"Stood what?" he drawled.
"Why, this heat, this dust, this whole confounded march. I don't believe
you've turned a hair, as Big Abel says."
"Good Lord," said Pinetop. "I don't reckon you've ever ploughed up hill
with a steer team."
Without replying, Dan unstrapped his knapsack and threw it upon the
roadside. "What doesn't go in my haversack, doesn't go, that's all," he
observed. "How about you, Dandy?"
"Oh, I threw mine away a mile after starting," returned Jack Powell, "my
luxuries are with a girl I left behind me. I've sacrificed everything to
the cause except my toothbrush, and, by Jove, if the weight of that goes on
increasing, I shall be forced to dispense with it forever. I got rid of my
rations long ago. Pinetop says a man can't starve in blackberry season, and
I hope he's right. Anyway, the Lord will provide--or he won't, that's
certain."
"Is this the reward of faith, I wonder?" said Dan, as he looked at a lame
old negro who wheeled a cider cart and a tray of green apple pies down a
red clay lane that branched off under thick locust trees. "This way, Uncle,
here's your man."
The old negro slowly approached them to be instantly surrounded by the
thirsty regiment.
"Howdy, Marsters? howdy?" he began, pulling his grizzled hair. "Dese yer's
right nice pies, dat dey is, suh."
"Look here, Uncle, weren't they made in the ark, now?" inquired Bland
jestingly, as he bit into a greasy crust.
"De ark? naw, suh; my Mehaley she des done bake 'em in de cabin over
yonder.
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