“Ah’m Jim Huggins,” the driver replied to my question, “an’ he’s mah
brother Tom,” indicating the singer with a side-wise jerk of his head.
“We live ovah yondah.”
“Oh,” I exclaimed, “two of the Huggins boys. I’m glad to meet you. I’ve
heard of you.”
They shook hands doubtfully, and Jim questioned me with open suspicion.
“What’d you heah ’bout us?”
Tom, who had not spoken till now, shifted uneasily, and before I could
reply asked if I didn’t want to buy some eggs.
“MacDougall’s sellin’ ’em at the store,” he added, “fo’ fo’ty cents a
dozen, but we-all’l let you have ’em for thirty-five.”
I had bought eggs from MacDougall just the day before for thirty-five
cents.
“You say,” I said, “that you’ll sell me eggs for five cents less than
the store price?”
He nodded eagerly.
“Well, then. I’ll give you thirty cents a dozen for them--if Sally
wants some.”
Again they exchanged glances.
“Ah reckon that’ll be alright,” said Jim, looking everywhere but at me.
I called Sally out of her kitchen, and she explained that “’deed, Massa
Billie, we-all has all de aiggs we kin use till ’bout Wednesday,” so
I told the Huggins boys to come back then. Their almost proverbial
meanness flared up at this. They considered my refusal to buy of them
an insult and a great injustice, and muttered threats and abuse.
“Here,” I said, “stop your grumbling and clear out. I didn’t ask you to
bring me eggs, and I’ve ordered some for next Wednesday though you lied
about the price. Stop your grumbling and get along with you. And next
time you come round here leave that home.”
I pointed to an empty flask that lay neglected on the floor of the
carriage. Jim kicked it under the seat, jerked at the reins to wake up
the mule, and with something about “Jest’s you say, boss,” drove slowly
off.
So these were the far-famed Huggins boys. I watched them half way down
the driveway, and then went back to my sunny seat and the book. As I
settled myself, the quavering tones of Tom’s high voice, taking up
again his interrupted song, came floating to me.
‘Put ’em in a gardin fair.
Dese bones gwine t’ rise again!
Tole ’em eat what they see there.
Dese bones gwine rise again!
Ah knows it: de-ed Ah do know: Ah knows it,
Dese bones gwine ’t rise again.
“Sarpint wound around a trunk.
Dese bones gwine t’ rise again.
At Miss Eve his eye he wunk.
Dese bones gwine rise again.
Ah knows it: de-ed Ah----”
The words faded gradually in the distance into a thin minor wail.
[Illustration: THIS IS A “FRUIT-STAND & PORK”]
The very next morning I had another visit from “them Huggins boys”.
I was out riding at the time, and when I came back I noticed someone
had driven in and out of the driveway. It had rained during the night
and the fresh tracks were plain in the sandy road. The hoof prints
were long and narrow, evidently of a mule, and I wondered idly who my
visitor could have been. Sally told me.
“Hit’s dose shiftless Huggins boys again. They was trying t’ sell mo’
eggs, an’ they got out an’ cum right in de libin’ room. Ah couldn’t
stop ’em nohow.”
Evidently they were going to make themselves a first-class nuisance
unless I put my foot down firmly. Resolving to read them the riot
act next time they came around, I tied the pony and went into the
house, Sally protesting all the while against “all dese heah pore
white trash”. I went to the mantlepiece to fill my pipe. There was
the tobacco pouch, but my pipe, my favorite briar, which I was sure I
had put there just before I went out, was not there. Sally remembered
seeing it, but had not touched it.
“Hit mus’ a been them Huggins boys tuk hit,” she suggested.