CHAPTER XXIII
ALONE ON THE CLAIM
Joe glanced at the clock as we re-entered the house, after the cart had disappeared down the road. “Now, if yo’ gits right to bed, Leslie, chile, yo’s gwine git right sma’ht ob sleep afore yo’ has to git up ter holp me git stahted,” he said.
It was past one o’clock. “I don’t know, Joe,” I returned. “It seems hardly worth while to try to sleep at all; we must get up so soon.”
“Hit’s wuf while ter git sleep w’enebber, an’ wharebber yo’ kin,” the old man insisted, with the wisdom of experience.
Accordingly, I lay down on my bed without taking the trouble to undress—I was so fearful of oversleeping. For a long time I lay thinking of Jessie, on her hurried night ride, of old Joe, and the blessed relief that his coming had brought us, and, above all, of Mr. Horton and his machinations. I meant to be awake when the hour that Joe had suggested for rising struck. The hour was five o’clock, but it was well past, when a gentle tap on the door awoke me, and Joe’s voice announced: “Hit’s done struck fibe, Miss Leslie; yo’s bettah be stirrin.”
My reply was forestalled by a delighted cry from the crib, where Ralph was supposed to lie asleep: “Oho! Mine Joe is tum ’ome! Mine Joe is tum ’ome!”
I heard the negro shuffle quickly across the floor, and the next instant Ralph was in his arms and being borne triumphantly into the kitchen. The friendship between the two was mutual, and it was not at all surprising that Ralph was beside himself with joy at Joe’s return. He hurried through his own breakfast, watched Joe, gravely, through his, and then announced his intention of accompanying the latter, “in ’e waggin.” He had gathered from our conversation that Joe was going somewhere, and, wherever it was, he was willing to bear him company.
“W’er my ’at?” he asked, trotting about in search of that article, as Joe drove up to the door with the horses and light wagon.