"H'm! this tastes like good old West Indian rum!" he cried, taking another fig of the cane. "Did you burn it yourself, Mother Cragwell?" "Who, me? No, bo," she retorted, looking up. "Dah cane yo' got dey come from down de road."
"What, did they have a fire there recently?"
"Yes, bo. Las' night. The fire hags ketch it fire las' night."
"The who?"
"Hey," the old woman drawled, shocked at the young man's density. "Hey, look at his boy, ni. Yo' don't fomembah wha' a fire hag is, no? An' he say he gwine down de gully to-night."
Bellon burst into a fit of ridiculing laughter. "Why, shame upon you, Mother Cragwell!"
"Ent yo' got piece o' de ve'y cane in yo' mout' suckin'?" she cried, fazed, hurt.
"Tommyrot! Some jealous squatter fired the brake, that's all."
"Yo' believe dat?" challenged the old lady, "Orright den, go 'long. Go 'long, bo. All yo' buckras t'ink unna know mo' dan we neygahs. Go 'long down de gully 'bout yo' business, bo."