“You needn’t tell me that,” said Wakeman, sharply. “I know that; but that ain’t no reason fer ’er to throw ’er money away gittin’ a divorce.”
Lucinda filled her hand with salt and began to sprinkle it on a side of meat. “Law me,” she tittered, “I ’ll bet you hain’t heerd about Marty an’ Jeff Goardley.”
“Yes, I have. Meddlin’ busybodies has writ me about that, too,” said Wakeman, sitting down on the hopper of a corn-sheller and idly swinging his foot.
“He’s a-courtin’ of ’er like a broom-sedge field afire,” added the sister, tentatively.
“She’s got too much sense to marry ’im after ’er promises to me,” said the convict, firmly.
“She lets ’im come reg’lar ev’ry Tuesday night.”
Wakeman was not ready with a reply, and Lucinda began to salt another piece of pork.
“Ev’ry Tuesday night, rain or shine,” she said.
The words released Wakeman’s tongue.
“Huh, he’s the most triflin’ fop in the county.”