"Where are you going to live with her—in a hollow sycamore-tree?"
"Yes, suh, I reckin so—dat is, excusin' ef you don't he'p us none."
"Where are you two idiots going to derive your sustenance—from the circumambient atmosphere?"
"Dat's de word, Marse John—dat is, excusin' ef you don't loant us a hand in our troubles," the negro murmured, wondering what the sheriff's big talk meant.
"Do you love this black girl very much?" the sheriff asked with that odd turn of tone with which every man speaks of love when he is in love with love.
"Boss," the black man answered in a voice which throbbed, "I been lovin' dat gal ever since she warn't no bigger dan—dan—dan a June-bug whut had visited accidental a woodpecker prayer-meetin'."
"Is she good to look at, Plaster?" Flournoy smiled.
"Well, suh, I cain't lie to no white man, Marse John; an' I tells you honest—she looks a whole heap better at night in de dark of de moon."
"If she ain't a good-looker, why do you love her?" Flournoy asked without a smile.
"She's good sense an' jedgment, Marse John," the black man answered earnestly. "An'—an'—I jes' nachelly loves her."