"Now, Mr. Tom, whut put dat inter yo' head? Book doan come out p'intedly
an' say you shan't."
"They cast lots for His garments," the preacher spoke, and Kintchin
replied:
"Oh, w'en you fling de Book down on me too hard, I jest hatter squirm,
dat's all. Ef I had ernudder quarter I could open up er 'skussion dat--"
"You'll not get it," said Jim.
"Dat ends it. Oh, I likes preachers--likes ter yere 'em talk, but I
ain't nebber got no money outen one yit. Da all time talk erbout gib
whut you got ter de po' an' foller on, an' da follers all right; but I
ain't seen 'em gibbin' nuthin'."
"They give to the spirit, Kintchin," remarked Mrs. Mayfield.
"Yas'm. But sometimes I'd leetle ruther da give ter de pocket.
Howsomedever, I mustn't go too fur wid dis man. He's er preacher, but
he er Starbuck an' he w'ar me out ef I push him too fur."
"Now, Kintchin," said the preacher, "you know you couldn't provoke me
into strikin' you. Don't you?"
"Yas, suh, I feels it; still I's er little skeered o' you. An' whut you
gwine gimme caze I skeered? Ain't it wuth er quarter ter be skeered like
I is? Huh?"
"Here," replied Jim, giving him a piece of money.
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