“Fer Gawd’s sake, Marse Tom,” he chattered, speaking under a visible strain, his eyeballs nearly popping out of his head. “I shore didn’t soupspicion dat you wus snoopin’ aroun’ here nowheres.”
Gaitskill’s face grew red with annoyance. The veins in his neck swelled and his eyes snapped.
“Where are all those other coons?” he demanded. “Did they run off too?”
“Yes, suh; dey said dar wus plenty time to pick dat cotton an’ de trouts wus bitin’ fine down in de bayou, so dey all hauled off and went fishin’. Dey sont me to town fer some mo’ fishin’ lines, an’ I jes’ stopped here a minute to throw at dem rag dolls——”
“I’m going out there and beat some sense into those niggers with a black-snake whip,” Gaitskill told him in a dangerously cool voice. “If you don’t want some of it you’d better stay away, understand? And if you ever put your foot in my cotton-field again I’ll break your dashed neck! Hear me?”
Pap Curtain stepped back and his voice became a pleading whine. He glanced behind him to assure himself that the road was clear for flight, and began:
“Don’t do dat, Marse Tom. You know how niggers is. Eve’y day is restin’ time an’ Sunday fer a nigger; an’ when de trouts is bitin’ a nigger jes’ nachelly cain’t wuck. It’s ag’in nature——”
“Aw, shut up!” Gaitskill snarled in a savage tone. “If a rain should come it would beat every bit of my cotton off the stalks and bury it in the mud, and you know it——”
“I tell you whut I’ll do, boss,” Pap interrupted. “You know I is always done jes’ whut you tole me—because why? You is a powerful good white man, an’ I ain’t nothin’ but a poor igernunt nigger. Yes, suh, dat’s right.
“Now, ef you says de word, I’ll hike back to de Niggerheel an’ tell dem niggers dat deir lives ain’t fitten to last no time onless dey draps dem fish-poles an’ drags dem cotton-sacks down de row like de debbil wus bossin’ de job. Dar’s fawty of ’em, Marse Tom—fawty, wuthless, no-’count, good-fer-nothin’ coons done laid down deir wuck an’ gone fishin’—dat’s whut dey done——”