He's got somepin' that sounds lak tuberoses.
Him and Mrs. Nelson and Miss Rufe never did git to Californy. Dey
stopped off in Mobile or Injiany, I can't ricollec' which. He took de
fever de day dey lef', an' he ain't knowed nothin' since."
After Aunt Melvy left, Sandy went to the window and leaned against the
bars. Below him flowed the life of the little town, the men going home
from work, the girls chattering and laughing through the dusk on
their way from the post-office. Every figure that passed, black or
white, was familiar to him. Jimmy Reed's little Skye terrier dashed
down the street, and a whistle sprang to his lips.
How he loved every living creature in the place! For five years he had
been one of them, sharing their interests, part and parcel of the life
of the community. Now he was an outcast, an alien, as much a stranger
to friendly faces as the lad who had knelt long ago at the window of a
great tenement and had been afraid to be alone.
"I'll have to go away," he thought wistfully. "They'll not be wanting
me here after this."
It grew darker and darker in the gloomy room. The mournful voice of a
negro singing in the next cell came to him faintly:
"We'll hunt no moah fo' de possum and de coon,
On de medder, de hill, an' de shoah.
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