For an instant a puzzled expression lifted the white eyebrows and slackened the lank jaw of Sam Yerby. Then his shoulders straightened. He had been caught with his guard down, detected in the mood of hopelessness into which he often fell now.
He came gamely to time. “Well—well, Miss Ruth. I’m sure proud to see you, ma’am.”
“They told me you were at a road camp. One of the guards said so.”
“I was, but I’m back. You’re looking fine, ma’am. Missie writes me you-all done got a little baby of yore own now.”
She nodded. “Yes, I’ll tell you all about it. But how are you? Missie will ask me a hundred questions.”
“I’m tol’able, thank you.” Yerby, looking across her shoulder, saw a guard moving toward them. He did not mention to her that he was liable to ten days’ solitary confinement for talking to a visitor without permission. “How’s Missie—and Son?”
“Missie is prettier than ever. She’s always talking about you. And the boy—he’s the dandiest little chap—smart as a whip and good as gold. You’ll be awfully pleased with him when you come home.”
“Yes’m—when I come home.”
His voice fell flat. Its lifelessness went to the heart of his friend. She saw that hope was dead within him. He was getting into the fifties, and the years were slipping away.
“That won’t be long. We’re getting up a petition to——”