“Come on, now.” Dilsey said, “You too big to sleep with folks. You a big boy now. Thirteen years old. Big enough to sleep by yourself in Uncle Maury’s room.” Dilsey said.
Uncle Maury was sick. His eye was sick, and his mouth. Versh took his supper up to him on the tray.
“Maury says he’s going to shoot the scoundrel.” Father said. “I told him he’d better not mention it to Patterson before hand.” He drank.
“Jason.” Mother said.
“Shoot who, Father.” Quentin said. “What’s Uncle Maury going to shoot him for.”
“Because he couldn’t take a little joke.” Father said.
“Jason.” Mother said, “How can you. You’d sit right there and see Maury shot down in ambush, and laugh.”
“Then Maury’d better stay out of ambush.” Father said.
“Shoot who, Father.” Quentin said, “Who’s Uncle Maury going to shoot.”
“Nobody.” Father said. “I dont own a pistol.”
Mother began to cry. “If you begrudge Maury your food, why aren’t you man enough to say so to his face. To ridicule him before the children, behind his back.”
“Of course I dont.” Father said, “I admire Maury. He is invaluable to my own sense of racial superiority. I wouldn’t swap Maury for a matched team. And do you know why, Quentin.”
“No, sir.” Quentin said.