"
Apparently Jim Pink had merely quoted a few words from a poem he knew.
He stared at the green-black depth of the glade, which set in about
half-way up the hill they were climbing.
"Ef this weather don' ever break," he observed sagely, "we sho am in fuh
a dry spell."
Peter did not pursue the topic of the weather. He climbed the hill in
silence, wondering just what the buffoon meant. He suspected he was
hinting at Cissie's visit to his room. However, he did not dare ask any
questions or press the point in any manner, lest he commit himself.
The minstrel had succeeded in making Peter's walk very uncomfortable, as
somehow he always did. Peter went on thinking about the matter. If Jim
Pink knew of Cissie's visit, all Niggertown knew it. No woman's
reputation, nobody's shame or misery or even life, would stand between
Jim Pink and what he considered a joke. The buffoon was the crudest
thing in this world--a man who thought himself a wit.
Peter could imagine all the endless tweaks to Cissie's pride Niggertown
would give the octoroon.
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