The Tragedy of Pudd'nhead Wilson : Complete

One sweltering afternoon-it was the first day of July, 1830-he was at work over a set of tangledaccount-books in his work-room, which looked westward over a stretch of vacant lots, when aconversation outside disturbed him.

It was carried on in yells, which showed that the people engagedin it were not close together:"Say, Roxy, how does yo' baby come on?" This from the distant voice."Fust-rate; how does you come on, Jasper?" This yell was from close by."Oh, I's middlin'; hain't got noth'n' to complain of.

I's gwine to come a-court'n' you bimeby,Roxy.""You is, you black mud-cat!

Yah-yah-yah! I got somep'n' better to do den 'sociat'n' wid niggersas black as you is.

Is ole Miss Cooper's Nancy done give you de mitten?" Roxy followed this sallywith another discharge of care-free laughter."You's jealous, Roxy, dat's what's de matter wid you, you hussy-yah-yah-yah!

Dat's de time Igot you!""Oh, yes, you got me, hain't you. 'Clah to goodness if dat conceit o' yo'n strikes in, Jasper, it gwineto kill you sho'.

If you b'longed to me I'd sell you down de river 'fo' you git too fur gone.

Fust time Iruns acrost yo' marster, I's gwine to tell him so."