"Glad that I'm left, you—horrid thing!" cried Dorothy, trying to run past him and out of the door.
But she was not permitted, even had her own strength not suddenly forsaken her: for the lad put out his free hand and stopped her.
"Glad you're awake. So's we can talk," he said; and now releasing the mastiff, whom he bade: "Lie down!" he led her to the doorstep and made her sit down, with him beside her.
"So you can talk, if you want to! I thought you were tongue-tied!" she remarked, now realizing that the wagon had passed beyond reach, but thankful to have speech with anybody, even this silly-looking fellow. "What's your name?"
"Jim. Jim Barlow. I hain't got no folks. All dead. I work for her," he answered, readily enough, and she understood that it was only from fear he had been so silent until now.
"Are you afraid of her? Do you mean 'her' to be that dreadful woman?"
"Yep. She ain't so bad. She's only queer, and she's scared herself of him. What's yourn?"
"My name, you mean? Dorothy Chester. Who's 'him'? Has 'she' gone to market? Does she go every market day? To Lexington, or Hollins, or Richmond—which? What's her name?"
Jim gasped. His experience of girls was limited, and he didn't know which of these many questions to answer first. He began with the last: and now that he had the chance he seemed as willing to talk as Dorothy was to listen. Apparently, neither of them now thought of the hour and its fitness for sleep: though Tiger had lain down before them on the flat stone step and was himself snoring, his need of vigilance past for the time being. Said the boy:
"Stott. Mirandy Stott. Her man died. He was a baby. She brung him up—good. She earned this hull truck-farm. She makes money. All for him an' he keeps her close. She sent him to school an' made a man of him. She can't read nor write. She makes her 'mark,' but he can, the first-ratest ever was. I can, too, some. I'm learnin' myself. I'm goin' to school some time, myself, after I leave her."