"I reckon!" replied the darky, manipulating his wool, and distending his face into a decidedly incredulous grin.
"What do you tell them such things for?" I asked, good-humoredly.
"Lor, bless ye, stranger, the' knows th' ab'lisheners ar thar friends, jest so well as ye du; and so fur as thet goes, d----d ef the' doan't know I'm one on 'em myseff, fur I tells 'em, ef the' want to put, the' kin put, an' I'll throw thar trav'lin 'spences inter th' bargin. Doan't I tell ye thet, Lazarus."
"Yas, massa, but none ob massa's nigs am gwine ter put--lesswise, not so long as you an' de good missus, am 'bove groun'."
The darky's name struck me as peculiar, and I asked him where he got it.
"_'Tain't_ my name, sar; but you see, sar, w'en massa fuss hire me ob ole Capt'in ----, up dar ter Newbern-way, I war sort o' sorry like--hadn't no bery good cloes--an' massa, he den call me Lazarus, 'case he say I war all ober rags and holes, an' it hab sort o' stuck ter me eber sense. I war a'mighty bad off 'fore dat, but w'en I cum down har I gets inter Abr'am's buzzum, I does;" and here the darky actually reeled on his seat with laughter.
"No, sar; my wife 'longs to Cunnel J----; dat am my new wife--my ole wife am up dar whar I cum from!"
"No, sar; de Cunnel say 'tain't. He say in Scriptur' dey hab a heap ob' 'em, and dat niggers kin hab jess so many as dey likes--a hun'red ef dey want ter."
"Does the Colonel teach that to his negroes?" I asked, turning to the native.
"Yas, I reckon he do--an' sits 'em th' 'zample, too," he replied, laughing; "but th' old sinner knows better'n thet; he kin read."
"Do you find that in the Bible, Lazarus?"
"Yas, massa; whar I reads it. Dat's whar it tell 'bout David and Sol'mon and all dem--dey hab a heap ob wives. A pore ole darky karn't hab 'nuffin 'sides dem, an' he _orter_ be 'low'd jess so many as he likes."
Laughing at the reasoning of the negro, I asked:
"How would _you_ like it, if your wife over at Colonel J----'s, had as many husbands as _she_ liked?"
"Wal, I couldn't fine no fault, massa: an' I s'pose she do; dough I doan't knows it, 'case I'se dar only Sundays."
"Yas, sar; I'se free 'longin' ter de Cunnel, an' four or five--I doant 'zactly know--up ter hum; but _dey'se_ grow'd up."