“A hoop-pole man?” said Roden.
“That thar’s hit, sir, an’ I cert’n’y means what I says,” replied the overseer, relapsing again into his former slipshod easiness of speech and manner. “Consequently were, the beauty of the question air my darter Faginia won’t get married twel she gets a mighty good offer.”
“I should say you were perfectly right,” assented Roden.
“Well, yes, sir; I should sesso. I s’pose you ain’t married, air you?”
“No. Do I look very like a married man?” said Roden, who continued to be amused. He thought the overseer almost as interesting as Virginia.
“Well, no,” assented old Herrick, manipulating his abundant beard with an air of deep thought. “But the beauty of the question air, you kyarn’t al’uz tell. Them as looks the mostest married gen’ly ain’t. An’ contrarywise, them as don’t, air—”
“Married?” said Roden.
“Well, considerbul, mostly,” said the overseer.
Here Virginia returned with a gourd of water, keeping the quick-falling drops from her father’s not too immaculate attire while he drank by means of her skilfully hollowed hands.
“Yo’ breakfas’ ’s ready,” she said over her shoulder to Roden. He went in, and found it to be a slight variation on the last night’s meal. There were some corn-meal cakes—batter cakes, Virginia called them—and miraculously cooked mutton-chops. A half-hour later the overseer appeared at the window to offer his services as guide over the farm.