‚ÄúIt‚Äôs my leg again, Master Harry‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe leg what I hurt in the gin last fall,‚Äù he answered, uneasily.
Cresswell frowned. “It’s probably whiskey,” he assured his companion, in an undertone; then to the man:
‚ÄúYou must get to the field tomorrow,‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhis habitually calm, unfeeling positiveness left no ground for objection; ‚ÄúI cannot support you in idleness, you know.‚Äù
‚ÄúYes, Master Harry,‚Äù the other returned, with conciliatory eagerness; ‚ÄúI knows that‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI knows it and I ain‚Äôt shirking. But, Master Harry, they ain‚Äôt doing me right ‚Äôbout my cabin‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI just wants to show you.‚Äù He got out some dirty papers, and started to hobble forward, wincing with pain. Mary Taylor stirred in her seat under an involuntary impulse to help, but Cresswell touched the horse.
“All right, Uncle Jim,” he said; “we’ll look it over tomorrow.”
They turned presently to where they could see the Cresswell oaks waving lazily in the sunlight and the white gleam of the pillared “Big House.”
A pause at the Cresswell store, where Mr. ¬ÝCresswell entered, afforded Mary Taylor an opportunity further to extend her fund of information.
“Do you go to school?” she inquired of the black boy who held the horse, her mien sympathetic and interested.
“No, ma’am,” he mumbled.
“What’s your name?”
‚ÄúBuddy‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôse one of Aunt Rachel‚Äôs chilluns.‚Äù