I rose and picked up my pistol, which
had regained my confidence by not going off when I dropped it.
With another alluring, "Here, doggums!" I started on my way. He
shrank, trembled, hesitated, then was after me with a bound. So we
went on through the forest. As we neared the camp the four-footed
castaway's diffidence increased. I had to pet and coax. But at
last I brought him triumphantly across the Rubicon of the little
stream, and marched him into camp under the astounded eyes of
Cookie.
At sight of the negro the dog growled softly and crouched against
my skirt. Cookie stood like an effigy of amazement done in black
and white.
"Fo' de Lawd's sake, Miss Jinny," he burst out at last, "am dat de
ghos'-pig?"
"It was, Cookie, but I changed him into a live dog by crossing my
fingers. Mind your rabbit's foot. He might eat it, and then very
likely we'd have a ghost on our hands again. But I think he'll
stay a dog for the present."
"Yo' go 'long, Miss Jinny," said Cookie valiantly. "Yo' think I
scared of any ghos' what lower hissel to be a live white mong'ol
dog? Yere, yo' ki-yi, yo' bettah mek friends with ol' Cookie,
'cause he got charge o' de grub. Yere's a li'le fat ma'ow bone
what mebbe come off'n yo' own grandchile, but yo' ain' goin' to
mind dat now yo' is trans formulated dis yere way." And evidently
the reincarnated ghost-pig did not.
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