finish, an overseer rode up. He began talking abruptly, with a quick side-glance at Mary, in which she might have caught a gleam of surprised curiosity.
“That old nigger, Jim Sykes, over on the lower place, sir, ain’t showed up again this morning.”
Cresswell nodded. “I’ll drive by and see,” he said carelessly.
The old man was discovered sitting before his cabin with his head in his hands. He was tall, black, and gaunt, partly bald, with tufted hair. One leg was swathed in rags, and his eyes, as he raised them, wore a cowed and furtive look.
“Well, Uncle Jim, why aren’t you at work?” called Cresswell from the roadside. The old man rose painfully to his feet, swayed against the cabin, and clutched off his cap.
‚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