Dick laughed. “So that’s what you are afraid of. You—�
“Sh—sh, little marster!� The old negro looked around, as if afraid of being overheard. He stopped his oxcart in front of his cabin. “I got to git my meal bag,� he said. “Lily Belle emptied it to make a hoecake for dinner, so I got to go to mill an’ git some corn ground ’fore supper time. I don’t worry ’bout nothin’ long as my meal bag can stan’ up for itself, but when it lays down I got to stir about. What you doin’, Marse Dick, strayin’ so fur from home?�
“Oh! I’m just strolling ’round,� Dick answered vaguely.
“Umph! When I fust see you, I thought you mought be gwine fishin’; but you aint got no fishin’ pole.�
“No use to carry a pole in the woods, when you’ve got a knife,� said Dick. “Where is a good place to go?�
“Uh! any o’ dem holes in Mine Creek below de ford,� said the old man; “taint good fishin’ ’bove thar.�
“O. K.!� said Dick. “If I catch more fish than I can carry, I’ll leave you what I can’t tote home.�
“Yas, suh; yas, suh! I reckon you will,� chuckled the old negro.
Dick went on down the road. But his merry whistle died on his lips as he passed Solomon Gabe’s cabin.
It stood, like a dark, poisonous fungus, under low-branching evergreens in a dank, somber hollow a little away from the road. The squat old log hovel had not even a window; the door stood open, not hospitably, but like the yawning mouth of a pit.