“Hang him!” Flournoy said bluntly, merely for the purpose of seeing what Skeeter would say next.
The colored man said nothing for five minutes. He sank down weakly upon the bottom step of the porch, his shoulders pathetically hunched, and his head resting upon his hands. At last he mumbled:
“Marse John, I don’t b’lieve Hitch kilt anybody. He never done it.”
“Have you any proof of his innocence, Skeeter?” Flournoy asked.
“Naw, suh.”
“It’s hard for me to believe, Skeeter,” Flournoy continued quietly. “Hitch Diamond was born on my plantation, and ever since I have known him he has been a big, good-natured, bone-headed, peaceable, law-abiding negro. Robbery and murder are not in his line.”
“Dat’s right, Marse John—Hitch never done it.”
There was a little silence, after which Flournoy said:
“I think they’ve got Hitch, Skeeter. Some of the white people in this town have always been very fond of Hitch. They ought to come to his aid at once—he’s their nigger. But all the white folks have kept away.”
“Dat’s a bad sign, Marse John,” Skeeter agreed mournfully.