“Oh, I make out,” Will said, laughing.

“And here’s Jim,” I said, and I laid my hands on both their shoulders.

Luty hesitated and swallered. Then he put out his hand and Jim takened it.

“Proud to see you, Jim,” he said. “Welcome to syrup-boiling.”

“I’m in pore shape for it,” Jim said, “full of Quincey’s rations. But I ain’t never seed the day when I couldn’t tuck cane-skimmings in around whatever else I’d ate, like wrapping a baby in a blanket. That right, Will Dover?”

“I got sickened of cane-skimmings,” Will said, “on account of me being a puny young un and oncet gorging myself.”

“You and me never was puny, was we, Quincey?” Luty said.

“Only you quit where you was, Luty,” Jim said, “and old Quincey kept on growing sideways.”

“You can’t shock my modesty that-a-way,” I said. “I can out-eat ary one of you and get enjoyment ten to your one,” and we all laughed, sociable and nice as could be. I felt mighty pleased with myself.

Nigh onto all of Oak Bluff must of been there. The full moon rose, and I say there’s nothing finer than a full moon on a cool October night of cane-grinding. It raised up over the tall pine trees beyond Luty’s house and it filled the night better’n kerosene or candles. The light from the brick cane-furnace glowed red and flamified ary time Luty opened the door to push in fat-wood.

“You plumb finished grinding?” I asked him. “I’d be proud to have me a drink of cane-juice, afore I gets down to serious business.”

“I helt out a wagon-load of cane, just so folks could do that thing. Snort,” he hollered, “wake up and wait on Quincey.”

Off in the shadows that blasted old mule was standing hitched to the cane-mill. When he heerd Luty holler, he put one ear up and t’other down. He cut his eyes at me.

“I’d as lief do my own grinding,” I said, “as have that sway-backed son of Satan do it for me. When I think about the petunias he’s trompled, and the sweet potatoes——”

“Now, Quincey,” Luty said, “it’s a mule’s nature to tromple.”

“And the times he’s wakened me, blowing under my window at dead midnight——”

“It’s a mule’s nature to blow,” Jim said. “I been mighty put out at him myself, him plowing in circles and pawing the earth for tobaccy, or what’s worse, a drink of rum.”

“I been put out, too, don’t forget that,” Luty said. “Him traipsing off to let them hypocritical cows lick his nose for the salt-brick on it.”

I seed I’d got off on the wrong foot, me aiming to make peace and coming so clost to doing it.

“We all been put out at him,” I said, hasty, “but we all getting on to where being put out ain’t as serious as it used to be. Peace be a heap more serious, and neighboring, and keeping the belly full when the times is hard.”