It seemed to Peter Siner only a little while since he and Ida May were skittering through wintry weather from one fire to another, with Cissie, a wailing, wet-nosed little spoil-sport, trailing after them. And then, with a wheeling of the years, they were scattered everywhere.
As the negroes passed the Berry cabin, Nan Berry came out with an old shawl around her bristling spikes. She stopped the two men and drew them to her gate with a gesture.
"Wha you gwine?"
"Jonesbuh."
"Whut you goin' do 'bout po-o-o' Cissie?"
"Goin' to see ef the sheriff won' take me 'stid o' Cissie."
"Tha's right," said Nan, nodding solemnly. "I hopes he will. You is mo' used to it, Tump."
"Yeah, an' 'at jail sho ain't no place fuh a nice gal lak Cissie."
"Sho ain't," agreed Nan.
Peter interrupted to say he was sure the sheriff would not exchange.