Fetch me the money, Sandy,--that's a good darky!"
"All right, Mistuh Tom, you shill have de money; but I wants ter tell
you, suh, dat in all de yeahs I has wo'ked fer yo' gran'daddy, he has
never called me a 'darky' ter my face, suh. Co'se I knows dere's w'ite
folks an' black folks,--but dere's manners, suh, dere's manners, an'
gent'emen oughter be de ones ter use 'em, suh, ef dey ain't ter be
fergot enti'ely!"
"There, there, Sandy," returned Tom in a conciliatory tone, "I beg your
pardon! I've been associating with some Northern white folks at the
hotel, and picked up the word from them. You're a high-toned colored
gentleman, Sandy,--the finest one on the footstool."
Still muttering to himself, Sandy retired to his own room, which was in
the house, so that he might be always near his master. He soon returned
with a time-stained leather pocket-book and a coarse-knit cotton sock,
from which two receptacles he painfully extracted a number of bills and
coins.
"You count dat, Mistuh Tom, so I'll know how much I'm lettin' you have."
"This isn't worth anything," said Tom, pushing aside one roll of bills.
"It's Confederate money."
"So it is, suh. It ain't wuth nothin' now; but it has be'n money, an'
who kin tell but what it mought be money agin? De rest er dem bills is
greenbacks,--dey'll pass all right, I reckon."
The good money amounted to about fifty dollars, which Delamere thrust
eagerly into his pocket.
"You won't say anything to grandfather about this, will you, Sandy," he
said, as he turned away.
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