“So dat how he know you’s gwine come again. I don’t hafter mind whut he say. I ain’t he nigger. I’ll be a Tradd nigger till I die, an’ I ain’t gwine set here an’ see him bring disgrace on dis island.” “What do you mean, Uncle Mose?” The old man came closer, almost knee deep in water now. His gnarled brown hands gripped the side of the boat as he said, “I ain’t able to row no boat crost to de mainland where us got ole fr’en’s, so I ain’t hab no one to trus’ ’bout whut gwine on round here till y’all come.” “Then I’m very glad we came,” said Kitty encouragingly. “I’s been libin’ on dis earth nigh on to a hunnert year, an’ I’se larn to know people you can trus’ at fust sight. Y’all sho belongst to dat class.” “Thank you, Uncle Mose. We’ll try to live up to your good opinion of us.” Kitty saw it was useless to try to hurry him, though she was terrified for fear Beeson would come and catch them here. “What was it you want her to write?” asked Brad, not quite so patient as Kitty. “Suh, I sees you’s a sailor an’ defender o’ our country like mah young Massa. You wear de same color uniform, too, an’ I knows you’s to be trusted.” “I hope so, Uncle.” “An’ you knows as well as I does dat it ain’t right fer no white man in dese times to be hobnobbin’ wid furriners. Dis war we’s fightin’ is wid furriners, ain’t it?” “It sure is, Uncle Mose,” replied Brad. “But what white man is hobnobbing with foreigners?” “Mr. Beeson. Dey comes here right often at night—an’ always goes away wid boxes an’ bundles.” Kitty and Brad exchanged startled glances. “How do you know his callers are foreigners?” asked Brad. “Dey talks a langwidge I ain’t never heard round dese parts.” “You were close enough to hear them talk?” asked Kitty. “Mr. Beeson think I’se sleepin’. Mah sight ain’t so good no mo’, but mah hearin’ keen, an’ I know when dem stranger come ashore.” “You heard their motorboat, I suppose,” said Brad. “Naw suh. Dey don’ come in no motorboat. Nothin’ but ole bateau. Whilst dey was up to de house one dark night I went down to de water an’ seen it.” Kitty’s cheeks were pale, her eyes apprehensive when she met Brad’s troubled glance. “I hear Mr. Beeson talkin’ ’bout buyin’ dis island. You tell young Massa fer me, Missie, not to sold it. Reckon Mr. Beeson bootleggin’ or somepen. He gwine bring disgrace on dis place.” Kitty didn’t take time to tell him that the bootlegging of other days was mild to what she now knew Mr. Beeson was doing. But suddenly she lifted her head in alarm. She had caught the sound of a distant motorboat. “Reckon dat him now! Y’all bettah lef’ out o’ here right now,” warned Uncle Mose. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER SEVENTEEN A NARROW ESCAPE “You got time to cross yonder an’ hide in de marsh,” Uncle Mose told Kitty and Brad when they heard the sound of the approaching motorboat.