Ferris' Sunday-school?"
"When the judge is drunk he talks a heap about 'em. It's
beautiful to hear him then; you'd love it, Miss Betty," and
Hannibal smiled up sweetly into her face.
"Does he have you go to Sunday-school in Raleigh?"
The boy shook his head.
"I ain't got no clothes that's fitten to wear, nor no pennies to
give, but the judge, he 'lows that as soon as he can make a raise
I got to go, and he's learning me my letters--but we ain't a
book. Miss Betty, I reckon it'd stump you some to guess how he's
fixed it for me to learn?"
"He's drawn the letters for you, is that the way?" In spite of
herself, Betty was experiencing a certain revulsion of feeling
where the judge and Mahaffy were concerned. They were doubtless
bad enough, but they could have been worse.
"No, ma'am; he done soaked the label off one of Mr. Pegloe's
whisky bottles and pasted it on the wall just as high as my chin,
so's I can see it good, and he's learning me that-a-ways! Maybe
you've seen the kind of bottle I mean--Pegloe's Mississippi
Pilot: Pure Corn Whisky?" But Hannibal's bright little face
fell. He was quick to see that the educational system devised by
the judge did not impress Betty at all favorably. She drew him
into her arms.
"You shall have my books--the books I learned to read out of when
I was a little girl, Hannibal!"
"I like learning from the label pretty well," said Hannibal
loyally.
"But you'll like the books better, dear, when you see them.
Pages:
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314