He nodded towards Jeffy, who seemed awed by the unaccustomedness of his surroundings, for he kept himself hidden back of the old man, his battered and brimless straw hat held nervously in his trembling fingers.
“I am going to get work for him.”
“Him work! Him! Why, he don't want no work, Mr. Oakley. He's too strong to work.” And Clarence went off into gales of merriment at the mere idea.
For an instant Jeffy gazed in silence at the boy with quickly mounting wrath, then he said, in a hoarse tremolo:
“You durned little loafer! Don't you give me none of your lip!”
Clarence had sufficiently subsided to remark, casually: “The old man'd like to know what you got for that horse-blanket and whip you stole from our barn. You're a bird, you are! When he was willing to let you sleep in the barn because he was sorry for you!”
“You lie, durn you!” fiercely. “I didn't steal no whip or horse-blanket!”
“Yes, you did, too! The old man found out who you sold 'em to,” smiling with exasperating coolness.
The outcast turned to Roger Oakley. “Nobody's willing to let by-gones be by-gones,” and two large tears slid from his moist eyes. Then his manner changed abruptly. He became defiant, and, step-ing from behind his protector, shook a long and very dirty forefinger in Clarence's face.
“You just tell Chris Berry this from me—I'm done with him. I don't like no sneaks, and you just tell him this—he sha'n't never bury me.”