"It mought!—It mought;—'n' 'f it did—you be one—a d' fust—t' bu'n in hell—too; but don't you 'dress me lak dat no mo'—in sech distressful terms! You autta be 'shamed a-yo' se'f."
And he munched pie for a time, uninterrupted by speech.
Thurman only grunted unconcernedly.
"What are the prospects of the colored people down here at the present time?" inquired Sidney, hoping to relieve the tension; but he could have rested easily on this score, for, as he learned later, they carried on that way every night. That was their diversion; but Thurman was now heard from.
"HELL!" he answered calmly.
"Good Lawd man!" cried Ferguson shocked. "What's comin' ovah you!"
"Lyin' 'n' stealin'; drinkin' cawn liquah 'n' gittin' drunk; bein' run in, locked up and sent to d' stock-ade 'n' chain-gang;" he resumed, ignoring Ferguson's shock entirely. Whereupon, Ferguson looked more distressed than ever; but only wrinkled his face in a helpless frown, and said nothing.
"Gee!" cried Sidney; "but that's an awful prospect." All this time Thurman had not smiled, but accepted everything as a matter of course, from the way he partook of sweet potato pie.
"You must not pay any attention to Mr. Thurman, Mister," said the proprietress, from across the room. She was a patient-faced, sleepy, short woman. And now, for the first time Thurman moved in his seat, and took exception to the words. Said he, somewhat loudly, and emphasizing his words with a raised hand:
"Pay no 'tention! Pay no 'tention; wull I reckon yu'd bettah. Hump," he deliberated, pausing long enough to fill his mouth with more potato: "Pay no 'tention when yu' know yu'se'f that Jedge Ly'les 's a sentincin' mo' nigga's to the stock-ade 'n' chain-gang than he's eve' done befo'. 'N' a good reason he has fo' doin' so too! Lyin', doity, stinkin', stealin' nigga's," he ended disgustedly.