By sleeping until the noon-hour the two love-captives shortened the third day by half.
In the two days past they had exhausted every theme of conversation, had wearied of every kind of amusement they could devise, and had pumped their hearts dry of language to proclaim and protest their affection for each other to lubricate the machinery of existence amid the friction of their disposition and temperament.
The day before Plaster had made a hit with a song, so he decided to fill every moment of that day until the sun sank below the horizon with vocal music, for song banishes conversation and song is not provocative of difference of opinion and argument—so he thought. While he and his wife were dressing, Plaster began:
"Does you know dat I am dyin'
Fer a little bit of love?
Everywhar dey hears me sighin'
Fer a little bit of love.
Fer dat love dat grows mo' strong,
Fills de heart wid hope and song,
I has waited—oh, so long—
Fer a little bit of love."
"Whut makes you sing so dang loud, Plaster?" Pearline asked wearily, as she rested her head upon her hands. "You sounds like a brayin' jackace mournin' because he done tumbled down a open well."
"One time you said you liked my singin'," Plaster retorted.
"I couldn't tell you whut I really thought about it in dem sad days," Pearline remarked.
They ate their noon meal in silence because neither could think of anything to say. Plaster had got the hook at the very beginning of his musical career, and the things he thought of to say were not fit for utterance or publication.
As they rose from the table, they looked with surprise out of the window.
A long procession of negroes approached the cabin. All were dressed in their best clothes and the Rev. Vinegar Atts was in the lead.