"I kin tote a powerful lot."
The guard continued to stare off at Shadow Mountain. Whistling
good-naturedly, the old man continued down the track. "New houses! New
fences! Things mus' be lookin' up!"
He observed the path that led to the crest just east of Hillcrest
Cottage, and took instead the steep descent to the spring lot. He
sniffed at the well-placed garden truck, noticed the ducks and the shiny
duck house, skirted the widened concrete swimming pool, and came at last
past the game house to the spring. From the tin dipper swinging on the
twenty-penny nail he took a drink, first clearing out his mouth several
times and spitting the warmed water into the spillway.
He looked furtively around, up toward the big estate, then along the
path to the eastern crest. He took up the two buckets empty on a
concrete pump base, filled them three-quarters, balanced them, and made
his careful way up the latter path.
When he reached the top, he skirted the ramshackle house. At the back he
paused at the two half-barrel tubs redolent with laundry soap. He
stooped over it, pouring in the first big bucket.
A heavy voice rang from the kitchen above him. "Hey, nigger, what you
doin'?"