"My baby ain't a-gonter sell nothin'!" screamed Aunt Peachy.
"I ain't a-gonter sell it,' agreed Rolfe Bolling.
"Well, then renew the lease that you hold," urged Major Taylor, with a note of pleading in his voice. He was thinking of Rebecca and trying to keep down his temper, which was almost getting the better of him.
"Yi! Yi! Or Bob Taylor a arskin' favors! No, us ain't a gonter rent ter yer, neither. The lan' air ourn an' the things what is built on the lan' air ourn. That's what the l'yer done tol' my baby. Yer ain't got much mo'n two months ter git, neither, yer ol' scrumdudgeon!"
The visitor arose in a fury. Without a word to Rolfe Bolling he walked out of the room.
"Don't fergit ter gib my message ter that there big yaller-haided Spot," Aunt Peachy called out as he pulled the front door open with an anger that was blinding him. The last thing he heard as he climbed into his buggy was the old woman's high, shrill cackle.
"Now, Mam' Peachy, yer oughtn't ter a spoke so roughlike ter Maje Taylor," whined Rolfe Bolling as he turned from the window from which he had been viewing the back of his infuriated neighbor.
