And then in a minit or so it seems as though I hear a ringin in my ears, in words jist a little further away than the other, a sayin:
“It—will—be—done. It—will—be—done.”
If I only knew where we are to go to, and what Jobe can git to do, I might bear it easier. It seems as though an old man haint wanted to do work, and it seems every place is taken up.
Jobe has been out, ever since he has been able to go about, lookin for work and some place to move to.
Everybody seems to a heard of our bein foreclosed, and they dont seem to trust Jobe like they use to, though God knows he is as honest as he ever was.
Well, arter the lawyer had gone all around the place, givin his orders to the feller, he come up to the door and knocked. I opened the door and says:
“Come in.”
“No,” says he, “I jist wanted to know if you intended to git out by March the fust.”
Says I: “We will if we can find a place.”
“Well, you must git out whether you find a place or not,” says he, “as we want this gentleman to move in and commence spring work.”