Dey will—yo’ knows dey will. Ev’y time dey’s a lil’ trouble dey gwine ter pick yo’ up. An’—an’ me an’ yo’ ain’ nevah had no luck in dis town. Befo’ we was gwine ter Baltimo’ jes’ as soon as yo’ got a steady job—an’ den—at las’ we was gwine anaway. Ef—ef we’d picked right up an’ wen’ at fust ole Jeff Bisbee ’ud nevah come foolin’ ’roun’—an’ yo’d nevah wen’ ter jail—would yo’?
SAM
I reckon not.
LUCY BELLE
I knows yo’ would’n’. Aftah all de trouble we had yere—I hates dis place—! I gotta feelin’ dat nuffin’ ain’ gwine ter come right long as we stay yere. I wan’s ter git ’way! Le’s don’ wait dis time. Le’s git ’way fo’ any ob dat ole hard luck begin!
SAM
Lemme git rested up a lil’—an’ den—
LUCY BELLE
Baby, le’s git out right away—jes’ as quick as we kin. Mah monf yere ain’ up till nex’ week but I don’ care. Le’s pack up an’ beat it—an’ git ’way from all dat hard luck—an’ po-lice an’ lyin’ an’ blackguardin’ niggahs. Won’ yo’, honey-baby? Termorrer or nex’ day—de quicker de bettah.
SAM (nodding)