It was hard, hot, dirty, delicate work, though Lockwood was not capable of any of the skilled part of it. His duty mainly was in seeing that the negroes brought up the gum barrels promptly, handled the rosin with exactitude and kept the fire right. After the retort was screwed up, everything had to go with precision, or the whole charge would be ruined.
When the rosin was cleared, the fire was drawn and the still allowed to cool. Late that afternoon Lockwood made a hasty round of the woods to see the run of the gum, but he was tired and dirty and sticky, and he felt in no condition to pay a visit to the Powers.
The next day, however, there was no distilling, and he was able to take a couple of hours off in the afternoon. It was rather a failure. Hanna was not at home, but neither was anybody else, with the exception of old Henry, who sat as usual upon the gallery in his rocking-chair. He urged Lockwood to stay and “eat supper,” when the rest of the household would probably be back; but Lockwood had to return to the camp.
Next day the still was run again—a day of terrible heat, when the bare sand of the camp seemed to glow and burn white-hot in the sun, and even the tough turpentine negroes complained bitterly. Lockwood’s own head swam, especially as the blazing hot rosin poured out in the blazing sun, but he kept going until the charge was run; and then everybody suspended work, and, dripping with sweat, got into the shade.
A violent thunderstorm broke that night and cooled the air. The whole atmosphere next morning seemed fresh-washed and alive with ozone, and that afternoon Lockwood rode again to the Powers’ house, arriving more fortunately. Louise was there; so were the two brothers, apparently in their customary state of intense boredom in lack of any violent amusement. After a few minutes’ general talk on the gallery the girl disappeared, leaving him with her brothers.
Tom glanced aside at the bottle from which he had one drink, and yawned dismally.
“Cawn-plantin’ time,” said Jackson indolently.
“What are you doing with your farm? Doing any planting?” said Lockwood.
“Plantin’?” laughed Tom. “You ain’t never seen this farm, I reckon. Yes, we’ve got a nigger plowin’ down in the bottom field. Come down and see it, if you wanter.”
It was something to do. They all three strolled slowly down through the oak grove, past a small frame barn where a few hens scratched among corn shucks, and reached the bottom field, of about ten acres. The soil looked like almost pure sand. It turned up like brown sugar from the share, and where it had dried it was almost white.