“Good Lord,” said Pinetop. “I don't reckon you've ever ploughed up hill with a steer team.”
Without replying, Dan unstrapped his knapsack and threw it upon the roadside. “What doesn't go in my haversack, doesn't go, that's all,” he observed. “How about you, Dandy?”
“Oh, I threw mine away a mile after starting,” returned Jack Powell, “my luxuries are with a girl I left behind me. I've sacrificed everything to the cause except my toothbrush, and, by Jove, if the weight of that goes on increasing, I shall be forced to dispense with it forever. I got rid of my rations long ago. Pinetop says a man can't starve in blackberry season, and I hope he's right. Anyway, the Lord will provide—or he won't, that's certain.”
“Is this the reward of faith, I wonder?” said Dan, as he looked at a lame old negro who wheeled a cider cart and a tray of green apple pies down a red clay lane that branched off under thick locust trees. “This way, Uncle, here's your man.”
The old negro slowly approached them to be instantly surrounded by the thirsty regiment.
“Howdy, Marsters? howdy?” he began, pulling his grizzled hair. “Dese yer's right nice pies, dat dey is, suh.”
“Look here, Uncle, weren't they made in the ark, now?” inquired Bland jestingly, as he bit into a greasy crust.
“De ark? naw, suh; my Mehaley she des done bake 'em in de cabin over yonder.” He lifted his shrivelled hand and pointed, with a tremulous gesture, to a log hut showing among the distant trees.
“What? are you a free man, Uncle?”
“Free? Go 'way f'om yer! ain' you never hyearn tell er Marse Plunkett?”