“You think so? Well, you are mistaken.” He raised his hoe and stuck it in the ground up to the eye.
“There,” he said to Still, in a tone of command, “take that home. That’s the last time I’ll ever touch a hoe as long as I live. I’ve brains enough to make my living by them, and if I haven’t, I mean to starve!” He walked past the overseer with his head so straight, that Still began to explain that he had meant no offence. But Steve took no further notice of him.
“Jerry, you can keep on; I’ll see that you get your part of the crop.”
“Nor—I ain’t gwine to hit anur lick, nurr—I’ll starve wid yer.” And Jerry lifted his hoe and drove it into the ground; looked at Still superciliously, and followed his master with as near an imitation of his manner and gait as he could achieve.
It was only when Steve was out of hearing, that Still’s look changed. He clenched his fist, and shook it after the young man.
“I’ll bring you to it yet,” he growled.
That evening Steve announced his intention of beginning immediately the practice of his profession.