As he stood peering about him, the sound came
again, not laughter this time, but a suppressed giggle. It was human
beyond a doubt. Gideon's face shone with relief and sympathetic
amusement; he listened for a moment, and then strode surely forward
toward a clump of low palms. There he paused, every sense alert. His
ear caught a soft rustle, a little gasp of fear; the sound of a foot
moved cautiously.
"Missy," he said tentatively, "I reckon yo'-all's come jes 'bout 'n
time foh breakfus. Yo' betteh have some. Ef yo' ain' too white to sit
down with a black man."
The leaves parted, and a smiling face as black as Gideon's own
regarded him in shy amusement.
"Who is yo', man?"
"I mought be king of Kongo," he laughed, "but I ain't. Yo' see befo'
yo' jes Gideon--at yo'r 'steemed sehvice." He bowed elaborately in the
mock humility of assured importance, watching her face in pleasant
anticipation.
But neither awe nor rapture dawned there. She repeated the name,
inclining her head coquettishly; but it evidently meant nothing to
her. She was merely trying its sound. "Gideon, Gideon.
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