“Well, maybe not ever’where, but plenty places.”
The first gray of daylight began in the sky. And the work was done—the kegs of pork ready, the chicken coop ready to go on top. Ma opened the oven and took out the pile of roasted bones, crisp and brown, with plenty of gnawing meat left. Ruthie half awakened, and slipped down from the box, and slept again. But the adults stood around the door, shivering a little and gnawing at the crisp pork.
“Guess we oughta wake up Granma an’ Grampa,” Tom said. “Gettin’ along on toward day.” Ma said, “Kinda hate to, till the las’ minute. They need the sleep. Ruthie an’ Winfield ain’t hardly got no real rest neither.”
“Well, they kin all sleep on top a the load,” said Pa. “It’ll be nice an’ comf’table there.”
Suddenly the dogs started up from the dust and listened. And then, with a roar, went barking off into the darkness. “Now what in hell is that?” Pa demanded. In a moment they heard a voice speaking reassuringly to the barking dogs and the barking lost its fierceness. Then footsteps, and a man approached. It was Muley Graves, his hat pulled low.
He came near timidly. “Morning, folks,” he said.
“Why, Muley.” Pa waved the ham bone he held. “Step in an’ get some pork for yourself, Muley.”
“Well, no,” said Muley. “I ain’t hungry, exactly.”
“Oh, get it, Muley, get it. Here!” And Pa stepped into the house and brought out a hand of spareribs.
“I wasn’t aiming to eat none a your stuff,” he said. “I was jus’ walkin’ aroun’, an’ I thought how you’d be goin’, an’ I’d maybe say good-by.”