but one man can't do no mo' dan jes so much work in one day. I'm plum wore out."
"Then you'll open up to-morrow?"
"Yas suh." Zack assented without enthusiasm.
"When do I get my plow hands?"
"Mister Bim," he answered, "I reckin' you better rock along kind o' gentle wid dese niggers—dey 'pears to git flustrated ef you stampedes 'em."
McDonald kept thrashing his puttees with a whip, watching Old Reliable move the displaced table and benches into position. "What happened to your railing?"
"Dem niggers busted it." For a moment Old Reliable looked serious, and then let out a wide-mouthed laugh. "Mister Bim, ef dey keeps on bein' dat crazy 'bout fried fish, you'll make plenty cotton befo' I gits 'em fat."
"We'll try." McDonald wheeled, strode back to quarters, and summoned his foremen, while Zack gazed thoughtfully after him, then cut his eye around at the scatteration of Shilluks, Dinkas and Nyam-Nyams. "Mister Bim sho' do cornduck hisself mighty brief. I got a hunch he's gwine to bust up dis catfish stan'."
