The Starbucks. Opie Percival Read

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?"

      "I seed Miss Margaret an' Miss Lou out yander jest now," Kintchin answered, backing off as Peters advanced toward him.

      "I didn't ask about them. Whew, what you got sich a hot fire in here for?"

      "Mammy's been ironin'."

      "Yes. Been a meltin iron I should think. Is Starbuck at home? Answer me, you scoundrel." He made a threatening gesture and Kintchin, backing further off, cried out, "Doan rush me, suh. Ef I'se er scoundul you hatter give me time. Er scoundul hatter be keerful whut he say. I seed Mr. Starbuck dis mawnin', suh."

      Peters turned as if to go out, but halted and looked at Kintchin. The old negro nodded. "Say, is that young feller and that woman here yit?"

      "Gimmy time—gimmy time. I's er scoundul, you know."

      "Do you want me to mash your head?"

      Kintchin put his hand to his head. "Whut, dis one right yere? No, suh, I doan blebe I does."

      "Well, then answer me. That woman and young chap here yet?"

      "Yas, suh, da's yere."

      "She's his aunt, I understand."

      "Yas, suh, dat's whut you un'erstand."

      "Why did they come here? What are they doin'?"

      "Gimmy time. Da come caze da wanter ter, an' now dat da's yere, da's jest er bo'din'; dat's all."

      "You are an old fool."

      "Yas, suh," replied Kintchin, "dat's whut I yere."

      Mammy came in and said to Kintchin, "De steers broke down de fence an' is eatin' up de co'n. See, through de winder?"

      "Dat won't do," Kintchin exclaimed with hurry in his voice but with passive feet. "No, it won't do. Steer ain't got no right ter come roun' er eatin' up de co'n."

      "But w'y doan you go on, man? Mars Jasper'll git arter you."

      "I's gwine. Allus suthin' ter make er man work his j'ints," he moved off toward the door, and turning just before going out, said to Peters: "Yere come Miss Lou now."

      The girl came in singing, but seeing Peters, hushed, and turned to go out.

      "One minute, Miss Lou," said Peters, bowing awkwardly.

      She halted, looked at him and said, "Well?"

      "Won't you sit down," said Peters, making a great show of politeness.

      "I'm not tired," Lou replied.

      Peters smiled. "I've got suthin' I want to say to you."

      "Then I may be tired," she said, sitting down. "Well?"

      Peters stood for a moment, looking at her and then inquired: "Did yo' father tell you suthin' I said to him?"

      Slowly rocking she looked up at him. "He always has enough talk of his own without repeatin' what other folks say."

      "But what I told him was about you."

      "Well, if what you said wasn't good you wouldn't be here to tell about it, so it don't concern me."

      He attempted to smile, but failed. "I don't know about that."

      "You don't know about anything—much."

      "Enough to know what I think of you."

      "Hope you know what I think of you."

      "Ah," said Peters, "I don't reckon you think of me very often."

      Lou got up and went to him, looked straight into his eyes and said: "Think of you! Why, I never know you are on earth till you come where I am and then I spend my time tryin' to forget you are there."

      "Well, now," replied Peters, "that ain't very polite."

      She stepped back and looked at him in pretended astonishment. "Was anybody ever polite to you?"

      "Well, not many of the Starbucks, that's a fact—none, come to think of it 'cept yo' cousin Jim, the preacher, and he believes that the Lord made all things for a purpose."

      "Yes, he believes that God made the devil."

      Peters laughed as if he really enjoyed her contempt of him. He pulled at his whiskers, cleared his throat, took a turn about the room and looking at her again, he appeared as if he had attempted to soften his countenance with a sentiment urgently summoned. "Yes, that is all true, I reckon. And now let me tell you. I mout not look like it—like I'm hard to please, but I am. Thar ain't one woman out of a hundred that can make me wake up when I'm sleepy and think about her, but you can. And ever sense you was a child I've said I'd never marry till I could git you." He saw the anger in her eyes and hesitated. "Ah, you may not think very much of me now," he continued, "but that can all be changed. A woman's like a mornin' glory flower—always a changing; an' I know you could learn to love me."

      "Oh, you do. Well, what you know and what's the truth won't never know each other well enough to shake hands."

      Peters smiled upon her, "Wall, if nuthin' else did, that of itself