"'Ca'se I ain' had no bad luck sence I had it, suh, en I's had dis
rabbit foot fer fo'ty yeahs. I had a good marster befo' de wah, en I
wa'n't sol' erway, en I wuz sot free; en dat 'uz all good luck."

"But that doesn't prove anything," I rejoined. "Many other people have
gone through a similar experience, and probably more than one of them
had no rabbit's foot."

"Law, suh! you doan hafter prove 'bout de rabbit foot! Eve'ybody knows
dat; leas'ways eve'ybody roun' heah knows it. But ef it has ter be
prove' ter folks w'at wa'n't bawn en raise' in dis naberhood, dey is a'
easy way ter prove it. Is I eber tol' you de tale er Sis' Becky en her
pickaninny?"

"No," I said, "let us hear it." I thought perhaps the story might
interest my wife as much or more than the novel I had meant to read
from.

"Dis yer Becky," Julius began, "useter b'long ter ole Kunnel Pen'leton,
who owned a plantation down on de Wim'l'ton Road, 'bout ten miles fum
heah, des befo' you gits ter Black Swamp. Dis yer Becky wuz a
fiel'-han', en a monst'us good 'un. She had a husban' oncet, a nigger
w'at b'longed on de nex' plantation, but de man w'at owned her husban'
died, en his lan' en his niggers had ter be sol' fer ter pay his debts.
Kunnel Pen'leton 'lowed he'd 'a' bought dis nigger, but he had be'n
bettin' on hoss races, en did n' hab no money, en so Becky's husban' wuz
sol' erway ter Fuhginny.

"Co'se Becky went on some 'bout losin' her man, but she could n' he'p