Huh, an' you oughter hab ernuff by
dis time ter bury bof o' us. An' ef you says de word I'll be buried
side o' you ter keep you comp'ny."
She ceased her work and looked at him. "I won't need no comp'ny. I'll be
busy tellin' de Lawd 'bout de folks down yere. An, I gwine tell him,
w'in I goes home."
She gathered up the clothes basket and went into an adjoining room,
leaving Kintchin to muse alone. He heard the low whistle of a
backwoodsman's improvised tune, and looking up, saw a man leaning
against the door-facing. To the old negro the new comer was not a
stranger. Once that big foot had kicked him out of the road, and lying
in his straw bed the poor wretch had burned with resentment, cowed,
helpless; and sleeping, had dreamed of killing the brute and awoke with
a tune on his black lips. He knew Lije Peters, neighborhood bully
without being a coward, a born black-mailer, a ruffian with the touch of
humor, ignorant with sometimes an allegorical cast of speech. As he
entered the room he looked about and seeing no one else, spoke to
Kintchin:
"Whar's Jasper Starbuck?"
"I seed Miss Margaret an' Miss Lou out yander jest now," Kintchin
answered, backing off as Peters advanced toward him.
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