“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.”
Tump objected.
“Jail ain't no place fuh clean clo'es. She jes better serve out her term lak she is, an' wash up when she gits th'ugh.”
“You fool nigger!” snapped Nan. “She kain't serve out her term lak she is!”
“Da' 's so,” said Tump.
The three stood silent, Nan and Tump lost in blankness, trying to think of something to do for Cissie. Finally Nan said:
“I heah she done commit gran' larceny, an' they goin' sen' her to de pen.”
“Whut is gran' larceny?” asked Tump.
