"
"Yo' mighty good to me," says he, "considering
yo' are no kin to this here part of the country at
all. I reckon by yo' talk yo' are one of them damn
Yankees, ain't yo'?"
In Illinoise a Yankee is some one from the East,
but down South he is anybody from north of the
Ohio, and though that there war was fought forty
years ago some of them fellers down there don't
know damn and Yankee is two words yet. But
shucks!--they don't mean no harm by it! So
I tells him I am a damn Yankee and asts him agin
if I can do anything fur him.
"Yes," he says, "yo' can tell a friend of mine Bud
Davis has happened to an accident, and get him
over here quick with his wagon to tote me home."
I was to go down the railroad track past them
burning warehouses till I come to the third street,
and then turn to my left. "The third house from
the track has got an iron picket fence in front of
it," says Bud, "and it's the only house in that part
of town which has. Beauregard Peoples lives
there. He is kin to me."
"Yes," I says, "and Beauregard is jest as likely
as not going to take a shot out of the front window
at me, fur luck, afore I can tell him what I want.
It seems to be a kind of habit in these here parts
to-night--I'm getting homesick fur Illinoise. But
I'll take a chancet.
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