"Pooh! I'll show my father!" he exclaimed.

The negroes broke into a plantation song. Jim Pemberton, the leader,
sang each stanza in a clear fine tenor that rang over the field and
echoed through the deep woods. The others joined in the chorus and after
the last verse repeated in low sweet notes that died away so softly it
was impossible to tell the moment the song had ceased.

The music was beautiful, but it was impossible for him to join in their
singing. He couldn't lower himself to an equality with black slaves.
This cotton picking seemed part of their scheme of life. Their strong
black bodies swayed in a sort of rhythmic movement even when they were
not singing. Somehow his body didn't fit into the scheme. His back ached
and ached. No matter. He had chosen, and he would show them he had a
man's spirit inside a boy's breast.

At noon the ache had worn away and he felt a sense of joy in conquering
the pain.

He ate his dinner in silence and wondered what Polly was thinking about
at school. Girl-like, she had cried and begged him to go back.

With a cheerful wave of his hand to his mother, he returned to the field
before the negroes, strapped the bag on his shoulder and bent again to
his task. The afternoon was long. It seemed at three o'clock there could
be no end to it and still those long, long rows of white fleece
stretched on and on into eternity--all alike in dull, tiresome monotony.

He whistled to keep up his courage.