Tom did his humble comrade these various ill turns partly out of native viciousness, and partly because he hated him for his superiorities of physique and pluck, and for his manifold cleverness.
"Dat's one thing you's got to stop, Valet de Chambers. You can't call me Roxy, same as if you was my equal. Chillen don't speak to dey mammies like dat. You'll call me ma or mammy, dat's what you'll call me--leastways when de ain't nobody aroun'. Say it!" It cost Tom a struggle, but he got it out.
The tremendous catastrophe which had befallen Tom had changed his moral landscape in much the same way. Some of his low places he found lifted to ideals, some of his ideas had sunk to the valleys, and lay there with the sackcloth and ashes of pumice stone and sulphur on their ruined heads. For days he wandered in lonely places, thinking, thinking, thinking --trying to get his bearings. It was new work. If he met a friend, he found that the habit of a lifetime had in some mysterious way vanished --his arm hung limp, instead of involuntarily extending the hand for a shake. It was the "nigger" in...
the chief citizen in presence of four hundred people; Saturday morning,
Note: funny text 2 spch