plant fifty thousand acres in cotton. "So you are the man that's going to learn them niggers?"
Old Reliable tried to be modest, "I'm him."
"Do you think you'll get along with the Shillooks and Dinkas?"
"What's dem?"
"Them's the kind of niggers that live up yonder."
"Lordee, Mister, 'tain't no two kinds o' niggers—all of 'em jes de same. Some white folks argufies dat dey's diffunt—but d'aint."
Guinea drew himself closer. "How are you going to do it?" he questioned.
What was he going to do? Old Zack blossomed out and confided, "Tain't but one way to l'arn nothin' to niggers, git straight behine 'em every mornin' at fo' 'clock, an' hustle 'em out to de fiel'. Den foller ev'y track dey make. Dey got to git up when I rings dat bell. No sore toes, an' no misery in de back ain't gwine to keep 'em from wrastlin' wid a hoe. Sore toe niggers can't draw no rations on Saddy night. Now dar's de Cunnel; he ain't no more'n a baby. But dem niggers on Sherwood Plantation, dey thinks de sun rise an' set in Cunnel. Ef he say black is white, dey sets deir min' by dat, same as dey sets deir watch by dat big clock in Cunnel's sto'."
The smile at Guinea's mouth lost itself in a wilderness of freckles. He leaned forward and
