"Yes'm."
"But you ain't gwine smoke no mo' fer de nex' three days, is you?"
"No'm."
Pearline thrust her hand into Plaster's pocket and brought forth his precious smokes. She concealed them in the mysterious recesses of her attire and Plaster sighed deeply.
Ten minutes later the girl straightened up with a fierceness that nearly snapped her spinal column.
"Fer mussy sake, Plaster Sickety! Whut is you got in yo' mouf?"
"I's nibblin' a few crumbs of terbacker, honey," Plaster said apologetically.
"My gawsh! You aim to tell me dat you chaws?"
"Yes'm. I chaws a little bit now an' den. It kinder helps my brains to think an' sottles my stomick."
There was a long silence. Plaster stared straight ahead of him, his jaws moving with the regularity of a ruminant cow, his eyes counting the leaves on the trees, the pickets on the broken-down fence, and estimating the number of ants crawling out of a hill. Then, unconsciously, he reached into his pocket for another cigarette. He did not find it.