“Yaas, suh—comin’!”
Peering through the cracks between the boards, his guests saw him rise slowly and shuffle to the door. Stretched out over the little bed chamber, with their heads close to the partition, they had an unobstructed view of the lighted room beyond. As the boards were laid over the middle of both rooms and ran nearly the length of the cabin, they realized with satisfaction that unless someone stood close to the side wall, it would be impossible to spy them out. Uncle Abe’s oil lamp sent its gleams but a few feet, and the rest of the room and the crossbeams lay in deep shadow which was an added protection to the hidden two.
Ol’ Man River drew the bolt and swung open the door.
“Walk right in, Marse Joyce,” they heard him say. And without waiting for a reply, he hobbled painfully back to his chair before the hearth.
Three men stamped into the cabin and banged the door shut on the storm.
“You’re keeping late hours, River,” the leader of the party snapped out without preamble.
From the tones of his voice, Dorothy and Bill knew him to be the same man who had spoken to them in the valley meadow, and who Bill had downed with the gasoline tin. He was a short, stocky person with a bulldog face and a scrubby toothbrush moustache. He and his companions looked tired and angry. They were also very wet.
The speaker walked over to the fire, leaving a track of little pools across the floor. Putting his hands over the blaze, he scowled down at Uncle Abe.
“Well,” he contended disagreeably, “I said you were up late. Answer me, can’t you?”
“So yo’ say, Marse Joyce. So yo’ say.”