June snorted. “Mighty likely, ain’ it?” he demanded scathingly. “Reckon you can see this nigger eatin’ all by his lonely. No, sir, Mas’ Wayne, you-all’s goin’ to eat, too. If you don’ there ain’ goin’ to be no supper for nobody.”
“I tell you I’m not hungry,” replied Wayne irritably. “Besides, if you must know, I haven’t any money.”
“Say you ain’? You’ve got forty cents. How come that ain’ enough money to buy us some supper?”
“That’s your money, not mine,” said Wayne bitterly. “You earned it. I didn’t. I’m not going to live off you. You go get your supper and let me alone.”
“I earned it for all of us,” said June earnestly. “Reckon you paid a heap of money to buy victuals for me, Mas’ Wayne, all the way up from Sleepersville, didn’ you, sir?”
“That’s different,” muttered the other.
“How come it’s different? Please, sir, don’ you be uppity an’ proud. Ever since we was little fellers together, Mas’ Wayne, you done give me money; two bits here, an’ two bits there, an’ a dime yonder. How come I can’ pay it back to you?”
“A gentleman doesn’t—doesn’t do that,” returned Wayne stubbornly.