“You see. Billy knows.”
“How much yo’ tax ’em at?” asked Chloe, gazing over the fence with longing eyes and mentally selecting the ripest and juiciest of the fruit.
“I ain’t taxin’ ’em. I leave it to you.”
Then he immediately sat down upon the rock beside the fence where he had been “resting” for most of that afternoon, or “evenin’” as he called it. Billy doubled himself up and sprawled on the ground near his master, to the injury of the vines and one especially big melon.
“O, suh! Doan’ let him squush it!” begged Chloe; while Ephraim turned upon her with a reproving:
“You-all min’ yo’ place! Ah ’m ’tendin’ to dis yeah business.”
“Va’y well. Jes’ gimme mah millyoun ter tote home to Miss Betty. Ah mus’ ha’ left mah pocket-book behin’ me!” she jeered. Then, before they knew what she was about, she had sprung over the fence and picked up the melon she had all along selected as her own.
Nobody interfered, not even the somber owner of the patch; and with amazing lightness Chloe scrambled back again, the great melon held in the skirt of her red gown, and was off down the slope at the top of her speed.
Ephraim put on his “specs” and gravely stared after her; then shook his head, saying:
“Dat yeah gell’s de flightiest evah! Ain’t it de trufe?”