The appeal touched the Boy's pride. He answered with quiet dignity:
"All right, James—"
Jim lifted his head and walled his eyes:
"Des listen at him call me Jeemes! I knows a real marster when I sees him!"
That night, the father asked no questions and made no comment on the fact that he had picked a hundred and ten pounds of cotton—as much as any man in the field. His deciding to work with his hands had apparently been accepted as final.
This thing of deciding life for himself was a serious business. It would be very silly to jump into a career with slaves, coarse and degrading, just because a fool happened to be teaching at the County Academy. He must think this thing over. Tired as he was, he lay awake until eleven o'clock, thinking, thinking for himself.
It was lonesome work, too, this thinking for himself.
If his father had only done the thinking for him, it would have been so much easier to accept his decision and then rebel if he didn't like it.
He returned to the field next morning with renewed determination. Through the long, hot, interminable day he bent and fought the battle in silence. His back ached worse than the first day. Every muscle in his finely strung little body was bruised and sore and on fire.
He began to ask if his father were right. Wasn't a man a double fool who had brains and refused to use them?