyn't you git a white preacher?"
"Well," deliberated Peter, gravely, "it's a matter of principle with me,
Parson Ranson. I think we colored people ought to be more self-reliant,
more self-serving. We ought to lead our own lives instead of being mere
echoes of white thought.
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