on me. No mom! I ain’t havin’ no truck wit’ dem machine-gun boys!”
Jeff paused and passed his hand over his forehead as if he were trying to wipe away the alcoholic cobwebs that were accumulating about his perceptive faculties. Then suddenly he pointed a bony finger at Nancy and demanded:
“How come you heah?”
“That’s a fine question for you to ask!” replied Nancy indulgently. “But I don’t mind telling you. I arrived just as the robbers were hauling off the last of the furniture. They locked me in the closet. I must have been there for hours.”
“You was in dat dah closet all dat time!” Jeff’s voice suddenly took on a pathetic tone. “You po’h chile! Suppose you had o’ stahved to death in dah, or da house had burned down, or you was scared into fits, or—”
“There now, Jeff. Don’t take on about what might have happened to me. I’m all right.”
Nancy determined to try persuasion on the old fellow in order to find out what had happened to him.
“Tell me, where you were last night,” she suggested gently.
“Well, Miss, it was dis heah way: I was out in dah yard a-chorin’ around last night and a-thinkin’ how I wished I was some place whah I wasn’t—just any place, I didn’t mind wheah. I was just all fed up bein’ a caih-taker and takin’ caih o’ all dis truck from mornin’ till night. It ain’t such an excitin’ life, Miss, and while I’s done sowed all mah wild oats, I still sows a little rye now and den.”
“Yes, Jeff—I can smell that on your breath right now.”