"'Evenin', Mister Jodie."
"'Evening, Ned."
Papa looked back down at the tired, fat dog. "'Pears to me like
you're in the dog-raising business, Ned."
"Yes, suh. Sylvie, she gwine t' find puppies pretty soon."
"Is she any 'count?"
"Yes, suh, Mister Jodie. She sho' is. Sylvie 'bout the best
coon hound I's raised yet. She sho' know how to tree 'possums,
too. Folks done a' ready askin' for the puppies. But I saves one
for you, Mister Jodie, iffen you wants hit."
"I wouldn't mind having two, Ned. 'Course I've got five or
six young dogs, but a man can't hardly get too many good dogs.
Well, what can I do for you this evening, Ned?"
"I needs me a nickel worth o' coal oil, Mister Jodie. And I
wants to talk with you. I wants you to 'vise me, Mister Jodie."
Ned let his talking go down low. "Hit's Mister Ward. He don't
act right. I's uneasy."
"What's he done? Does he want you to move?"
"No, suh. I wish he did. I wish he'd run me off. He don't do
that, 'cause ain't nobody else gwine t' move on his place.
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