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“Whut is you after, anyway, white man?”

Bobbs turned cold, truculent eyes on the old negress. “A turkey roaster,” he snapped. “Some o' you niggers stole Miss Lou Arkwright's turkey roaster.”

“Tukky roaster!” cried the old black woman, in great disgust. “Whut you s'pose us niggers is got to roast in a tukky roaster?”

The constable answered shortly that his business was to find the roaster, not what the negroes meant to put in it.

“I decla',” satirized old Caroline, savagely, “dish-heah Niggertown is a white man's pocket. Ever' time he misplace somp'n, he feel in his pocket to see ef it ain't thaiuh. Don'-chu turn over dat sody-water, white man! You know dey ain't no tukky roaster under dat sody-water. I 'cla' 'fo' Gawd, ef a white man wuz to eat a flapjack, an' it did n' give him de belly-ache, I 'cla' 'fo' Gawd he'd git out a ​search-wa'nt to see ef some nigger had n' stole dat flapjack goin' down his th'oat.”

“Mr. Bobbs has to do his work, Mother,” put in Peter. “I don't suppose he enjoys it any more than we do.”