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"Now, Mist' Joe," very reproachfully and with a quick, nervous flashing of the eyes. Joe frowned. "You needn't put on anything with me, Zeke. I'm not going to give you away. Let's go get your car." He stretched out his arm as though to sweep Zeke into doing his bidding and started for the door. "But I ain' eveh had no bisnis to Fillmo'," Zeke began in a last effort to stem the tide.
"You and he were to have some business last night?" he said, looking at Zeke intently. Zeke grinned a sheepish grin. "Yessuh, we wuz we had a little bisnis." "But you didn't meet him? Sure you didn't meet him?" "Sho I neveh. I ain' able to git de I was detain'." Zeke had learned from experience and considerable instinct to hedge his utterances about with much generality. It was a good principle.
"They ain' no bisnis theh." "That's more like it. That may be the truth," said Joe pressing him on. And Zeke reluctantly passed out and descended the steps. As Joe turned to close the front door behind him he caught a look back in the room. Framed in the doorway stood a very small pickaninny, barely reaching to the knob.
"Where were you and Mr. Bushrod last night?" he ventured on a bold stroke. Zeke's eyes opened wide. "Why, we wusn' no place, Mist' Joe, Mist' Bushrod, he I was to bring him he and I wuz to have a little bisnis ovah to de house, but I couldn' come." His face clouded and took on an anxious look. "Dey ain' no trubbel, is dey, Mist' Joe?"
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