Talking to them didnt tell you anything—unless it was gossip, unless they wanted to talk. Of course, about farming, and licker, and craps—but those werent nigger. Nigger was something more. How much more? Something to be afraid of, more? Hell no. Who ever heard of being afraid of a nigger? Tom Burwell. Cartwell had told him that Tom went with Louisa after she reached home. No sir. No nigger had ever been with his girl. He’d like to see one try. Some position for him to be in. Him, Bob Stone, of the old Stone family, in a scrap with a nigger over a nigger girl. In the good old days... Ha! Those were the days. His family had lost ground. Not so much, though. Enough for him to have to cut through old Lemon’s canefield by way of the woods, that he might meet her. She was worth it. Beautiful nigger gal. Why nigger? Why not, just gal? No, it was because she was nigger that he went to her. Sweet... The scent of boiling cane came to him. Then he saw the rich glow of the stove. He heard the voices of the men circled around it. He was about to skirt the clearing when he heard his own name mentioned. He stopped. Quivering. Leaning against a tree, he listened. “Bad nigger. Yassur, he sho is one bad nigger when he gets started.” “Tom Burwell’s been on th gang three times fo cuttin men.” “What y think he’s agwine t do t Bob Stone?” “Dunno yet. He aint found out. When he does— Baby!” “Aint no tellin.” “Young Stone aint no quitter an I ken tell y that. Blood of th old uns in his veins.” “Thats right. He’ll scrap, sho.” “Be gettin too hot f niggers round this away.” “Shut up, nigger. Y dont know what y talkin bout.”