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“Aw, hell!” he said self-consciously. “We got marched down to the protracted meetin' while ago—whole school did. My seat happened to be close to a ​window. When they all stood up to sing, I crawled out and skipped. Don't mention that, Siner.”

“I won't.”

“When a fellow goes to college he don't git marched to preachin', does he, Siner?”

“I never did.”

“We-e-ll,” mused young Sam, doubtfully, “you're a nigger.”

“I never saw any white men marched in, either.”

“Oh, hell! I wish I was in college.”

“What are you sitting out here thinking about?” inquired Peter of the ingenuous youngster.

“Oh—football and—women and God and—how to stack cards. You think about ever'thing, in the woods. Damn it! I got to git out o' this little jay town. D' reckon I could git in the navy, Siner?”

“Don't see why you couldn't, Sam. Have you seen Tump Pack anywhere?”

“Yeah; on Hobbett's corner. Say, is Cissie Dildine at home?”

“I believe she is.”

“She cooks for us,” explained young Arkwright, “and Mammy wants her to come and git supper, too.”