A week or two after the dinner at Isleham, Pembroke sat in his office, one afternoon, at the county-seat, with a letter spread out before him. It was very thumbed and illiterate, and quite devoid of punctuation.
"Marse french, i is in a heap of truble marse
french an i aint done nuttin—i bought ten akers
fum mr. Hackett you know mr. hackett he some
relation to dem Hibbses he come frum i donow
whar an he allus cussin de yankees an I had done
pay him fur de ten akers mos all i had done got
married ter Jane you know Jane whar was Miss
livia Berkeley maid, an mr. hackett he come an he
say he was gwine take the baid an he call me a low
down nigger and kase I arnser him he hit me wid
he stick an marse french i couldn't help it an he hit
Jane too an i knock him down an o marse french he
went home an naix day he die an de sheriff he come
an put me in jail—i feerd dey gwine hang me like a
hound dog i aint got no money fur lawyers, an mr.
hackett's folks dem Hibbses dey is engage all de
lawyers i dunno what i gwine do if you doan cum
home to try me marse french—you know i was yur
vally an daddy he was ole marse's vally, an me an
you useter go fishin when we was small an ole marse
