At the time of the Persimmon's remarks about the raft two of Peter's callers, Jim Pink Staggs and Parson Ranson, took the roustabout to task. Jim Pink based his objection on the grounds of glutting the labor market. "Ef us niggers keeps turnin' too many raf's loose fuh de prize-money," he warned, "somebody's goin' to git 'spicious, an' you'll ruin a good thing." The Persimmon absorbed this with a far-away look in his half-closed eyes. "It's a ticklish job," argued Parson Ranson, "an' I wouldn't want to wuck at de debbil's task aroun' de ribber, ca'se you mout fall in, Persimmon, an' git drownded." "I wouldn't do sich a thing a-tall," admitted the Persimmon, "but I jes' natchelly got to git ten dollars to he'p pay on my divo'ce." "I kain't see whut you want wid a divo'ce," said Jim Pink, yawning, "when you been ma'ied three times widout any." "It's fuh a Christmas present," explained the Persimmon, carelessly, "fuh th' woman I'm libin' wid now. Mahaly's a great woman fuh style. I'm goin' to divo'ce my other wives, one at a time lak my lawyer say." "On what grounds?" asked Peter, curiously. "Desuhtion." "Desertion?" "Uh huh; I desuhted 'em." Jim Pink shook his head, picked up a pebble, and began idly juggling it, making it appear double, single, treble, then single again. "Too many divo'ces in dis country now, Persimmon," he moralized. "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." Parson Ranson tried to make peace, but the Persimmon spread his hands in a gesture that included the three men. "Now, I ain't sayin' nothin'," he stated solemnly, "an' I ain't makin' no threats; but ef anything happens, you-all kain't say that nobody didn' tell nobody about nothin'." With this the Persimmon walked to the gate, let himself out, still looking back at Jim Pink, and then started down the dusty street.