He was pretending great fear,
and was shouting out in his loose minstrel voice:
"Hey, don' shoot down dis way, black man, tull I makes my exit!" And a
voice, rich with contempt, called back:
"You needn't be skeered, you fool rabbit of a nigger!"
Peter turned with a qualm. Quite close to him, and in another direction
from which he had been looking, stood Tump Pack. The ex-soldier looked
the worse for wear after his jail sentence. His uniform was frayed, and
over his face lay a grayish cast that marks negroes in bad condition. At
his side, attached by a belt and an elaborate shoulder holster, hung a
big army revolver, while on the greasy lapel of his coat was pinned his
military medal for exceptional bravery on the field of battle.
"Been lookin' fuh you fuh some time, Peter," he stated grimly.
Peter considered the formidable figure with a queer sensation. He tried
to take Tump's appearance casually; he tried to maintain an air of
ordinariness.
"Didn't know you were back."
"Yeah, I's back."
"Have you--been looking for me?"
"Yeah.
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