“An’ now we’re goin’,” with a tone of finality that angered Paul.
“Oh, are we?” Paul was unhooking a trout.
“Th’ sky looks nasty to me, an’ th’ wind’s breezin’ up, an’ there’s a fog settlin’ below.”
“I don’t see any fog, and the sky looks all right to me.”
“Comin’?”
“No.”
“But you is.”
“You ain’t my master. I guess I’ll do as I please.”
“You is comin’.”