“Well, whut's de cause uv 'em?” asked the Persimmon, suddenly bringing his protruding yellow eyes around on the sleight-of-hand performer.
Jim Pink was slightly taken aback; then he said:
"'Spicion; nothin' but 'spicion.”
“Yeah, 'spicion,” growled the Persimmon; "'spicion an' de husban' leadin' a irreg'lar life.”
Jim Pink looked at his companion, curiously.
“The husban'—leadin' a irreg'lar life?”
“Yeah,”—the Persimmon nodded grimly,—“the husban' comin' home at onexpected hours. You know whut I means, Jim Pink.”
Jim Pink let his pebble fall and lowered the fore legs of his chair softly to the ground.
“Now, look heah, Persimmon, you don' want to be draggin' no foreign disco'se into yo' talk heah befo' Mr. Siner an' Parson Ranson.”
The Persimmon rose deliberately.
“All I want to say is, I drapped off'n de matrimonial tree three times a'ready, Jim Pink, an' I think I feels somebody shakin' de limb ag'in.”
The old negro preacher rose, too, a little behind Jim Pink.
“Now, boys! boys!” he placated. “You jes think dat, Persimmon.”
“Yeah,” admitted Persimmon, “I jes think it; but ef I b'lieve ever'thing is so whut I think is so, I'd part Jim Pink's wool wid a brickbat.”
