“Nine days hain’t long—one Sunday and eight weekdays.”

“I’m liable to scratch out before then.”

“That’s fool talk. They’ll salt you in Frankfort for shore.”

“Wouldn’t pitch a straw for the differ.”

Pawpaw scent lay heavy in the room, pushing down the mullein-rank jail smells. Uncle Jolly looked at the poke in my hand. “If I was a ‘possum,” he said, “I wouldn’t know better what you got.”

I drew out the pawpaws, holding them toward him. “A good frosting would make them a sight better,” I said.

“Take just one,” Uncle Toll told Uncle Jolly. “He hain’t et since we left home.”

Uncle Jolly picked the smaller, though I held the fat one closer. He pitched it toward the ceiling and let it fall into his open mouth. The seeds popped forth, shot across the room and between the bars into the yard, touching nothing. “You couldn’t do that if your life and neck was strung on it,” he said. I tried with my seeds, blowing them hard, but they fell to the floor. Uncle Jolly kicked them under the bed and went into the hall, calling to Logg. “Have you got any o’ them biled shucks left?”

We spooned the beans Logg brought, coated with grease, and as good eating as anything on this earth. They were good to bite into, tender and juicy. I could have eaten more, but I did not speak of it, thinking Logg had scraped the pot.

“I hain’t got nothing agin jail victuals,” Uncle Jolly said. “They come regular as clock-tick, three times a day.”

“If your belly’s content, there’s no cause to snake out before your time is up,” Uncle Toll argued. “Your ma sent on word for you to stay.”

“If I had me somebody to talk to, it wouldn’t be so bran-fired eternal. All I do is set and set, and then set some more.”

The horse-mule whinnied in the yard. Uncle Toll looked out, getting uneasy and ready to go. “Sun-ball’s drapping fast,” he said. “Four hours’ ride ‘twixt here and home. Ought to be a-going. Ma told me to fotch back a ten-pound o’ salt and I got to roust that.”

“Set yourself down,” Uncle Jolly commanded. “I hain’t got my talk through.”

Uncle Toll walked across the room. He looked at me and cocked his head. “Reckon you could stay here nine days?” he asked.

“This here’s no place for a chap,” Uncle Jolly said. “Anyhow, it’s time he headed back to his folks at Blackjack. One solid year he has been away.”

“He’d be a sight o’ company. I figure you’d hang around yourself if he was here. And nine days coming you can fotch him to the camps.”