“I’ll kick yo, then!” said Sambo, raising his foot threateningly.
“Ye may kill me, if ye choose,—the sooner the better! Wish’t I was dead!” said she.
“I say, Sambo, you go to spilin’ the hands, I’ll tell Mas’r o’ you,” said Quimbo, who was busy at the mill, from which he had viciously driven two or three tired women, who were waiting to grind their corn.
“And, I’ll tell him ye won’t let the women come to the mills, yo old nigger!” said Sambo. “Yo jes keep to yo own row.”
Tom was hungry with his day’s journey, and almost faint for want of food.
“Thar, yo!” said Quimbo, throwing down a coarse bag, which contained a peck of corn; “thar, nigger, grab, take car on ’t,—yo won’t get no more, dis yer week.”
Tom waited till a late hour, to get a place at the mills; and then, moved by the utter weariness of two women, whom he saw trying to grind their corn there, he ground for them, put together the decaying brands of the fire, where many had baked cakes before them, and then went about getting his own supper. It was a new kind of work there,—a deed of charity, small as it was; but it woke an answering touch in their hearts,—an expression of womanly kindness came over their hard faces; they mixed his cake for him, and tended its baking; and Tom sat down by the light of the fire, and drew out his Bible,—for he had need for comfort.
“What’s that?” said one of the woman.
“A Bible,” said Tom.
“Good Lord! han’t seen un since I was in Kentuck.”