Balaam and His Master, and Other Sketches and Stories. Joel Chandler Harris

      Regarding this as a very good offhand joke, the young man laughed so loud that the sound of it penetrated to the dining-room, and, mellow and hearty as it was, it struck strangely on the ears of those still sitting at the table.

      “I knowed in reason dat dey was gwine to be a rippit,” said Balaam; “kaze you know how you been gwine on up yander, Marse Berry. I tole an’ tole you ’bout it, an’ I dunno whar in de name er goodness you’d been ef I hadn’t been right dar fer ter look atter you.”

      “Yes,” remarked Berrien, sarcastically, “you were just about drunk enough half the time to look after me like a Dutch uncle.”

      Balaam held his head down and chuckled. “Yes, suh,” he said, “I tuck my dram, dey ain’t no ’sputin’ er dat; yit I never has tuck so much dat I ain’t keep my eye on you. But ’t ain’t do no good: you des went right ’long; an’ dar was ole Mistiss, which she done sick in bed, an’ Miss Sally Carter, which she’s yo’ born cousin—dar dey all was a-specktin’ you ter head de whole school gang. An’ you did head ’em, mon, but not in de books.”

      “My fair Cousin Sarah!” exclaimed Berrien in a reminiscent way.

      “Yes, suh,” said Balaam; “an’ dey tells me down in de kitchen dat she comin’ yere dis ve’y day.”

      “Then,” said the young man, “it is time for me to be going. Get your dinner. If I am to have your company, you must be ready in an hour; if you want to stay, go to the overseer and tell him to put you to work.”

      Laughing good-naturedly, Balaam slipped out. After a little while Berrien Cozart went down the stairway and into the room of his mother, who was an invalid. He sat at her bedside and talked a few moments. Then he straightened and smoothed her pillows, stroked her gray hair, gazed into her gentle eyes, and kissed her twice. These things the poor lady remembered long afterwards. Straying into the spacious parlor, the young man looked around on the familiar furniture and the walls covered with portraits. Prominent among these was the beautiful face of Sally Carter. The red curtains in the windows, swaying to and fro in the wind, so swiftly changed the light and shadow that the fair face in the heavy gilt frame seemed to be charged with life. The lustrous eyes seemed to dance and the saucy lips to smile. Berrien remembered his fair cousin with pleasure. She had been his playmate when he was younger, and the impression she made on him had been a lasting one. Beautiful as she was, there was no nonsense about her. She was high-spirited and jolly, and the young man smiled as he recalled some of their escapades together. He raised his hand to salute the portrait, and at that moment a peal of merry laughter greeted his ears. Turning, he saw framed in the doorway the rosy original of the portrait. Before he could recover from his astonishment the young lady had seized and kissed him. Then she held him off at arm’s length and looked at him.

      “Why, how handsome you have grown;” she cried. “Just think of it! I expected to meet a regular border ruffian. My dear boy, you have no idea what a tremendous reputation your friends have given you. Ann Burney—you remember that funny little creature, don’t you? as fat as a butterball—Ann told me the other day that you were positively the terror of everybody around Athens. And now I find you here kissing your fingers at my portrait on the wall. I declare, it is too romantic for anything! After this I know you will never call me Sarah Jane.”

      “You have taken me by surprise,” said Berrien, as soon as he could get in a word. “I was admiring the skill of the artist. The lace there, falling against the velvet bodice, is neatly done.”

      “Ah, but you are blushing; you are confused!” exclaimed Miss Carter. “You haven’t even told me you are glad to see me.”

      “There is no need to tell you that,” said Berrien. “I was just thinking, when you rushed in on me, how good and kind you always were. You are maturer than the portrait there, but you are more beautiful.”

      Miss Carter bent low with a mock courtesy, but the color in her face was warmer as she exclaimed:—

      “Oh, how nice you are! The portrait there is only sixteen, and I am twenty-five. Just think of that! And just think of me at that age—what a tomboy I was! But I must run and tell the rest of the folks howdy.”

      Berrien Cozart walked out on the veranda, and presently he was joined by his father. “My son,” said the old gentleman, “you will need money for your traveling expenses. Here is a check on our Augusta factor; you can have it cashed in Madison. I want you to return to college, make all proper apologies, and redeem yourself.”

      “Thank you, sir,” said Berrien, taking the check and stuffing it into his pocket. His father turned to go indoors, hesitated a moment, and looked at Berrien, who was drumming idly on one of the pillars. Then the old gentleman sighed and went in.

      Shortly thereafter Berrien Cozart and Balaam were journeying away from Billville in the conveyance that had brought them there.

      On the high hill beyond the “town branch” Balaam leaned out of the hack and looked back at Billville. The town appeared insignificant enough; but the setting sun imparted a rosy glow to the roof of the yellow court-house and to the spire of the old church. Observing the purpose of the negro, Mr. Cozart smiled cynically and flipped the hot ashes of his cigar into Balaam’s ear.

      “As you are telling the town good-by,” said the young man, “I’ll help you to bow.”

      “Yasser!” said Balaam, shaking the ashes from his ear; “I was des a-lookin’ back at de place. Dat sun shine red, mon, an’ de jail look like she de bigges’ house dar. She stan’ out mo’ bigger dan w’at de chu’ch do.”

      It may be that this statement made no impression on Berrien, but he leaned back in his seat and for miles chewed the end of his cigar in silence.

      It is not the purpose of this chronicle to follow him through all his adventures and escapades. As he rode away from Billville on that memorable day he seemed to realize that his career had just begun. It was a career to which he had served a long and faithful apprenticeship, and he pursued it to the end. From Madison he went to Atlanta, where for months he was a familiar, albeit a striking figure. There were few games of chance in which he was not an adept. No conjurer was so adroit with the cards or the dice; he handled these emblems of fate and disaster as an artist handles his tools. And luck chose him as her favorite; he prospered to such a degree that he grew reckless and careless. Whereupon one fine day luck turned her back on him, and he paraded on fine afternoons in front of Lloyd’s Hotel a penniless man. He had borrowed and lost until he could borrow no longer.

      Balaam, who was familiar with the situation, was not surprised to learn that his master had made up his mind to sell him.

      “Well, suh,” said Balaam, brushing his master’s coat carefully,“you kin sell me, but de man dat buys Balaam will git a mighty bad bargain.”

      “What do you mean?” exclaimed Berrien.

      “You kin sell me, suh, but I ain’t gwine stay wid um.”

      “You can’t help yourself,” said the master.

      “I got legs, Marse Berry. You know dat yo’se’f.”

      “Your legs will do you no good. You’ll be caught if you go back home.”

      “I ain’t gwine dar, suh. I’m gwine wid you. I hear you say yistiddy night p’intedly dat you gwine ’way f’om dis place, an’ I’m gwine wid you. I been ’long wid you all de time, an’ ole marster done tole me w’en you was baby dat I got ter stay wid you.”

      Something in this view seemed to strike Mr. Cozart. He walked up and down the floor a few minutes, and then fell to laughing.

      “By George, Balaam, you are a trump—a royal flush in spades. It will be a famous joke.”

      Thereupon Berrien Cozart arranged his cards, so to speak, for a more hazardous game than any he had ever yet played. He went with Balaam to a trader who was an expert