“I believe that was what I told you on the day I saw you in Mr. Turnbull’s front yard,” was the answer. “I mean just before that darky of yours came up——”
“Yes, yes; I remember all about it now,” said Mr. Biglin hastily. And then he tried to turn the conversation into another channel, for fear that Rodney would go on to tell that the information that darky brought was what caused Mr. Biglin to put the hounds on the trail of the escaped Union prisoners. “Fine place you have here. A little rough, of course, but it’s new yet. And I presume it suits you, for, if I remember rightly, you always were fond of shooting and riding to the hounds. Have you any cotton?”
“Not a bale. Not a pound.”
Mr. Biglin looked surprised, and so did his companions. The former looked hard at the boy for a moment, and then changed the form of his inquiry.
“Oh, ah!” said he. “Has your father got any?”
“Perhaps you had better go and ask him,” replied Rodney.
“That’s just what we did not more than an hour ago, but he wouldn’t give us any satisfaction.”
“Then you have good cheek to come here expecting me to give you any,” said the young overseer, growing angry. “My father is quite competent to attend to his own business.”
“I suppose he is. Why, yes; of course; but what’s the use of cutting off your nose to spite your face? We know you have cotton and plenty of it; and since you can’t sell it yourselves——”
“Why can’t we?” interposed Rodney.