“Lawdy, Mister! Look’a dere!”
Pant removed his gaze from the heavens and looked where Snowball pointed, at the bed of dying embers.
“What was it, Snowball?” he drawled. “Why! Where are our friends?”
“Dey done lef’,” whispered Snowball, still gripping his arm. “An’ so ’ud you. It’s a ha’nt, er a sign, er sumthin’. Blood. It was red, lak blood. All red. Dem fellers was red, an’ dem po’k chops, an’ dat sand, all red lak blood.”
“Pork chops,” said Pant slowly.
“Yes, sir, po’k chops an’ everything. I done heard dat Mose say it were a sign. Dey’s be a circus wreck, er sumthin’. Train wreck of dat dere circus.”
“Pork chops,” said Pant again thoughtfully. “Where did the pork chops go? Why! There is one broiler full on the wood pile. They must have left it there for you.”
“No, sir! Dat Mose done throwed it dere. Dat’s how scared he was.”
“They won’t be back, I guess; so you’d better just warm them up a bit and sit up to the table.”
Terror still lurked in Snowball’s eyes, but in his nostrils still lingered the savory smell of pork chops. The pork chops won out and he was soon feasting royally.