"Where do you live?" I inquired of the old lady.
"Up in the Tennessee hills, and every time I come down in this low ground I want to get back. The laziest folks I ever saw in my life, and the niggers ain't worth their salt. And the way Giles pets that black preacher makes me sick, a-buying of his church bells to keep folks awake at night. I'd make him chop down them good-for-nothing trees out there and plant onions. That's what I'd do with him. Florence, where did Giles go?"
"Why, he sent word over to the plantation to have his hounds brought last night, but, somehow, the message wasn't delivered, and so he has gone after them himself. We want to start from here—"
"After the hounds? Start where?"
"Fox-hunting."
The old woman cleared her throat with an ach, ach. "Fox-hunting? Is it possible that he keeps up that foolishness? Chasing a fox, when there's so much to be done in this world? I read in a paper yesterday that a woman had starved to death in New Orleans, and here you all are, going to chase a fox."
"Why, Mrs. Braxon," the young man spoke up, "we can't help that. If we let the fox go it won't bring the woman back to life."
She looked at him and his knees flew together. "But you could be raising something for folks to eat."
"Yes, ma'am, but we raise more now than we can sell."
She looked at him with a bow and a smirk of contempt. "More than you can sell. Yes, of course. More than you can sell to a woman that's starving. Yes, of course."