“So he’p me God, I’ll nurver pester him!”
“And when he is ready to go—to try to escape, oh, Solomon, you will stand by us—with Ajax ready?”
He started—he jumped from his seat. “Not Ajax—any critter we got but Ajax.”
“Oh, Solomon, they cannot run—it’s—it’s—Ajax or death for him.”
She was weeping, her head on his great shoulder, clinging to his arm, the perfume of her hair going into the soul of him like the odor of wild grape blossoms after the spring rains in Dingley Dell. “Will you—will you, Solomon; oh, save him for me!”
“So he’p me God, I will—he bein’ yo’ brother—my brother.”
“You are my brother, Solomon—the Brother of Nobility.”
Silence. He sat holding her hand as he would Dinah Mariah’s. “Will you—er—kiss yo’ brother—when he gits here?”
She blushed. “Don’t we always kiss our brothers, Solomon?”
He scratched his head thoughtfully. “Awhile ago you made a remark cal’k’lated ter sorter sot me to ’sposin’ thet mebbe I mou’t also be yo’ brother—”