"Hello." The brown face on the pillow did not change expression as Val
greeted the swamper. "How do you feel now?"
"Bettah," Jeems answered shortly. "Ah'm good but they won't le' me up."
"The Doc says you're in for a couple of days," Val told him.
Somehow Jeems looked smaller, shrunken, as he lay in that oversized bed.
And he had lost that air of indolent arrogance which had made him seem
so independent in their swamp and garden meetings. It was as if Val were
looking down upon a younger and less confident edition of the swamper he
had known.
"What does he think?" There was urgency in that question.
"Who's he?"
"Yo' brothah."
"Rupert? Why, he's glad to have you here," Val answered.
"Does he know 'bout--"
Val shook his head.
"Tell him!" ordered the swamper. "Ah ain't a-goin' to stay undah his
ruff lessen he knows. 'Tain't fitten."
At this clean-cut statement of the laws of hospitality, Val nodded. "All
right. I'll tell him. But what were you after here, Jeems? I'll have to
tell him that, too, you know. Was it the Civil War treasure?"
Jeems turned his head slowly. "No." Again the puzzled frown twisted his
straight, finely marked brows. "What do Ah want wi' treasure? Ah don't
know what Ah was lookin' fo'. Mah grandpappy--"
"Val, supper's ready," came Rupert's voice from the hall.
Val half turned to go. "I've got to go now. But I'll be back later," he
promised.
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