Yet at var'ous times, he informs me
of them mootations he's institooted, He's been 'Jim' an' 'Sam' an'
'Willyum Henry,' an' all in two months. Shore, I don't pay no heed
to sech vagaries, but goes on callin' him 'Tom,' jest the same. An'
he keeps comin' when I calls, too, or I'd shore burn the ground
'round him to a cinder. I'd be a disgrace to old Tennessee to let my
boy Tom go preescribin' what I'm to call him. But they be cur'ous
folks! The last time this hirelin' changes his name, I asks the
reason.
"'Tom,' I says, 'this yere is the 'leventh time you cinches on a new
name. Now, tell me, why be you-all attemptin' to shift to "Willyum
Henry?"'
"'Why, Marse,' he says, after thinkin' hard a whole lot, 'I don't
know, only my sister gets married ag'in last night, an' I can't
think of nothin' else to do, so I sort o' allows I'll change my
name.'"
A moment later the exuberant and many-titled Tom appeared with the
pocket-book. My old friend selected a ten-dollar bill and with an
air of severity gave it to his expectant servitor.
"Thar you be," he observed. "Now, go pay them doos, an' don't hanker
'round me for money no more for a month. You can't will from me
ag'in before Christmas, no matter how often you changes your name,
or how many new churches you plays in with.
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