for she called to him through the partition, and a moment later her bulky form filled the kitchen entrance. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked at him accusingly.
“Wha you gwine, son?”
“For a walk.”
The old negress tilted her head aslant and looked fixedly at him.
“You's gwine to dat Cissie Dildine's, Peter.”
Peter looked at his mother, surprised and rather disconcerted that she had guessed his intentions from his mere footsteps. The young man changed his plans for his walk, and began a diplomatic denial:
“No, I'm going to walk by myself. I'm tired; I'm played out.”
“Tired?” repeated his mother, doubtfully. “You ain't done nothin' but set an' turn th'ugh books an' write on a lil piece o' paper.”
Peter was vaguely amused in his weariness, but thought that he concealed his mirth from his mother.
“That gets tiresome after a while.”
She grunted her skepticism. As Peter moved for the door she warned him:
“Peter, you knows ef Tump Pack sees you, he's gwine to shoot you sho!”
“Oh, no he won't; that's Tump's talk.”
“Talk! talk! Whut's matter wid you, Peter? Dat nigger done git crowned fuh killin' fo' men!” She stood staring at him with white eyes. Then she
