"You keep the car. I'm going in," Jerry declared, halting in the thin shade by the deep hole.
"I think I'd better go, too," Joe insisted.
"I think not," Jerry said, with a finality in her tone there was no refuting.
York Macpherson had well said that there was no duplicate for Jerry, no forecasting just what she would do next.
As Jerry's form cast a shadow across his doorway old Fishing Teddy turned with a start from a bowl of corn-meal dough that he was stirring. The little structure was a rude domicile, fitted to the master of it in all its features. On a plain unpainted table Jerry saw a roll of bills weighted down by an old cob pipe. A few coins were neatly stacked beside them, with a pearl-handled knife and button-hook lying farther away.
"I came for my money," Jerry said, quietly. "It's all I have until I can earn some myself."
The old man's fuzzy brown cheeks seemed to grow darker, as if his blush was of a color with the rest of his make-up. He shuffled quickly to the table, gathered up all the money, and, coming nearer, silently laid it in Jerry's hands.
The girl looked at him curiously. It was as if he were handing her a handkerchief she had dropped, and she caught herself saying:
"Thank you. But what made you take it? Don't you know it is all I have, and I must earn my living, too, just like anybody else?"
Old Fishing Teddy opened his mouth twice before his voice would act. "I didn't take it. I was goin' to fetch it up to you soon as I could git up there again," he squeaked out at last.