Vinegar sat for a while in an expectant attitude, waiting for Shin to go on with the narration; but Shin found it hard to tell what he had come to say. He made several abortive efforts to get his mouth to going which got no further than a wretched silence and made him look like an idiot. “Well?” Vinegar bellowed. “Why don’t you say somepin? You ack like one of dese here deef an’ dumb mutes celebratin’ de Fo’th of July wis noiseless powder.” “My ailment is dis,” Shin said desperately, speaking the words in a rush, as if in a hurry to get the confession over. “My wife, Whiffle, is payin’ entirely too much attention to yuther nigger men.” Vinegar drew a corncob pipe from his pocket and took a long time to light it, while his attention seemed to be concentrated upon a row of dead trees whose snaggy branches were visible on the Little Mocassin Ridge, four miles away. Shin fidgeted and twiddled his thumbs. Finally he reached down at his feet for his wool hat, and began to gnaw at its brim, as if he were starving to death. He had chewed nearly around the circuit of the brim before Vinegar took his eyes off the old dead trees; and even then Vinegar merely looked at him and said nothing. “Yes, suh,” Shin continued, finding it easier to talk now that he had made a start. “I always believed dat Whiffle wus jes’ as good frien’ to me as a wife nachelly gits to be, but now I done changed my mind.” “Who is de man whut runs atter her?” Vinegar asked. “I don’t know, an’ I cain’t find out,” Shin responded. “Of co’se, no nigger man ain’t gwine come to see her when I’m hangin’ aroun’. Whoever is courtin’ Whiffle comes to de back door of de resteraw when I’m out in town somewhar.” “Mebbe it’s some of her kinnery dat has sneaked back to town an’ ain’t hankerin’ to be perceived, especially by de police.” “It couldn’t be none like dat,” Shin replied. “Whiffle ain’t got but one kinfolks, an’ dat wus her brudder. Dat brudder is plumb absent fer good an’ all. You knows whut happened to him, don’t you?” “Naw, suh,” Vinegar answered, scraping his head with the palm of his hand to stir his recollection. “It come to pass at our weddin’,” Shin told him. “Atter we got hitched, a passel of niggers moseyed over to our house to wish us a fussless married life an’ git a sasser of ice-cream an’ cake. Us soon gobbled up our vittles, an’ I gib her brudder, Pewter Boone, a ten-dollar bill to go git some more eats. He went.” “Well?” Vinegar snapped. “Go on wid de story.” “Dat’s all,” Shin responded. “As I tole you, Pewter went. He tuck my ten dollars an’ jes’ nachelly abandoned me. He ain’t never come back, an’ I’m got a hunch dat he’s gwine till yit.” “I don’t remember when dat nigger lived in Tickfall at all,” Vinegar said.