“All o’ we!”
“All de mens!”
“Sho’! Ev’ybody’ll help em!”
Zeda bowed. That settled it. She’d get Joy to write a letter to send off by the next mail.
The crowd felt such relief, they broke into gay laughter. Merry jokes were cracked. The boll-weevils were left in the field. Sherry would fix them.
The people all turned home. In groups of three or four they talked and laughed boisterously, boasting what a good crop would be made this year. The cotton plants were strong. Able. The grass well-nigh killed out. Poisoning would do the rest.
Every trace of down-heartedness was gone. Discouragement forgotten. Sherry would come back and kill all the boll-weevils. Blue Brook would roll in money next fall.
Joy plodded home, stopping at times as if she didn’t see the path clearly. Once or twice she stumbled. The whole way, she stayed mute. At April’s house she stopped, but instead of going in, said to Breeze:
“I’m gwine an’ ax Ma to let you come stay wid me. I want you to mind my baby. Brudge an’ dem other chillen is so awful careless wid em. You’ll come, if Ma says so, enty?”
Breeze opened his mouth twice to answer before he got to speak out loud enough for her to hear.