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Updated: June 7, 2025
Tump patted her bony black form. "I's heah, Mammy," he stammered uncertainly. "I's come back, Mammy." Half a dozen other negroes caught the joyful hysteria. They began a religious shouting, clapping their hands, flinging up their arms, shrieking. One of the drummers grunted: "Good God! all this over a nigger getting back!"
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.
He thought of darting behind a cedar, but he knew the man behind him was an expert shot, and something fundamental in the brown man forbade his getting himself killed while running away. It was too undignified a death. Presently he surprised himself by calling over his shoulder, as a sort of complaint: "How came you with the pistol, Tump? Thought it was against the law to carry one."
He passed over the deed, and the two negroes moved on their way to Niggertown. Tump trudged forward with eyes glued to paper, his face puckered in the unaccustomed labor of reading. His thick lips moved at the individual letters, and constructed them bunglingly into syllables and words.
However, the best men weary in well doing, and for the last few days Hooker's Bend had switched from its intellectual staple of conversation to consider the comedy of Tump Pack's undoing. The incident held undeniably comic elements.
Now, Tump wid a gun, an' you wid jes ordina'y women's clo'es! 'Fo' Gawd, aidjucation is a great thing; sho is a great thing." The Persimmon gave Peter an apprehensive wink and moved on. There was no use trying to extract information from the Persimmon unless he was minded to give it. His talk would merely become vaguer and vaguer.
Whenever this happens to a Flamborough man, he finishes what he proposed to say, and then says it all over again to the wind. The child lay above her in a tump of stubbly grass, where Robin Cockscroft had laid him; he had tossed the old sail off, perhaps in a dream, and he threatened to roll down upon the granny.
Y' see, Mr. Throgmartin tried to hire Tump to pick cotton. Tump didn't haf to, because he'd jes shot fo' natchels in a crap game. So to-day, when Tump starts over heah wid his gun, Mr. Bobbs 'resses Tump. Mr. Throgmartin bails him out, so now Tump's gone to pick cotton fuh Mr. Throgmartin to pay off'n his fine."
Tump Pack, the white captain, and the negro engineer began a game of craps in the negro cabin. Presently, two of the white drummers came in from the white cabin and began betting on the throws. The game was listless. The master of the launch pointed out places along the shores where wildcat stills were located.
For some reason Peter felt that he should assume Tump's place as Cissie Dildine's husband and protector. Had Tump lived, Peter might have gone North in peace, if not in happiness. Now such a journey, without Cissie, had become impossible. He had a feeling that it would not be right. As for the disgrace of marrying such a woman as Cissie Dildine, Peter slowly gave that idea up.
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