“An’ what you done wid your ole hoe you took away this noon? You didn’t trade that off for a new one?”
“Yes, I did, ’f ye will know.”
“’Liah Johnsing,” blurted out Aunt Lucy, as a sudden suspicion flamed in her eyes, “dat ain’t one of Moses Benson’s hoes? You ain’t gone and changed off yo’ ole hoe for one his’n, I hope? You wouldn’t do dat, if he is a skincher, an’ you a member ob de church, ’Liah Johnsing?”
“Mis’ Johnsing, you jes’ ten’ to yo’ own bus’ness. Don’ you let me hear not one mo’ word ’bout dat hoe.”
Suddenly, as bedtime drew near, ’Liah rose and went into the house, saying as he went:
“Got to go down to de sto’, Lucy. I forgot I got to mow Dawkinses fiel’ to-morrow, an’ my whetstun’s clear down to de bone, an’ I’ve got to start off to-morrow ’fore sto’s open.”
’Liah had been gone hardly a minute, when Aunt Lucy called in a tragic whisper to Paul, her oldest boy, six years of age.
“You Paul, come here quick, by yo’self.”
Paul, used to obeying, came promptly, and was drawn close up to his mother on the settee. “Now, you Paul, I wonder kin I trust you to do something for me?”
Paul, somewhat disturbed, kept discreetly silent.