The question had been a mere matter of form. Gideon had made up his
mind, and if he had been told that they started in five minutes he
would not have changed it. He climbed back into the car for his
coat and his hat, and then almost furtively stole down the steps
again and slipped quietly into the palmetto scrub.
“’Most made the mistake of ma life,” he chuckled, “stickin’ to that
ol’ train foheveh. ’Tisn’t the right way at, all foh Gideon to come
home.”
The river was not far away. He could catch the dancing blue of it
from time to time in ragged vista, and for this beacon he steered
directly. His coat was heavy on his arm, his thin patent-leather
ties pinched and burned and demanded detours around swampy places,
but he was happy.
As he went along, his plan perfected itself. He would get into
loose shoes again, old ones, if money could buy them, and old
clothes, too. The bull-briers snatching at his tailored splendor
suggested that.
He laughed when the Florida partridge, a small quail, whirred up
from under his feet; he paused to exchange affectionate mockery
with red squirrels; and once, even when he was brought up suddenly
to a familiar and ominous, dry reverberation, the small, crisp
sound of the rolling drums of death, he did not look about him for
some instrument of destruction, as at any other time he would have
done, but instead peered cautiously over the log before him, and
spoke in tolerant admonition:
“Now, Misteh Rattlesnake, yo’ jes min’ yo’ own business. Nobody’s
goin’ step on yo’, ner go triflin’ roun’ yo’ in no way whatsomeveh.
Yo’ jes lay there in the sun an’ git ’s fat ’s yo’ please. Don’ yo’
tu’n yo’ weeked li’l’ eyes on Gideon. He’s jes goin’ ’long home,
an’ ain’ lookin’ foh no muss.”
He came presently to the water, and, as luck would have it, to a
little group of negro cabins, where he was able to buy old clothes
and, after much dickering, a long and somewhat leaky rowboat rigged
out with a tattered leg-of-mutton sail. This he provisioned with
a jug of water, a starch box full of white corn-meal, and a wide
strip of lean razorback bacon.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account