“Give you whut, in de name er de Lawd!” exclaimed Phyllis.
“Jes’ two lit’le gyarters I kotch an’ put in er bottle fur de chile,” Zeek explained again.
“Yas,” returned Phyllis angrily, “you kotch dem snakes fur nuthin’ but ter tu’n ’em loose ’bout my foots, soon es you gits me in er tight place—I knows yer. Yer orter be ’shame er yo’se’f,—an’ callin’ yo’se’f er deac’n, too!”
Zeek threw his head back and gave a roaring laugh. “Whew!” he finished, “Sis’ Phyllis, you is de slickes’ ’ooman I ev’r seed. How yer know I gwine tu’n dem gyrters loose on yer?” and Zeek laughed again until he held to the gate for support.
Phyllis turned without deigning a reply.
“Hole on, Sis’ Phyllis,” Zeek ran and caught her by the arm, “hole on, Sist’r,—you ain’ mad sho’ nuf, is yer?”
“Tu’n me loose, Zeekiel,” she demanded furiously.
Instead, he caught the other arm also. “I ain’ gwine let yer go mad like yer is,” then consiliatingly, “yer knows dem gyart’rs snakes can’t bite nobody—I jes’ wanter see yer dance er lit’le,” and again he laughed, as the picture presented itself.
“I gwine call Miss Lucy, ef yer doan take yer han’s off’n me,” stolidly demanded Phyllis.
“All right,” he said holding on as tightly as ever, “I jes’ want yer ter wait hyah tell I goes down ter de orchard an’ gets yer er hat full er dem big peaches.” This argument lessened the rigidity of her face. “Dey’s de fines’ thing ter swage mis’ry er de speeret yer ev’r seed.” She allowed him to shove her gently to the ground under the lilac bushes. “Hyah, set right hyah tell I comes back.” Seeing the old woman partly restored to good humor, he slammed the garden gate behind him and went down the path, singing.