I figgers out seben trees—ef I makes no mistake."
"Told you so, Lyttleton. Now, Zack, you're an old bear hunter—how far is that spring from the house?"
"Lordee, Cunnel, dat spring ain't nowhars away fum dat house. 'Pears to me like it mought be right in de back yard. Jes medjer from dat big tree—dat bigges' one off by itself—not dem chunky trees nigh to de ribber."
Zack indicated a lone and unusually tall palm that stood somewhat away from the Nile, in direct line behind the plantation house. "Dat spring is jes 'bout betwixt forty-nine and fifty yards behin' dat tree—ef I makes no mistake. Howsomever, ef you-all is got a bet, I'm gwine to step it off jes as soon as us gits to de landin'."
"Lyttleton, I'll bet that Zack's right."
Zack's attitude justified the boss in betting on his correctness, but McDonald, with a Scotch mind that never jibbed its job, inquired, "This is the man you were speaking of, who gets labor for your plantation in America?"
"Yes, sir, Zack's the best on earth when it comes to rounding up a bunch of niggers. How about it, Zack?"
Zack bulged out like a goatskin bag that is swelling up with water. "I reckon dat's so, Cunnel. I kin git niggers whar d'ain't no niggers.
