Dick was a puzzle and no mistake about it. But to Charlie his rolling mischievous eyes, his cunning fingers and his wayward imagination were unfailing fountains of life. He found every bird’s nest within two miles of town. He could track a rabbit almost as swiftly and surely as a hound. He could work like fury when he had a mind to, and loaf a half day over one row of the garden when he didn’t want to work, which was his chronic condition.
When the revival season set in for the negroes in the summer, the days of sorrow began for householders. Every negro in the community became absolutely worthless and remained so until the emotional insanity attending their meetings wore off.
Aunt Mary, Mrs. Durham’s cook, got salvation over again every summer with increasing power and increasing degeneration in her work. Some nights she got home at two o’clock and breakfast was not ready until nine. Some nights she didn’t get home at all, and Mrs. Durham had to get breakfast herself.
It was a hard time for Dick who had not yet experienced religion, and on whom fell the brunt of the extra work and Mrs. Durham’s fretfulness besides.
“I tell you what less do, Charlie!” he cried one day. “Less go down ter dat nigger chu’ch, en bus’ up de meetin’! I’se gettin’ tired er dis.”
“How’ll you do it?”
“I show you somefin’?” He reached under his shirt next to his skin, and pulled out Dr. Graham’s sun glass.
“Where’d you get that, Dick?”
“Foun’ it whar er man lef’ it.” He walled his eyes solemnly.
“Des watch here when I turns ’im in de sun. I kin set dat pile er straw er fire wid it!”