“No,” said Tregarvon soberly. “You may be sure we shan’t disturb your wife’s grave—or any of the others, if we can help it. I didn’t know, until after we had begun work here, that this open place was a burying-ground. Now tell me; do you know who that man was who stood there by the engine and made motions at you?”
“I ’spec’ dat wuz de ol’ debbil, hese’f, marsteh. Couldn’t a-been nobody else; no, suh.”
“What makes you think it was the devil, Uncle William?” Carfax wanted to know.
“’Cause he go off, bing! in a puff o’ yaller smoke when I say ‘Oh, my Lordy!’”
Tregarvon had been groping purposefully in the old man’s explanation to determine if it held any of the missing puzzle pieces.
“You say Sam, from the ‘old place’ told you we were working here, Uncle William; who is Sam, and where is the ‘old place’?”
“Sam, he’s dat triflin’ no-’count niggah what Marsteh Judge keep for stable niggah—when dey ain’ nuffin in de stable ’ceppin’ de ol’ dapple-gray dat’s a heap older’n what I is, hyuh, hyuh! But de ol’ Marsteh Judge ain’ gwine tu’n nobody off’n de ol’ place whilst dar’s a rind o’ bacon lef’ in de gre’t house; no, suh; he ain’ gwine do dat!”
It was at this point that Tregarvon sprang his small trap.
“Why did he turn you off, Uncle William?”
“Who, me? No, suh—I—Miss Dick, she——”