De Yippo-ma-pot’mus—an’ de kick-kangaroo.”
The bowing suddenly stopped and David was conscious of a pair of very white eyeballs looking at him through the glass. For the space of a breath or more David was not at all sure that he wanted to get any nearer that strange, bent old figure. He was almost sure that he did not want to go inside. Not that he was afraid. Oh no, indeed! He was not in the least bit afraid; there was nothing to be afraid of. Even Johanna had not said anything harmful about the old cook at the lumber-camp. Nevertheless, there was something mysterious, something not altogether inviting about that inky-black face with the white hair and rolling eyeballs.
David was speedily withdrawing himself, having decided that there was great virtue in distance, when he heard the creak of the cabin door. In a trice the old negro, fiddle in hand, appeared around the corner.
“Wha you goin’, honey?” There was unmistakable regret over David’s retreating figure.
“Why—why, I’m just going back where I came from.”
“Wha you come from?”
David pointed upward and the old darky nodded comprehendingly.
“’Pears to me dat am a long way fer a li’l’ boy to come an’ den turn ’bout an’ go right home. Come in, honey, an’ Uncle Joab’ll play you somethin’ lively on de ole fiddle.”
David hesitated, but only for an instant. There was something too lonely and appealing about the man to be denied. David was still not at all sure that he wanted to go, even while he was following the lumber cook round to the door.
It was surprisingly cozy and cheerful inside, perhaps because of the open fire, the strips of pine cones, husked corn, and bunches of colored berries that decorated the walls and rafters. Uncle Joab caught David’s wondering, curious gaze, and he chuckled.