“I ain’t got no aff’davis, boy; you g’long an’ don’ pesta me.”
“’Twon’t take you any time, Aunt Hal’fax. I jus’ want you to put yo’ mark to a statement I’m goin’ to write to the effec’ that my hoss, Jupe, is my own prop’ty; that you know it, an’ willin’ to swear to it.”
“Who say Jupe don’ b’long to you?” she questioned cautiously, leaning on her hoe.
He motioned toward the house.
“Who? Mista Septime and them?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I reckon!” she exclaimed, sympathetically.
“That’s it,” Gilma went on; “an’ nex’ thing they’ll be sayin’ yo’ ole mule, Policy, don’t b’long to you.”
She started violently.
“Who say so?”