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Updated: June 20, 2025
An' they ain't no fire kindled in the settin'-room, to lay it in there. S-i-r? Well, yas, I I reck'n I'll haf to hold it, ef you say so that is of co'se Wait, doctor! Don't let go of it yet! Lordy! but I'm thess shore to drop it! Lemme set down first, doctor, here by the fire an' git het th'ugh. Not yet! My ol' shin-bones stan' up thess like a pair o' dog-irons.
"Yeah, right now," carped Rose. "Ever'thing he wants, he wants right now. He's been res'less as a cat in a bulldog's den ever sence he come home fuh dinner. Dunno whut's come into he ole bones, runnin' th'ugh his dinner lak a razo'-back." She withdrew in a continued mumble of censure.
"You niggers wait heah tull I runs up to Miss Vannie's an' git some o' Cissie's clo'es fuh you to tote her." Tump objected. "Jail ain't no place fuh clean clo'es. She jes better serve out her term lak she is, an' wash up when she gits th'ugh." "You fool nigger!" snapped Nan. "She kain't serve out her term lak she is!" "Da' 's so," said Tump.
"Tired?" repeated his mother, doubtfully. "You ain't done nothin' but set an' turn th'ugh books an' write on a lil piece o' paper." Peter was vaguely amused in his weariness, but thought that he concealed his mirth from his mother. "That gets tiresome after a while." She grunted her skepticism.
The girl lifted a high voice: "Oh, Miss Nan, it's that constable goin' th'ugh the houses!" The girl veered across the street to the safety of the open door and one of her own sex.
Now the same summons had seeped around to him from another direction. "I I'll show you de way to Cap'n Renfrew's ef ef you'll come back wid me th'ugh de cedar glade," proposed the child. "I I ain't skeered in de cedar glade, b-b-but hit's so dark I kain't see my way back home. Peter thanked him and declined his services. After all, he might as well go to see Captain Renfrew.
The Persimmon, with his protruding, half-asleep eyes, was saying: "I don' know, Peter, as I 's so partic'lar 'bout makin' de mos' out'n dis worl'. You know de Bible say hit say," here the Persimmon's voice dropped a tone lower, in unconscious imitation of negro preachers, "la- ay not up yo' treasure on uth, wha moss do corrup', an' thieves break th'ugh an' steal."
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