Another arrest for some niggerish peccadillo. The history of Niggertown was one long series of petty offenses, petty raids, and petty punishments. Peter would be glad to get well away from such a place.
“Think I'll go North, Jim Pink,” remarked Peter, chiefly to keep up a friendly conversation with his companion.
“Whut-chu goin' to do up thaiuh?”
“Take a position in a system of garages.”
“A position is a job wid a white color on it,” defined the minstrel. “Whut you goin' to do wid Cissie?”
Peter looked around at the foolish face.
“With Cissie?—Cissie Dildine?”
“Uh huh.”
“Why, what makes you think I'm going to do anything with Cissie?”
“M-m, visitin' roun'.” The fool flung his face into a grimace, and dropped it as one might shake out a sack.
Peter watched the contortion uneasily.
“What do you mean—visiting around?”
“Diff'nt folks go visitin' roun';
Some goes up an' some goes down.”
Apparently Jim Pink had merely quoted a few words from a poem he knew. He stared at the green-black depth of the glade, which set in about half-way up the hill they were climbing.
“Ef this weather don' ever break,” he observed sagely, “we sho am in fuh a dry spell.”
