The negroes whispered to one another and smiled as they looked his way.
He paid no attention.
By four o'clock, the weariness had become a habit and at sundown he felt
stronger than at dawn. He swung the bag over his back and started to the
weighing place.
"Pooh--it's easy!" he said with scorn.
The negroes crowded around his pile of cotton.
"Dat Boy is sho one cotton-picker!" cried Jim Pemberton, regarding him
with grinning admiration.
"Of course, I can pick cotton if I want to--"
"But ye raly don't wanter?" Jim grinned.
"Sure I do. I'm sick of school."
Jim laughed aloud and, coming close, whispered insinuatingly:
"I'se sho sick er pickin' cotton, an' when yer quits de job--"
"I'm not going to quit--"
"Yassah, yassah?--I understan' dat--but de pint is, _when_ yer _do_
quit, don't fergit Jim, Marse Jeff. I likes you. You got de spunk. I
wants ter be yo' man."
The appeal touched the Boy's pride. He answered with quiet dignity:
"All right, James--"
Jim lifted his head and walled his eyes:
"Des listen at him call me Jeemes! I knows a real marster when I sees
him!"
That night, the father asked no questions and made no comment on the
fact that he had picked a hundred and ten pounds of cotton--as much as
any man in the field.
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