Beyond the white church on the other side of the hill he heard a motor
coming in on the Jonesboro road. Presently he saw a battered car moving
around the long swing of the pike, spewing a trail of dust down the
wind. Its clacking became prodigious.
The mulatto was just entering that indefinite stretch of thoroughfare
where a country road becomes a village street when there came a wail of
brakes behind him and he looked around.
It was Dawson Bobbs's car. The fat man now slowed up not far from the
mulatto and called to him.
"Yes, sir," said Peter.
Dawson bobbed his fat head backward and upward in a signal for Peter to
approach. It held the casualness of one certain to be obeyed.
Although Peter had done no crime, nor had even harbored a criminal
intention, a trickle of apprehension went through him at Bobbs's nod. He
recalled Jim Pink's saying that it was bad luck to see the constable. He
walked up to the shuddering motor and stood about three feet from the
running-board.
The officer bit on a sliver of toothpick that he held in his thin lips.
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