“That man, Todd, Bennie,” he said, “I figured him wrong. I didn't put him high enough. He's cornered me.”
“Why doesn't he make sure of us now?”
“Maybe he'd rather keep things agreeable while he can. That's good sense. Why, he's figuring right. He's a better man than Cavarly. Why, look here! We can't light out into this swamp. The nigger'd corral us in ten minutes.”
Calhoun fell again into gloomy silence, staring at the wild, tangled, and hopeless jungle that slipped slowly past us. Old Turpentine was plodding ahead behind his mule, and even the hump of his stolid shoulders was discouraging. “Folks meek out dey play kiyi wi' Marse Tommy. Peahs to me dey pow'ful misfo'tunate.”
I had grown almost to think Calhoun infallible with his courage and wits. It went hard with us both to have him beaten by that farmer and seine-fisher, with two negroes. It was Calhoun's pride—a weakness, if one chooses, at least what gave him most delight—to look at life and every experience as a kind of game, which he played to win, measuring himself with other men.
“I've pulled you into it, Bennie,” he said slowly. “I shouldn't have done it. Cavarly'd have seen you out, if I'd let you alone to begin with.”
“That's not square,” I said half angrily.
“Why?”
“Don't we go together? Anyhow I want my share. Why, Calhoun, I say—I don't like that talk. I say, you're all right with me, and I won't have it.”
Calhoun looked at me curiously and said: