"Dat ends it. Oh, I likes preachers—likes ter yere 'em talk, but I ain't nebber got no money outen one yit. Da all time talk erbout gib whut you got ter de po' an' foller on, an' da follers all right; but I ain't seen 'em gibbin' nuthin'."
"They give to the spirit, Kintchin," remarked Mrs. Mayfield.
"Yas'm. But sometimes I'd leetle ruther da give ter de pocket. Howsomedever, I mustn't go too fur wid dis man. He's er preacher, but he er Starbuck an' he w'ar me out ef I push him too fur."
"Now, Kintchin," said the preacher, "you know you couldn't provoke me into strikin' you. Don't you?"
"Yas, suh, I feels it; still I's er little skeered o' you. An' whut you gwine gimme caze I skeered? Ain't it wuth er quarter ter be skeered like I is? Huh?"
"Here," replied Jim, giving him a piece of money. "It's worth a quarter to see Satan play his pranks."
A turn in the road, and there was a river, narrow, deep and as blue as the sky. Wild spice bushes, shedding a sweet perfume, grew upon the steep banks, and far below they saw a black bass leap to gulp a mouthful of the sun. The hills stretched away, purple, blue, green; and through the air shot a red bird, lightening from a cloud of flowers. A gaudy, wild dragon, zouave-arrayed, stood guard over a violet nodding beside a rock, and the milk-maidish white clover trembled in fear of the lust-looking strawberry. Bold upon a high rock, with a fish in his claw, sat a defiant eagle, and straight down the river flew a sand-hill crane, like a fragment of gray mist.
They met a young fellow, carrying a tea-cup in his hand, with hair that looked like hackled flax and with a grin that invited the confidence of all mankind. It was Mose Blake, known to neighborhood fame as the stutterer. He halted and attempted to say something, but Kintchin drove on, muttering that he had no time for words that a fellow chewed all to pieces. The boy tried to shout his defiance, but "you are a—a—a f—f—f—," was all he could utter and even this was forestalled by Kintchin, who called back at him: "Oh, we knows all erbout dat."
The road dipped down, turned, and they drove upon a ferry-boat, a mere platform of rude plank and propelled by two gaunt men. On the other shore they drove along still keeping close to the river. A country boy hailed them, but without heeding him Kintchin remarked: "Dat's Laz Spencer, an' he takin' dat meal bag home somewhar ter borry suthin' else. Ef he wuz ter go ter heben an' foun' dat he couldn't borry some angel's harp, he wouldn't stay dar. I 'spize ter see er pusson all de time wantin' suthin'."
"You don't borrow, do you?" Tom asked, and he answered: