"Pooh—it's easy!" he said with scorn.
The negroes crowded around his pile of cotton.
"Dat Boy is sho one cotton-picker!" cried Jim Pemberton, regarding him with grinning admiration.
"Of course, I can pick cotton if I want to—"
"But ye raly don't wanter?" Jim grinned.
"Sure I do. I'm sick of school."
Jim laughed aloud and, coming close, whispered insinuatingly:
"I'se sho sick er pickin' cotton, an' when yer quits de job—"
"I'm not going to quit—"
"Yassah, yassah?—I understan' dat—but de pint is, when yer do quit, don't fergit Jim, Marse Jeff. I likes you. You got de spunk. I wants ter be yo' man."