“You right ’bout dat, Honey, fo’ sure. Miz Grant’s de stingiest white woman eve’ lived. Wouldn’t give away a bone to a dog if she could help he’self. Served her right ’bout dem chickens!”
Mary Louise turned sharply. “Chickens?” she repeated, trying to keep her voice calm.
“Yes. Her chickens is bein’ stolen all de time. Half a dozen to oncet—and me and Abraham won’t lift a finger to put a stop to it!”
“You know who has been taking them?” asked Mary Louise incredulously.
“We knows fo’ sure, Honey. But we ain’t tellin’ no tales to Miz Grant.”
“Suppose she accuses your husband?” suggested Mary Louise.
“Dat’s sumpin’ diff’rent. Den we’d tell. But it’d be safe enough by dat time. De gypsies has wandered off by now.”
“Gypsies!” exclaimed Mary Louise. “Did they steal the chickens?”
“Dey sure did. We could see ’em, sneakin’ up at night, by de light of de moon. If Miz Grant eve’ catched ’em, it’d sure go right bad wid ’em. She hates ’em like pison.”
“But you think the gypsies have gone away, Mrs. Jones?” questioned Mary Louise.