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"Yes," said the claim agent, "you had a baby run down at the street crossing yesterday. We sent it to the hospital. How is it getting along?" "Hit's daid, Mr. Edd'ron. Yas sah, my lil' Gawge is daid." "What? Oh, pshaw!" "Yas sah, lil' Gawge done die six o'clock dis maw-nin'." She shook with sobs. The claim agent dropped his own face into his hands. The weary look came back again into his eyes.
She bit each dollar to test it, remarking finally: "Why, hit's genuwine!" Jack laughed. "Why, hit's mo' money'n I've seed fur years," she said "I won't hafter hunt fur 'sang roots to-morrow." "Jack," said the Bishop, after the others had retired, and the two men sat in Captain Tom's cabin "Jack, I've been thinkin' an' thinkin' I must make some money." "How much?" asked Jack. "A thousand or two."
Hit's a dire need of safeguardin' ther peace of our folks aye, an' thar lives, too, like es not." He paused, leaving room for an answer that would make easier his approach to an understanding, but no answer came, and he continued: "Ye hain't got no handy way of knowin' like me an' some of these other men thet's always lived hyarabouts, what a ticklish balance things rests on in this section.
Ann and her baby returned to the house, but Uncle Snake-bit Rob, long after the sun went down, still sat on his little bench in front of his shop, his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands; and when it grew quite dark he rose, and put away his splits and his baskets, saying to himself, "Well, I know wat I'm gwine do; my min' hit's made up."
"We ain't got no call t' fight, now, Jim," he said in a tone of respect. "We got something else t' think about; an' that's what I come here fer t'night. I didn't aim t', 'til I seed what I did at th' ranch down yonder. I tell you hit's time we was a doin' somethin'." At this, Mr. Lane's face and manner changed quickly.
'I hope Brer Fox ain't dead, but I speck he is, sezee. 'Even down ter Brer Wolf done gone en lef' 'im. Hit's de busy season wid me, but I'll set up wid 'im. He seem like he dead, yit he mayn't be, sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 'W'en a man go ter see dead fokes, dead fokes allers raises up der behime leg en hollers, wahoo! sezee. "Brer Fox he stay still.
"But ther peril's done past now," he reassured her, "an' all ther enemies we had, thet's wuth winnin' over, hev done come ter be friends." "All thet's wuth winnin' over, yes," she admitted without conviction, "but hit's ther other kind thet a body hes most cause ter fear."
"Fellers," he added feelingly, "I wish t' my legs growed hind-side-fust." "What fer?" "So 's 't I wouldn't bark my shins!" "Bears," remarked John, "is all left-handed. Ever note that? Hit's the left paw you wanter look out fer. He'd a-knocked somethin' out o' yer head if there'd been much in it, Doc."
But don't you bodder longer dat ark, 'ceppin' your mammy fetches it up. Dey mout er bin two deloojes, en den agin dey moutent. Ef dey wuz enny ark in dish yer w'at de Crawfishes brung on, I ain't heern tell un it, en w'en dey ain't no arks 'roun', I ain't got no time fer ter make um en put um in dar. Hit's gittin' yo' bedtime, honey."
There remained those exact details that should cause the elaborate operation to function together without hitch or miscarriage, and to these Rick Joyce addressed himself. The mob was to participate in force of full numbers and no absentees were to be tolerated. "When ther game starts up hit's got ter go quick as a bat flyin' through hell," enjoined the director.
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