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Updated: May 25, 2025
"You tell him I'll be monstrous glad to talk it over with him any time he fancies to come out here." "He said something about some one I was to carry back with me," objected the man. "Who said that?" asked Mr. Yancy. "Bladen did." "How's a body to know who yore talking about unless you name him?" said Yancy severely. "Well, what am I to tell him?"
Crenshaw sat before the flat-topped mahogany desk in the center of the room with several well-thumbed account-books open before him. Bladen, in riding dress, stood by the window. "I suppose you will buy in the property when it comes up for sale?" the latter was saying. Mr.
This had served to rouse Murrell to the need of immediate action, but he found, where Yancy was concerned, Scratch Hill could keep a secret, while Crenshaw's mouth was closed on any word that might throw light on the plans of his friend. "It's plain to my mind, Captain, that Bladen will never get the boy. I reckon Bob's gone into hiding with him," said the merchant, with spacious candor.
Each night, as they were carrying him to his own room, they took him near the bed; and he leaned forward, and the voice that in all their years had never been anything but gentle for her said: "Good night, Sallie." And the small form would move slightly, there would be a feeble turning of the head, a wan smile on the little old face, a soft "Good night, Bladen."
Oh, don't!" she implored. "It's my cloth! I spun it, I wove it, every thread! It's all we've got for our clothes this winter! Don't touch it, don't tear it!" I spun it, I wove it, every thread! Her prayer was like a signal for its denial. One of the Hounds pushed her away and caught the cloth up. "We won't hurt it, Sister Bladen. We just want to see what a seamless garment looks like, anyway.
I's gwine ter Bladen County, whar my plantation is, en whar I raises all my hosses. "'But how is I gwine ter git ter Mis' Laura's plantation down in Robeson County? sez Becky, wid her hea't in her mouf, fer she 'mence' ter git skeered all er a sudden. "'You ain' gwine ter git dere at all, sez de man. 'You b'longs ter me now, fer I done traded my bes' race hoss fer you, wid yo' ole marster.
"Well, you run along on out of here with your old spo'tin' rifle!" said Crenshaw good-naturedly. "Please, sir, am I to keep it?" "Yes, I reckon you may keep it least I've no objection." Crenshaw glanced at Bladen. "Oh, by all means," said the latter. Spasms of delight shook the small figure, and with a murmur that was meant for thanks he backed from the room, closing the door.
I ain't never told you honey, that your mother was a Bladen. Well, she was. Some day I'm going to tell you how she fell in love with a good-lookin' young skalawag by the name o' Jim Bolivar. He comes o' pretty decent stock too, only he hadn't sense enough to stay at St.
He had hoped that Bladen would clear up the mystery, for certainly it must have been some sinister tragedy that had cost the general his grip on life and for twenty years and more had made of him a recluse, so that the faces of his friends had become as the faces of strangers. "My dear sir, I know nothing of General Quintard's private, history.
Unless Bladen abandoned his purpose, which he was not likely to do, a tragedy was clearly pending for Scratch Hill. She saw the boy left friendless, she saw Yancy the victim of his own primitive conception of justice. Therefore she said: "I wonder you don't leave the Hill, Mr. Yancy. You could so easily go where Mr. Bladen would never find you. Haven't you thought of this?"
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