Now Hughes came bolting into the yard and rushed Fred. He met a kick in the stomach that sent him staggering away in pain. Covey stared after his overseer stupidly. The nigger had kicked a white man! Covey dodged back—needlessly, for Fred had not moved toward him. He stood quietly waiting, ready to ward off any attack. Covey eyed him.
“You goin’ to keep on resistin’?”
There was something plaintive about Covey’s question. Amelia had a crazy impulse to laugh. She leaned far out the window. She must hear. The boy’s voice reached her quite distinctly—firm, positive tones.
“Yessir. You can’t beat me no mo’—never no mo’.”
Now Covey was frightened. He looked around: his cowhide—a club—anything. Hughes, at one side, straightened up.
“I’ll get the gun,” he snarled.
Covey gave a start, but he spoke out of the corner of his mouth.
“It’s in the front hall.”
Amelia saw Hughes coming toward the house; his face was livid. Then she heard Lucy’s shrill voice and Hughes’s curses. She guessed what Lucy was saying—that they dare not kill Captain Auld’s slave.
The boy had not moved. He was watching Covey, whose eyes had fallen on a knotty piece of wood lying just outside the stable door. He began easing his way toward it. Amelia’s breath was coming in panting gulps. Her knees were shaking.