The white-faced youth developed the sudden heat characteristic of Egbert Hunt in the Miller's Field days. "Well, don't you call me no names, then," said Egbert Hunt fiercely.
"I'm not," Percival protested. "You made a face at me when you were driving in the road, and I thought you were a clown, you see."
Egbert Hunt breathed hotly through his nose. "Saucing me, ain't you?" he demanded.
Percival had heard the expression in the village. "Oh, no," he said in his earnest way. "I thought you had a funny face, that was all."
His engaging tone and air mollified the sour Egbert. "I've got a sick yedache," said Egbert. "That's what I've got—crool!"
Percival looked sorry and sought to give comfort with a phrase of Aunt Maggie. "It will soon go," he said soothingly.
"Not mine," Egbert declared. "Not my sort won't. I'm a living martyr to 'em. Fac'." He nodded with impressive gloom and took three tabloids from the phial he held in his hand. "Vegules," he explained; and swallowed them with a very loud gulping sound.
"What are you, please?" Percival inquired, vastly interested.
"Slave," said Egbert briefly.
"But you're not black," argued Percival, recalling the picture of a chained negro on a missionary almanac in Honor's kitchen.