“Care? He’d worship you. Them Prouty folks would bite themselves if they could see your Old Man,” he chuckled faintly.
“He is still living, then? Oh, Pete!” She extended two pleading hands impulsively, “Don’t make me wait!”
Something other than fever glittered in his eyes, and there was more than satisfaction in his voice when he said:
“That’s somethin’ like it—somethin’—not quite! It’s sweeter nor music to hear you beg. But, damn you, you ain’t humble enough yet!”
“What do you want me to do?” she cried. “I’ll—I’ll get down on my knees, if only you’ll tell me what I want to know!”
“That’s it!” in shrill excitement. “Get down on your knees. I ain’t forgot that you called me a ‘nigger’ once, and hit me with a quirt. It’ll kinda wipe it out to see you crawlin’ to Pete, that you always treated like dirt. Git down on your knees and beg, if you want me to talk!”
She sank to the floor of the wagon without a word.
He looked at her queerly as she knelt. There was intense gratification in his voice, “You do want to know, when you’ll swaller that.”
“Yes, Pete,” humbly, “I do.”
His thin hands lay inert upon the soogan. His head turned weakly while he kept his eyes upon her as though enjoying the situation to the utmost. There was a silence in which he seemed both to be gathering strength and considering how to begin.