Junius Brutus Bartow Tasker turned an obedient gaze toward the east, but his reply was pessimistic. A negro who is cold is generally pessimistic, and June was certainly cold. Unlike Wayne, he had no sweater under his shabby jacket, nor was there much of anything else under it, for the coarse gingham shirt offered little resistance to the chill of the March night, and June and undershirts had long been strangers. Early spring in southern Georgia is a different matter from the same season up North, a fact which neither boy had allowed for. “I reckon Christmas is comin’ too,” muttered June gloomily, “but it’s a powerful long way off. How come the nights is so long up here, Mas’ Wayne?” “I reckon there isn’t any difference, not really,” answered Wayne. “They just seem like they were longer. Sam, you wake up and stretch yourself. We’re going to travel again pretty soon now. Go catch yourself a rabbit or something.” The dog obeyed instructions so far as stretching himself was concerned, and, after finding that he was not to be allowed to return to the warmth of his master’s lap, even set off in a half-hearted, shivering fashion to explore the surrounding world. “I reckon he can projeck ’roun’ a mighty long time before he starts a rabbit,” said June discouragedly. “It’s a powerful mean-lookin’ country up this way, ain’ it? What state you-all reckons we’s in, Mas’ Wayne?” Wayne shook his head. Shaking his head was very easy because he only had to let the tremors that were agitating the rest of him extend above the turned-up collar of his jacket! “I reckon it might be Maryland, June. Somewheres around there, anyway.” He felt for the time-table in his pocket, but he didn’t bring it forth for it was still too dark to read. “I ’most wish I was back home, June,” he went on wistfully, after a minute’s silence. “I sure do!” “I done told you we hadn’t no business comin’ up this yere way. Ain’ nothin’ up here but Northerners, I reckon. If we’d gone West like I said we’d been a heap better off.” “Nobody asked you to come, anyway,” responded Wayne sharply. “There wasn’t any reason for you coming. You--you just butted in!” As there was no denying that statement, June wisely chose to change the subject. “Reckon someone’s goin’ to give us some breakfast pretty soon?” he asked. But Wayne had a grievance now and, feeling a good deal more homesick than he had thought he ever could feel, and a lot colder and emptier than was pleasant, he nursed it. “I couldn’t stay there any longer and slave for that man,” he said. “I stuck it out as long as I could. Ever since mother died it’s been getting worse and worse. He hasn’t got any hold on me, anyway. Stepfathers aren’t kin. I had a right to run away if I wanted to, and he can’t fetch me back, not anyway, not even by law!” “No, sir, he can’,” agreed June soothingly. “But you didn’t have any right to run away, June. You----”