"We don't seem to get together none," says I, despondent.
"Get together!" says he. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing," says I.
XXII - Me and Their Line Fence
I had to own it up to myself—I'd lost my nerve. I tried more'n fifteen times to come out and tell Old Man Wright about them Peanut letters from their hired man to Bonnie Bell, and I couldn't—I would see her face every time come in between him and me.
I kept my eyes on that hole in the fence. I was setting there fixing up the bricks, ready to put them in, when I heard some one talking on the other side of the fence. You couldn't see nobody through the fence, no more'n if they was a thousand miles away; but you could hear 'em talk, all right, there, through the hole. I could tell who one of 'em was—it was the voice of Old Lady Wisner. She had the sort of a voice a woman has who has got a nose like a eagle. But I couldn't tell who she was talking to, for nobody seemed to answer much at first.
"James," says she—"James, what are you doing there?"
No one answered, but I felt sure now she was talking to their gardener. So he was home!
"Who made that hole? Who has done this, James?" says she again. "Who made that hole in the wall?"