Back on the scow a sleepless negro, lying face up to the moonlight,
began to croon weirdly.
"What in the devil do you call that?" asked Roger.
White listened, his head to one side.
"Haiti nigger--French patois," was his reply. "There; catch the
'_mom'selle_'? Haiti nigger singing."
He reached down and picked up a bolt.
"Haiti negro?" said Roger, puzzled. "How did he get in that gang?"
"Oh, they drift over once in a while." White was measuring the
distance to the scow.
The bolt hummed through the air, struck the ditcher's shovels with a
clang and splashed into the water.
"Missed!" growled White. "Shut up, you Sam. This ain't no voodoo
outfit."
"Voodoo!" Roger laughed mirthlessly. "That would be the finishing
touch."
"How come?" said White, puzzled.
"Do you happen to know Mr. Garman, White?"
"I was 'specting you to ask that, Mr. Payne," was the drawled reply.
"I got this to say: I know Garman, but that's all. I dig ditches for
my living. I dig 'em fast and I dig 'em good; and--and that's all I'm
up here for, one way or 'nother."
"Right! and the faster you dig 'em, the better it will suit me."
"Me, too," was the earnest reply.
Roger looked at the man sharply.
"Why? Don't you like the job?"
"The job's all right.
Pages:
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181