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"Good Lord! maybe we better be gittin' 'long out o' yere right smart. Thar ain't nuthin' ter stay fer; we can't help them ded men none, an' only the devil himself knows whar them Injuns hav' gone. Yer git the gurls away afore they see whut's yere down yonder, inter the valley." I took one more glance at the sight, fascinated by its very horror, then wheeled my terrified horse, and rode back.
Half an hour passed and Jason was getting restless again, when he saw an old negro shuffling down the stone walk with a bucket in one hand, a mop in the other, and trailing one leg like a bird with a broken wing. "Good-mornin', son." "Do you know whar John Burnham is?" "Whut's dat whut's dat?" "I'm a-lookin' fer John Burnham." "Look hyeh, chile, is you referrin' to Perfesser Burnham?"
And yere I is, honey, and yere I stays. . . . Whut's dat you sayin'? De gen'l'man objec's? He do, do he?" The far-carrying voice rose shrilly and scornfully. "Well, let him! Dat's his privilege. Jes' let him keep on objectin' long ez he's a mind to. 'Tain't gwine 'fluence me none. . . . I don't keer none ef he do heah me. Mebbe it mout do him some good ef he do heah me.
"I've told and told you about using any tainted or impure foods that the white people can't eat." "Well, whut ef you is?" "If it's too bad for them, it's too bad for you!" Caroline made a careless gesture. "Good Lawd, boy! I don' 'speck to eat whut's good fuh me! All I says is, 'Grub, keep me alive. Ef you do dat, you done a good day's wuck."
The sight of the food brought Peter a realization that he was keenly hungry. As a matter of fact, he had not eaten a palatable meal since he had been evicted from the white dining-car at Cairo, Illinois. Siner served his own and his mother's plate. The old woman sniffed again. "Seems to me lak you is mighty onobsarvin' fuh a nigger whut's been off to college." "Anything else?"
As Peter moved for the door she warned him: "Peter, you knows ef Tump Pack sees you, he's gwine to shoot you sho!" "Oh, no he won't; that's Tump's talk." "Talk! talk! Whut's matter wid you, Peter? Dat nigger done git crowned fuh killin' fo' men!" She stood staring at him with white eyes. Then she urged, "Now, look heah, Peter, come along an' eat yo' supper." "No, I really need a walk.
Hit ull be like ole times agin, when Rome was hyeh. Whut's the matter, boy?" he asked, suddenly. Isom looked unresponsive, listless. "Air ye gittin' sick agin?" "Well, I hain't feelin' much peert, Steve." "Take keer o' yourself, boy. Don't git sick now. We'll have to watch Eli Crump purty close.
This little party had scarce disappeared before there came another visitor, this time a fat colored woman of middle age, who labored up the stair and halted at the door. "Come in, auntie," called the claim agent, from Ms desk, "what's the matter?" "You know whut's the matter, Mr. Edd'ron," said the caller. "You 'membehs me?"
Three miles up that fork they came upon a red-headed man leading his horse from a mountaineer's yard. "He went up the mountain," the red-haired man said, pointing to the trail of the Lonesome Pine. "He's gone over the line. Whut's he done killed somebody?" "Yes," said Hale shortly, starting up his horse. "I wish I'd a-knowed you was atter him. I'm sheriff over thar."
An' my daddy clim' up on the fence an' says, 'Whut's the matter now? An' a man tuck a fife outen his mouth an' shouts, 'Mexico has trod on us an' we need soldiers. An' my daddy turns, he does, an' says to my brother, 'Come on Bob. They went, Jedge, an' Bob he didn't come back. Am I a makin' it too long?" "No, Mr. Starbuck, proceed." "Do it sound like I'm a beggin'?"
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