"But whuffo, whuffo, nigger, is it dat you ain't come to de kitchen an'
eat off'n de shelf? Is you sick?"
Peter admitted fair bodily vigor.
"Den whut de debbil is I got into!" cried Rose, angrily. "I ain't gwine
wuck at no sich place, ca'yin' breakfus' to a big beef uv a nigger,
stout as a mule. Say, nigger, wha-chu doin' in heah, anyway? Hoccum
dis?"
Peter tried to explain that he was there to do a little writing for the
Captain.
"Well, 'fo' Gawd, when niggers gits to writin' fuh white folks, ants'll
be jumpin' fuh bullfrogs--an havin' other niggers bring dey breakfusses.
You jes as much a nigger as I is, Peter Siner, de brightes' day you ever
seen!"
Peter began a conciliatory phrase.
Old Rose banged the platter on the table and then threatened:
"Dis is de las' time I fetches a moufful to you, Peter Siner, or any
other nigger. You ain't no black Jesus, even ef you is a woods calf."
Peter paused in drawing a chair to the table.
"What did you say, Rose?" he asked sharply.
"You heared whut I say."
A wave of anger went over Peter.
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