“Well, ain’t I got a right t’ be a spiritualist?” he demanded hotly. “Thet don’t hurt nobody, does it? Did they say I cheated?”
“No, sir.”
“Or stole?”
“No, sir.”
“Or lied?”
“No, sir.”
“But jest because I mind my own business an’ ask other people t’ mind theirs, they’re all arter me. They can’t understand why I don’t spend my evenin’s down to the village store, chewin’ terbaccer an’ spittin’ on the stove. They can’t figger out how I make a livin’, an’ it worries ’em! Oh, I know! I’ve heerd ’em talk! Pah!” Then his anger seemed suddenly to cool. “All I want is t’ be let alone,” he went on, in another tone. “I’m a peaceful man; I don’t harm nobody; an’ I don’t want nobody t’ harm me. But I can’t bear these here busy-bodies what’s allers pokin’ their noses in other people’s business. Say,” he added, suddenly, wheeling around upon me, “s’pose we keep this here meetin’ to our two selves?”
He was smiling down at me cunningly, and I disliked him more than ever.
“Oh, I can’t do that,” I said. “I’ll have to tell mother, you know.”
“Oh, all right,” he answered, carelessly. “It don’t make no difference t’ me. I’ve got t’ go, anyway—it’s gittin’ dark.”