'Fo' I go I'se a-gwine ter buy dat ar
gole ring ob Sam Milkins down at de tavern. S'pose it does take
all I'se been sabin' up, I'se needn't sabe any mo'. Dat ar box got
nuff in it ter keep me like a lawd de rest ob my life. I'd open it
ter-night if I wasn't goin' ter Marse Perkins's."
Jeff carried out his high-handed measures and appeared that
evening at "Marse Perkins's" with a ring of portentous size
squeezed on the little finger of his left hand. It had something
of the color of gold, and that is the best that can be said of it;
but it had left its purchaser penniless. This fact sat lightly on
Jeff's mind, however, as he remembered the box at the foot of the
persimmon-tree; and he stalked into the detached kitchen, where a
dusky assemblage were to indulge in a shuffle, with the air of one
who intends that his superiority shall be recognized at once.
"Law sakes, Jeff!" said Mandy, his hitherto ebon flame, "yer comes
in like a turkey gobbler. Doesn't yer know me?"
"Sartin I know yer, Mandy. You'se a good gal in you'se way, but,
law! you'se had yer spell.
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