Not till then did he consider how he was to get that heavy load to the Water Lily. Standing up, he took off his hat, scratched his wool, hefted the melons, and finally chuckled in delight.
“‘Mo’ ways ’an one to skin a cat’! Down-hill’s easier ’an up!”
With that he began to drag the sack toward the fence and, having reached it, took out its contents and tossed them over the fence. When the bag was empty he rolled and tucked it into the back of his coat, then climbed back to the field outside. The controversy with Billy was still going lustily on, but Ephy had more serious work on hand than that. Such a heap of luscious melons meant many a day’s feast, if they could be stored in some safe, cool place.
“Hello! Look at old Eph!” suddenly cried Gerald, happening to turn about.
“Huh! Now ain’t that clever? Wonder I never thought o’ that myself!” cried the Colonel, with some animation. “Clever enough for a white man. Billy, you’d ought have conjured that yourself. But that’s always the way. I cayn’t think a thought but somebody else has thought it before me. I cayn’t never get ahead of the tail end of things. Oh! hum!”
The Colonel might be sighing but the three lads were laughing heartily enough to drown the sighs, for there was the old negro starting one after another of the great melons a-roll down the gentle slope, to bring up on the grassy bank at the very side of the Water Lily. If a few fell over into the water they could easily be fished out, reasoned Ephraim, proud of his own ingenuity.
But the group beside the bars didn’t watch to see the outcome of that matter, nor Ephraim’s reception. They were too busy expostulating with Billy, and lavishing endearments upon him.
“‘Stubborn as a mule’,” quoted Melvin, losing patience.
“Or fate,” responded the Colonel, drearily.
“Please, sir, won’t you try to make him go?” pleaded Gerald. “I think if you just started him on the right way he’d keep at it.”