“Game’s closed for the night!” Buck announced, and the gamesters took their departure. They made no protest, for it was not feasible to continue gambling 127 when everyone knows a parson brings bad luck to a player.
The outside lights were extinguished, and Buck brought Slip from the kitchen inside to Rasba.
“This is Slip,” Buck explained, and the two shook hands, the fugitive staring anxiously at the other’s face, expecting recognition.
“Don’t yo’ know me, Parson?” Slip exclaimed. “Jock Drones. Don’t yo’ know me?”
“Jock Drones?” Rasba cried, staring. “Why, Sho! Hit is! Lawse—an’ I found yo’ right yeah—thisaway!”
“Yassuh,” Jock turned away under that bright gaze, “but I’m goin’ back, Parson! I’m goin’ back to stand trial, suh! I neveh knowed any man, not a blood relation would think so much of me, as to come way down yeah to tell me my mammy, my good ole mammy, wanted me to be safe––”
“An’ good, Jock!” Rasba cried.
“An’ good, suh,” the young man added, obediently.
“I’d better go over and see our sick man,” Buck turned to Slip.
“A sick man?” Rasba asked. “Where mout he be?”