I'm hungry, for I haven't enjoyed a meal since
yesterday. Mister, see here," said Grandma Padgett, approaching the
cart.
J. D. moved backwards as she came as if pushed by an invisible pole
carried in the brisk grandmother's hands.
"Stand still, do," she urged, laying a bank bill on his cart. She,
snapped her steel purse shut again, put it in her dress pocket, and
indicated the bill with one finger. "I don't lay this here for your
kindness to the children, you understand. You've got feelings, and
know I'm more than obliged. But here are a lot of us, and you buy
your provisions, so if you'll let us pay you for some, we'll eat and
be thankful. Take the money and put it away."
Thus commanded, J. D. returned cautiously to the other side of the
cart, took the money and thrust it into his vest pocket without
looking at it. He then smiled again at Grandma Padgett, as if the
thought of propitiating her was uppermost in his mind.
"Now go on with your chicken-broiling," she concluded, and he went
on with it, keeping at a distance from her while she stood by the
cart or when she sat down on a log by the fire.
"Here's your stick, Grandma," said Robert Day, offering her a limb
of paw paw, stripped of all its leaves.
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