Several days later, while old black mammy was ironing in the sitting room, Kintchin came in at the door which always stood open, and looking about, slowly went up to the old woman and inquired if she needed any more wood. "No," she answered, not looking at him, "I's nearly done." Kintchin scratched his head. "Wall, I jest come ter tell you dat ef you does need any mo' I knows er man dat'll git it fur you. Me. An' w'en er man fetches er lady de sort o' wood I'd fetch you, w'y she kin tell right dar whut he think o' her. Does you hyarken ter me?" Mammy, slowly moving her iron, looked at him. "Whut de matter wid you, man? Ain't habin' spells, is you?" "I's in lub, lady, dat's whut de matter wid me." "In lub? In lub wid who?" He leaned toward her. "Wid you." "W'y you couldn't lub me," she said. "I's eighty odd an' you ain't but sixty. I's too old fur you. I doan want ter fool wid no chile." Kintchin came closer and made an attempt to take her hand, shrewdly watching the hot iron slowly moving over the bosom of a shirt. "I'll burn da black hide ef you doan git erway. You bodders me." The old rascal assumed an air of great astonishment. "Whut, er man bodder er lady dat he lubs?" "Didn't I tole you you couldn't lub me?" "Couldn't lub you? Ain't you been er savin' yo' money all deze years, an' ef er man kain't lub er lady dat's been er savin' her money, who kin he lub?" She gave him a look of contempt. "Oh, I knowd dar wuz er bug in de milk pan. It's my little bit o' money you's atter, but you ain't gwine ter git it. Dat money's ter bury me wid." And in a self-satisfied way she nodded at him and resumed her work. Kintchin stepped back, the word 'bury' having thrown a temporary pall upon his cupidity, but soon he rallied and renewed his attack. "Funny dat er lady will save all her life long jest ter be buried. I doan blebe in deze yere 'spensive funuls nohow. Huh, an' you oughter hab ernuff by dis time ter bury bof o' us. An' ef you says de word I'll be buried side o' you ter keep you comp'ny." She ceased her work and looked at him. "I won't need no comp'ny. I'll be busy tellin' de Lawd 'bout de folks down yere. An, I gwine tell him, w'in I goes home." She gathered up the clothes basket and went into an adjoining room, leaving Kintchin to muse alone. He heard the low whistle of a backwoodsman's improvised tune, and looking up, saw a man leaning against the door-facing. To the old negro the new comer was not a stranger. Once that big foot had kicked him out of the road, and lying in his straw bed the poor wretch had burned with resentment, cowed, helpless; and sleeping, had dreamed of killing the brute and awoke with a tune on his black lips. He knew Lije Peters, neighborhood bully without being a coward, a born black-mailer, a ruffian with the touch of humor, ignorant with sometimes an allegorical cast of speech. As he entered the room he looked about and seeing no one else, spoke to Kintchin: "Whar's Jasper Starbuck?"