“Uh-huh. I reckon I don’ care for it, thanky, sir. It don’ smell like I thought it would.”
“Don’t be a fool!” whispered Wayne. “I don’t want any.”
“Say you don’? I ain’ believin’ it, though. Please, Mas’ Wayne, you have a half of it. It’s a powerful big piece of pie.”
“Lots more here,” said the proprietor. “Want another piece?”
“No, thanks,” answered Wayne. “I—maybe I’ll take a bite of his.”
The man’s reply to this was a quick slash of his knife and a second section of the squash pie slid across the counter. “My treat,” he said. “Try it. It’s good pie.”
Wayne hesitated. “I don’t think I want any,” he muttered. “I’m not hungry.”
“You eat it if you don’t want me to get mad at you,” said the other, levelling the knife at him sternly. “If you can’t eat it all give it to Sam. I’ll bet you he likes pie, eh, Sammy?”
Wayne smiled and, to June’s vast relief, ate. Perhaps he wasn’t hungry and perhaps it was mere politeness that caused him to consume every last crumb, but he had the appearance of one in thorough enjoyment of his task. When both plates were cleaned up Wayne dug a hand into a pocket.