“Yo’s a liah, yo’ good fo’ nothin’ loafin’ niggah. Los’ it? How yo’ gwine lose a piece o’ real money? Dat two bits nevah git cole in yo’ pocket. Craps—das what. Ef de money goes wid craps, let it come back wid craps. No sah, not a nickel.”
There was a feminine sob or two, but they did not sound real.
“Yo’ reckon Miss Franko’s gwine feed yo’ eber day? No sah! Go long now, boy. Yo’ ole mammy ain’t no use fo’ no crap shooters. An’ Miss Franko ain’t nuther. She sho skin yo’ ef she fin’ yo’ snoopin’ roun’ hyar.”
There was a gurgle as of some one drinking, and then the other person said:
“Yo’ done ’sult me, mammy. I’se gwine ’way to stay. Yo’ ain’t goin’ to see me no mo’.”
The other grunted. “Huh! You’ all don’ go no furder ’an you’ kin walk. An’ ah reckon de tas’ o’ dat meat an’ coffee’ll be gone by to-morrer.”
“Yo’ don’ know what I’se gwine to do,” retorted the other speaker. “I’se got a job.”
“Yo’ got a job?” snorted the woman. “Ain’t dat sun hu’t yo’ haid, chile?”
“Marse Tom Allen allows he ain’t gwine campin’ dis spring lessen I goes wid him. Das all.”
Bob started. Tom Allen! That was his new friend. This must be Jerry Blossom. Bob advanced to the end of the yard. Pretending to examine the chickens, he turned back toward the house, and, as he did so, had his first sight of Jerry. A colored boy, heavy for his height, and perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old, was coming jauntily toward the gate in the rear, intently examining a silver dollar.