Part 3 (1/2)
”I can't.”
”We're goin' fis.h.i.+n'--”
”Honest?”
”Sure. Uncle Ben's sick. But after dinner he's promised to take us. He's not too sick to fish.”
”I can't stay,” the barefoot boy sighed.
”Come on. There's three bird's nests in the orchard. The second layin'.
It ain't no harm to break up the second nest. Birds've no business layin' twice in one season. We _ought_ to break 'em up.”
”I'm afraid I can't.”
His tone grew weaker and Robbie pressed him.
”Come on. We'll get the bird's eggs and chase the calves and colts till the dinner bell rings, ride the horses home from the fields, and go fis.h.i.+n' after dinner and stay till dark.”
”No--”
”Come on!”
John glanced up the road toward the big gate beyond which his mother was waiting his return. The temptation was more than his boy's soul could resist. He shook his head--paused--and grinned.
”Come on, Sid, John's goin' with us,” Robbie called to his young henchman as he approached.
”All right,” John consented, finally throwing every scruple to the winds. ”Ma'll whip me sh.o.r.e, but, by granny, it'll be worth it!”
The aristocrat slipped his arm around his chum and led him to the orchard in triumph.
Custis laughed.
”He'd rather play with that little, poor white rascal than any boy in the country.”
”Don't blame him,” Phil replied. ”He may be dirty and ragged but he's a real boy after a real boy's heart. And the handsomest little beggar I ever saw--who is he?”
”The boy of a poor white family, the Doyles. They live just outside our gate on a ten-acre farm. His mother's trying to make him go to school.
His father laughs and lets him go hunting and fis.h.i.+ng.”
They were strolling past the first neat row of houses in the servants'
quarters. Phil thought of them as the slave quarters. Yet he had not heard the word slave spoken since his arrival. These black people were ”servants” and some of them were the friends and confidants of their master and his household. Phil paused in front of a cottage. The yard flamed with autumn flowers. Through the open door and windows came the hum of spinning wheels and the low, sweet singing of the dark spinners, spinning wool for the winter clothing of the estate. From the next door came the click and crash of the looms weaving the warm cloth.
”You make your own cloth?” the Westerner asked in surprise.
”Of course, for the servants. It takes six spinners and three weavers working steadily all year to keep up with it, too.”
”Isn't it expensive?”
”Maybe. We never thought of it. We just make it. Always have in our family for a hundred years.”