Peter looked at his mother, surprised and rather disconcerted that she
had guessed his intentions from his mere footsteps. The young man
changed his plans for his walk, and began a diplomatic denial:

"No, I'm going to walk by myself. I'm tired; I'm played out."

"Tired?" repeated his mother, doubtfully. "You ain't done nothin' but
set an' turn th'ugh books an' write on a lil piece o' paper."

Peter was vaguely amused in his weariness, but thought that he concealed
his mirth from his mother.

"That gets tiresome after a while."

She grunted her skepticism. As Peter moved for the door she warned him:

"Peter, you knows ef Tump Pack sees you, he's gwine to shoot you sho!"

"Oh, no he won't; that's Tump's talk."

"Talk! talk! Whut's matter wid you, Peter? Dat nigger done git crowned
fuh killin' fo' men!" She stood staring at him with white eyes. Then she
urged, "Now, look heah, Peter, come along an' eat yo' supper."

"No, I really need a walk. I won't walk through Niggertown. I'll walk
out in the woods."

"I jes made some salmon coquettes fuh you whut'll spile ef you don' eat
'em now."