“Miss—Miss”—
“Nellie,” she said, sympathetically, helping him out.
“Do they—breed ’em—all like you-uns down here?”
She laughed and handed him the plate. Solomon knew the ham, but did not know what the rolls and the orange were. His hand touched hers—he fumbled and dropped the plate: “God, but I thort I—I teched fire!”
“Oh!” and the hurt look made Solomon wish to fight something for her sake—“but I’ll soon be back with more.” She turned with a pretty gesture.
“Don’t—don’t,” he called, “send it by a nigger. Who can eat with a angel lookin’?” She laughed so heartily at this that Solomon was soon himself. When she brought him another plate he forgot everything except he had seen her, that at last into his life something had come. He wished very much to impress her—to say something grand, but everything he tried to say ended in a brag—so unusual for Solomon:
“I was heah las’ night a-guardin’ you-uns, an’ I come mighty nigh killin’ a man.”
“Oh!”—and the fun went out of her eyes. “I am so grateful to you. Did—did—he hurt you when he fired?”
All the brag went out of him. Not for the world would he have her know that.
“No—but—it was a narrow shave.”