And then,
with a wheeling of the years, they were scattered everywhere.
As the negroes passed the Berry cabin, Nan Berry came out with an old
shawl around her bristling spikes. She stopped the two men and drew them
to her gate with a gesture.
"Wha you gwine?"
"Jonesbuh."
"Whut you goin' do 'bout po-o-o' Cissie?"
"Goin' to see ef the sheriff won' take me 'stid o' Cissie."
"Tha's right," said Nan, nodding solemnly. "I hopes he will. You is mo'
used to it, Tump."
"Yeah, an' 'at jail sho ain't no place fuh a nice gal lak Cissie."
"Sho ain't," agreed Nan.
Peter interrupted to say he was sure the sheriff would not exchange.
The hopes of his listeners fell.
"Weh-ul," dragged out Nan, with a long face, "of co'se now it's lak dis:
ef Cissie goin' to stay in dat ja-ul, she's goin' to need some mo'
clo'es 'cep'n whut she's got on,--specially lak she is."
Tump stared down the swing of the crescent.
"'Fo' Gawd, dis sho don' seem lak hit's right to me," he said.
Nan let herself out at the rickety gate. "You niggers wait heah tull I
runs up to Miss Vannie's an' git some o' Cissie's clo'es fuh you to tote
her.
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