was pretending great fear, and was shouting out in his loose minstrel voice:
“Hey, don' shoot down dis way, black man, tull I makes my exit!” And a voice, rich with contempt, called back:
“You needn't be skeered, you fool rabbit of a nigger!”
Peter turned with a qualm. Quite close to him, and in another direction from which he had been looking, stood Tump Pack. The ex-soldier looked the worse for wear after his jail sentence. His uniform was frayed, and over his face lay a grayish cast that marks negroes in bad condition. At his side, attached by a belt and an elaborate shoulder holster, hung a big army revolver, while on the greasy lapel of his coat was pinned his military medal for exceptional bravery on the field of battle.
“Been lookin' fuh you fuh some time, Peter,” he stated grimly.
Peter considered the formidable figure with a queer sensation. He tried to take Tump's appearance casually; he tried to maintain an air of ordinariness.
“Didn't know you were back.”
“Yeah, I's back.”
“Have you—been looking for me?”
“Yeah.”
“Didn't you know where I was staying?”
“Co'se I did; up 'mong de white folks. You know dey don' 'low no shootin' an' killin' 'mong de white
