“Hush up dat fool talk, boy,” the old cook chuckled. “Don’ it do my heart good to see them what likes they vittles? Bulldog, yo’ am de most satisfactoriest meal hound what I know.” Uncle Henry doubled with laughter, in which Bulldog, his mouth already crammed full, joined heartily. Uncle Henry sincerely liked Bulldog. The giant never referred to the fact that Uncle Henry was a lifer. For twenty-seven years he had been a convict-camp cook. It was as a young man that, under the influence of ten-cent white mule, he had lifted a chair against his legally married wife. In Uncle Henry’s mind that dreadful event had always remained as an accident. His whole life was being freely given in atonement. When some of the younger convicts taunted him and called him the old murderer, they left a hurt that remained with Uncle Henry for weeks. Bulldog shuffled toward the door finally with a sigh. “Ef Ah swallows another swallow, Uncle Henry, Ah busts.” “Boy, come again when yo’s hungry; yo’ makes me proud.” The old cook chortled, looking after him. As Bulldog turned into the lane to Captain Jim’s quarters, a small whitewashed bungalow, two hounds bayed a ferocious greeting. “Yo’ Lady Belle, yo’ Junie, hush yo’ mouf!” Bulldog bayed back. Then he grinned and tossed the remains of the fresh ham bone over the chicken-wire inclosure. The hounds left off their racket instantly and pounced on the bone, while Bulldog leaned complacently against the inclosure and eyed them with satisfaction. “Dem houn’ dawgs go after dat bone lak it was a runaway nigger,” he commented with approval. Though every other Negro on the place looked upon the bloodhounds as a possible Nemesis, such a thought had never entered Bulldog’s massive head. To him they were companions, and the fact that he was allowed to feed them was proof conclusive that he was above the ordinary regulations of the convict camp. He turned from the hounds presently and made his way to a small outhouse, where he procured a pail, a whitewash brush and a scraper. Captain Jim liked things to look spick-and-span, and the timbers supporting the bungalow porch had acquired a reddish-brown mud colour from the recent rains. Bulldog proceeded at the first job that he knew would catch Captain Jim’s eye. He knew on which side his bread was buttered. “Wasn’ it sad to see _Titanic_ sinkin’ down, Wasn’ it sad to see _Titanic_ sinkin’ down; Husban’s an’ wives, little chilluns los’ dey lives; Wasn’ it sad to see _Titanic_ sinkin’ down.” Verse after verse, in the droning singsong of the old spirituals, kept time to the whitewash brush. The underpinning of the bungalow was certainly going to catch Captain Jim’s eye when he came up the lane.