“By grabbles,” Uncle Samp said, “I’m kin to the Bateses on Troublesome.”

Harl’s spoon clattered on his plate. “How much kin air you to that queen bee who peddles ballad verses?” he asked. The black beads of his eyes were on Uncle Samp. “I see you two forever swapping talk.”

Mother opened the stove door and took out the corn bread. She shook the pan to see if the pones were stuck. “I hear Coonie Todd’s a good woman, and sets honor by her dead husband,” she said. “Got a homeseat her pure own. That’s more’n most folks can brag about.”

“Her man’s been dead three years,” Harl said. “Three years buried and she hain’t married another.” He looked slyly at Uncle Samp. “I don’t figure she’ll be taking up with jist any ol’ drone.”

Uncle Samp knicked at the whistle. The vein patches were bright on his cheeks.

“That woman’s the best song scribe ever was,” I said. “Makes verses right out of her head.”

“Reckon she’d make a rhyme about Darb Sorrels if something went bad wrong with him?” Tibb asked, stretching his neck to swallow.

“Now, looky here,” Father warned. “Darb Sorrels could break a common man down like he was a shotgun. I’m agin starting trouble.”

“I wouldn’t be scared to tip him,” Tibb said.

“Darb’s been fair with me. Anything he’d name, I’d stand by.”

“Feller can’t make shoe leather digging that sorry bone vein. Had my way, the roof o’ that tunnel would be setting agin the ground.”

Tibb looked suddenly at Harl. He spoke: “If that tunnel was closed—” then bit his words off. They whispered together again. They pushed their plates back and left the house.

Before the beans were fully done, I tiptoed into the front room and felt inside the clock. I took the rustiest penny—so black it looked like a button. “I’ll put one back in its place the first chance,” I thought. “I’m just a-borrowing.” When I slipped it into Uncle Samp’s hand he spied hard, at first not knowing what it was. I whispered in his ear, and he grinned. ‘Til be seeing her tonight,” he said. “I’ll buy you a broadside for shore.”

We sat down to eat. Our plates were filled with beans from the pot, the goblets poured full of buttermilk, the bread broken and crumbled. Fletch slipped crusts under the table for Old Bartow. Uncle Samp ate hurriedly, and set off on the dark road. We were alone in the house. There was none of Tibb’s and Harl’s tromping in muddy boots, or Uncle Samp’s groans after a heavy meal.

“It’s good to have a little peace,” Mother said. “Hit’s like Promised Land.” The dread went out of her face. She glanced around the table. “You’ve every one got buttermilk mustaches,” she said, laughing quietly. We wiped them off with the backs of our hands, and then we played a riddle game.

Euly had first go.

As I went over London Bridge