The azure shadow of the cedars had reached the old man’s feet. It was almost up to his knees.
His hand came out and fumbled about his knees, dabbling into the shadow, and became still, wrist-deep in shadow.
Then he rose and grasped the chair and, tapping ahead with the stick, he bore directly down upon them in a shuffling rush, so that they had to step quickly aside.
He dragged the chair into the full sunlight and sat down again, his face lifted into the sun, his hands crossed on the head of the stick.
“That’s Pap,” the man said.
“Blind and deef both.
I be dawg ef I wouldn’t hate to be in a fix wher I couldn’t tell and wouldn’t even keer whut I was eatin.”
On a plank fixed between two posts sat a galvanised pail, a tin basin, a cracked dish containing a lump of yellow soap.
“To hell with water,” Gowan said.
“How about that drink?”
“Seems to me like you done already had too much.
I be dawg ef you didn’t drive that ere car straight into that tree.”
“Come on.
Haven’t you got some hid out somewhere?”
“Mought be a little in the barn.
But dont let him hyear us, er he’ll find hit and po hit out.”
He went back to the door and peered up the hall.
Then they left the porch and went toward the barn, crossing what had once been a kitchen garden choked now with cedar and blackjack saplings.
Twice the man looked back over his shoulder.
The second time he said:
“Yon’s yo wife wantin somethin.”
Temple stood in the kitchen door.
“Gowan,” she called.
“Wave yo hand er somethin,” the man said.
“Ef she dont hush, he’s goin to hyear us.”
Gowan flapped his hand.
They went on and entered the barn.
Beside the entrance a crude ladder mounted.
“Better wait twell I git up,” the man said.
“Hit’s putty rotten; mought not hold us both.”
“Why dont you fix it, then?
Dont you use it everyday?”
“Hit’s helt all right, so fur,” the other said.
He mounted.
Then Gowan followed, through the trap, into yellow-barred gloom where the level sun fell through the broken walls and roof.
“Walk wher I do,” the man said.
“You’ll tromp on a loose boa’d and find yoself downstairs befo you know hit.”
He picked his way across the floor and dug an earthenware jug from a pile of rotting hay in the corner.
“One place he wont look fer hit,” he said.
“Skeered of sp’ilin them gal’s hands of hisn.”
They drank.
“I’ve seen you out hyer befo,” the man said.
“Caint call yo name, though.”
“My name’s Stevens.
I’ve been buying liquor from Lee for three years.
When’ll he be back?
We’ve got to get on to town.”
“He’ll be hyer soon.
I’ve seen you befo.
Nother feller fum Jefferson out hyer three-fo nights ago.