"Well, I don't know as I do," replied the little man, but he made no move to leave his cart, his fears glued him to the seat.
"Come on, then!" insisted Custer impatiently.
"Don't you feel afraid, son?" inquired Mr. Shrimplin, with marked solicitude.
"Not with you!"
"Well, I don't know as you need to!" admitted Shrimplin. "But I don't feel quite right—I reckon I feel sort of sick, Custer—sort of—"
"Oh, come on—hurry up!"
"I don't know but I ought to see a doctor first—" faltered Mr. Shrimplin in a hollow tone.
Misery of soul twisted his weak face pathetically.
"Why you act like you was afraid!" said Custer, with withering contempt.
His words cut the elder Shrimplin like a knife; but they did not move him from his seat in the cart.