“Did you-all happen to notice what they're doing in the tavern now?” asked Hannibal.
“I low they're makin' a regular hog-killin' of it,” said Eph smartly. Hannibal descended from the fence.
“Yes, you can show me my chamber,” he said, and his tone was severe. What a white man did was not a matter for a black man to criticize. They went toward the open door of the tavern. Mr. Slosson's corn whisky had already wrought a marked transformation in the case of Slosson himself. His usually terse speech was becoming diffuse and irrelevant, while vacant laughter issued from his lips. Yancy was apparently unaffected by the good cheer of which he had partaken, but Murrell's dark face was flushed. The Scratch Hiller's ability to carry his liquor exceeded anything he had anticipated.
“You-all run along to bed, Nevvy,” said Yancy, as Hannibal entered the room. “I'll mighty soon follow you.”
Eph secured a tin candle-stick with a half-burnt candle in it and led the way into the passage back of the bar.
“Mas'r Slosson's jus' mo' than layin' back!” he said, as he closed the door after them.
“I reckon you-all will lay back, too, when you get growed up,” retorted Hannibal.
“No, sir, I won't. White folks won't let a nigger lay back. Onliest time a nigger sees co'n whisky's when he's totin' it fo' some one else.”
“I reckon a nigger's fool enough without corn whisky,” said Hannibal. They mounted a flight of stairs and passed down a narrow hall. This brought them to the back of the building, and Eph pushed open the door on his right.
“This heah's yo' chamber,” he said, and preceding his companion into the room, placed the candle on a chair.