Say he don't want me a-ploughin' his co'n. My law!
Whut you gwine do? Thar's them chillen--thar's Huldy. They got to be
fed--they 'bleeged to have meat and bread. Ef I don't--"
Again he lifted his apprehensive glance toward the cabin; and this time it
encountered a figure stepping from the low doorway--a young fellow with an
olive face, delicately cut features, black curling hair, the sleep still
lingering in his dark eyes. He approached the fence--the sorry, broken
fence,--put his hands upon it, and called sharply, "Pap!"
The old man released the plough-handles and came toward the youth,
shrinking like a truant schoolboy called up for discipline.
"Pap, this is the way you do me all the time--come an' plough in my co'n
when I don't know nothin' about hit--when I don't want hit done,--tryin' to
make everybody think I'm lazy and no 'count. Huldy tellin' me I ought to be
ashamed of myse'f, in bed while my po' old pappy--'at hain't ploughed a row
of his own for years--is a-gittin' my co'n outen the weeds."
The father stood, a chidden culprit. The boy had worked himself up to the
desired point.
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