The negroes whispered to one another and smiled as they looked his way.
He paid no attention.

By four o'clock, the weariness had become a habit and at sundown he felt
stronger than at dawn. He swung the bag over his back and started to the
weighing place.

"Pooh--it's easy!" he said with scorn.

The negroes crowded around his pile of cotton.

"Dat Boy is sho one cotton-picker!" cried Jim Pemberton, regarding him
with grinning admiration.

"Of course, I can pick cotton if I want to--"

"But ye raly don't wanter?" Jim grinned.

"Sure I do. I'm sick of school."

Jim laughed aloud and, coming close, whispered insinuatingly:

"I'se sho sick er pickin' cotton, an' when yer quits de job--"

"I'm not going to quit--"

"Yassah, yassah?--I understan' dat--but de pint is, _when_ yer _do_
quit, don't fergit Jim, Marse Jeff. I likes you. You got de spunk. I
wants ter be yo' man."