When Yancy reached the Cross
Roads, Crenshaw gave him a disquieting opinion as to the probable
contents of his letter, for he himself had heard from Bladen that
he had decided to assume the care of the boy.
"So you reckon it was that--" said Yancy, with a deep breath.
"It's a blame outrage, Bob, fo' him to act like this!" said the
merchant with heat.
"When do you reckon he's going to send fo' him?" asked Yancy.
"Whenever the notion strikes him."
"What about my having notions too?" inquired Yancy, flecked into
passion, and bringing his fist down on the counter with a crash.
"You surely ain't going to oppose him, Bob?"
"Does he say when he's going to send fo' my nevvy ?"
"He says it will be soon."
"You take care of my mule, Mr. John," said Yancy, and turned his
back on his friend.
"I reckon Bladen will have the law on his side, Bob!"
"The law be damned--I got what's fair on mine, I don't wish fo'
better than that," exclaimed Yancy, over his shoulder. He strode
from the store and started down the sandy road at a brisk run.
Miserable forebodings of an impending tragedy leaped up within
him, and the miles were many that lay between him and the Hill.
"He'll just naturally bust the face off the fellow Bladen sends!"
thought Crenshaw, staring after his friend.
That run of Bob Yancy's was destined to become a classic in the
annals of the neighborhood. Ordinarily a man walking briskly
might cover the distance between the Cross Roads and the Hill in
two hours.
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