"Didn't you? Well, I beg yo' pardon, I thought you did."
Kintchin, who sat in front, ducked his head and chuckled.
"Oh, de folks up yere is de 'commerdatinist you eber seed. Da'll stand up fur you ur fall down fur you ur do anythin' you pleases. Sorry I come off an' furgot suthin'. Allus de way—man furgits whut he needs de mos.'"
"Did you forget something, Kintchin?" Mrs. Mayfield inquired.
"Yas'm, come off an' furgot twenty-fi' cents dat I wanted to fetch wid me. I owes er quarter ter er crap-shootin' nigger ober dar, an' when I kain't pay him he gwine retch his han' up atter my wool. I doan want no big nigger retchin' atter me, caze I ain't right well dis mawin'. Co'se ef I wuz well I wouldn' mine it so much, but ez it is, it bodders me might'ly. You neber had no trouble wid er crap-shootin' nigger, ef you had you'd be mo' consarned. Anybody gwine gib me er quarter."
"I'll give you a testament," said Jim, looking back and smiling at Tom.
"Testament! Ointment you better say," replied Kintchin. "Testament ain't gwine be no mo' fo'ce wid dem niggers den de Lawd's pra'r would wid er wild haug. Huh, I'se er dreadin' eber step o' de way ober dar."
"Here's a quarter," said Mrs. Mayfield, handing him a piece of silver.
"Thankee, ma'm. Oh, you's whut da calls er missiunary, an' I gwine he'p ole black mammy pray fur you."
"Oh, how beautiful—nature sleeps and dreams of paradise," mused the romantic woman and the preacher clasped his hands.