There came a second shot, before Virginia rapped again, crying angrily, “It is I, Virginia. Put up your pistol and open the door!”
After a very long silence within the hut. “I ’spects dey done napped off,” mildly suggested Uncle Vete. Virginia was preparing to knock again, when a little gust of wind arising, the door swung silently open, showing that it had been unbarred for some time.
Virginia stepped into the room, carrying one of the carriage lamps and unheeding Uncle Vete’s caution to “Go easy, honey, an’ holler ’fo’ you git inside, so dey know who comin’.”
Fair’s companion lay sprawled upon the gay patchwork quilt of Cindy’s best bed. He was, or pretended to be, sleeping heavily. The hack driver would have to be called if he was to be roused and gotten into the vehicle.
At the table, his head among half-filled and empty glasses, and the wreck of a poker game, sat Fairfax Sevier. Virginia went with averted eyes past the bed to her brother, and shook him by the shoulder.
“Buddy,” she said huskily, “Buddy, dear, I brought a hack out for you. Can you walk to it?”
“Who’s goin’—take care—Parke? Parke’s been drinkin’,” explained poor Fair, with something like a whimper.
Virginia turned to the bed; and contempt fell cool upon her suffering. A face in drunken slumber is not calculated to command respect, even to win much sympathy.
The girl took the shock like the daughter of warriors that she was. “Does Parke Winchester drink now?” she inquired, finally, of the negro.
Again Vete stole that quick, side-long glance at her. “I ain’t never knowed de time Marse Parke quit,” he returned finally. “He might fool de white folks ’bout hit, but he ain’t take dat trouble wid de niggers. Him an’ Marse Fair been at my house mo’ dan onct lately.”