had not eaten a palatable meal since he had been evicted from the white dining-car at Cairo, Illinois. Siner served his own and his mother's plate.
The old woman sniffed again.
“Seems to me lak you is mighty onobsarvin' fuh a nigger whut's been off to college.”
“Anything else?” Peter looked into the pans again.
“Ain't you see whut it's all in?”
“What it's in?”
“Yeah; whut it's in. You heared whut I said.”
“What is it in?”
“Why, it's in Miss Arkwright's tukky roaster, dat's whut it's in.” The old negress drove her point home with an acid accent.
Peter Siner was too loyal to his new friendship with Cissie Dildine to allow his mother's jealous suspicions to affect him; nevertheless the old woman's observations about the turkey roaster did prevent a complete and care-free enjoyment of the meal. Certainly there were other turkey roasters in Hooker's Bend than Mrs. Arkwright's. Cissie might very well own a roaster. It was absurd to think that Cissie, in the midst of her almost pathetic struggle to break away from the uncouthness of Niggertown, would stoop to—Even in his thoughts Peter avoided nominating the charge.
And then, somehow, his memory fished up the fact that years ago Ida May, according to village rumor, was “light-fingered.” At that time in Peter's life
