“Tell us about Tobe, Julius,” I asked. I could think of no more appropriate time for one of the old man’s stories. His views of life were so entirely foreign to our own, that for a time after we got acquainted with him his conversations were a never-failing source of novelty and interest. He had seen life from what was to us a new point of view—from the bottom, as it were; and there clung to his mind, like barnacles to the submerged portion of a ship, all sorts of extravagant beliefs. The simplest phenomena of life were to him fraught with hidden meaning—some prophesy of good, some presage of evil. The source of these notions I never traced, though they doubtless could be easily accounted for. Some perhaps were dim reflections of ancestral fetishism; more were the superstitions, filtered through the negro intellect, of the Scotch settlers who had founded their homes on Cape Fear at a time when a kelpie haunted every Highland glen, and witches, like bats, darkened the air as they flew by in their nocturnal wanderings. But from his own imagination, I take it—for I never heard quite the same stories from anyone else—he gave to the raw material of folklore and superstition a fancifulness of touch that truly made of it, to borrow a homely phrase, a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. And if perhaps, at times, his stories might turn out to have a purpose apart from any esthetic or didatic end, he probably reasoned, with a philosophy for which there is high warrant, that the laborer was worthy of his hire.
“ ‘Bout fo’ty years ago,” began Julius, “ole Mars Dugal McAdoo—my ole marster—useter own a man name’ Tobe. Dis yer Tobe wuz a slow kind er nigger, en w’iles he’d alluz git his tas’ done, he’d hafter wuk harder ’n any yuther nigger on de place ter do it. One time he had a monst’us nice ’oman fer a wife, but she got bit by a rattlesnake one summer en died, en dat lef’ Tobe kind er lonesome. En mo’ d’n dat, Tobe’s wife had be’n cook at de big house, en eve’y night she’d fetch sump’n down ter her cabin fer Tobe; en he foun’ it mighty ha’d ter go back ter bacon and co’n-bread atter libbin’ off’n de fat er de lan’ all dese yeahs.
“Des ’bout a mont’ er so atter Tobe’s wife died, dey wuz a nigger run ’way fum ole Mars Marrabo McSwayne’s—de nex’ plantation—en in spite er all de w’ite folks could do, dis yer nigger got clean off ter a free state in de Norf, en bimeby he writ a sassy letter back ter Mars Marrabo, en sont ’im a bill fer de wuk he done fer ’im fer twenty yeahs er mo’, at a dollah en a half a day—w’at he say he wuz gittin’ at de Norf. One er de gals w’at wukked roun’ de big house heared de w’ite folks gwine on ’bout it, en she say Mars Marrabo cusst en swo’ des tarrable, en ole missis ’mos’ wep’ fer ter think how ongrateful dat nigger wuz, not on’y ter run ’way, but to write back sich wick’niss ter w’ite folks w’at had alluz treated ’im good, fed ’im en clothed ’im, en nussed ’im wen he wuz sick, en nebber let ’im suffer fer nuffin all his life.
“But Tobe heared ’bout dis yer nigger, en he tuk a notion he’d lak ter run ’way en go ter de Norf en be free en git a dollah en a half a day too. But de mo’ he studied ’bout it, de ha’der it ’peared ter be. In de fus’ place, de Norf wuz a monst’us long ways off, en de dawgs mought track ’im, er de patteroles mought ketch ’im, er he mought sta’ve ter def ca’se he couldn’ git nuffin ter eat on de way; en ef he wuz cotch’ he wuz lakly ter be sol’ so fur souf dat he’d nebber hab no chance ter git free er eber see his ole frien’s nuther.
“But Tobe kep’ on studyin’ ’bout runnin ’way ’tel fin’lly he ’lowed he’d go en see ole Aun’ Peggy, de cunjuh ’oman down by de Wim’l’ton Road, en ax her w’at wuz de bes’ way fer him ter sta’t. So he tuk a pa’r er pullets down ter Aun’ Peggy one night en tol’ her all ’bout his hank’in’s en his longin’s, en ax’ her w’at he’d hafter do fer ter run ’way en git free.
“ ‘W’at you wanter be free fer?’ sez Aun’ Peggy. ‘Doan you git ernuff ter eat?’
“ ‘Yas, I gits ernuff ter eat, but I’ll hab better vittles wen I’s free.’
“ ‘Doan you git ernuff sleep?’
“ ‘Yas, but I’ll sleep mo’ w’en I’s free.’
“ ‘Does you wuk too had?’
“ ‘No, I doan wuk too had fer a slabe nigger, but ef I wuz free I wouldn’ wuk a-tall ’less’n I felt lak it.’
“Aun’ Peggy shuck her head. ‘I dunno, nigger,’ sez she, ‘whuther you gwine ter fin’ w’at you er huntin’ fer er no. But w’at is it you wants me ter do fer you?’
“ ‘I wants you ter tell me de bes’ en easies’ way fer ter git ter de Norf en be free.’
“ ‘Well,’ sez Aun’ Peggy, ‘I’s feared dey ain’ no easy way. De bes’ way fer you ter do is ter fix yo’ eye on de Norf Stah en sta’t. You kin put some tar on yo’ feet ter th’ow de houn’s off’n de scent, en ef you come ter a crick you mought wade ’long fer a mile er so. I sh’d say you bettah sta’t on Sad’day night, fer den mos’ lakly you won’ be miss’ ’tel Monday mawnin’, en you kin git a good sta’t on yo’ jou’ney. En den maybe in a mont’ er so you’ll retch de Norf en you’ll be free, en whar you kin eat all you want, ef you
