, and some things had happened that she would rather
not have to explain to her husband. There was a dismal depthless gulf of
painful silence between the honeymooners for a long time. Then Pearline
said with difficulty:

"I don't like de nigger mens you 'socheates wid. Dem three niggers ain't
fitten comp'ny fer my husbunt."

"Dat's whut I thinks about dem three womens dat come to see you,"
Plaster answered. "Ef you runs wid dat color of petticoats I shore will
disrespeck you mo' dan I does now."

"I runs wid anybody I chooses," Pearline snapped.

"Me, too," Plaster retorted.

They pulled apart and the chain rattled.

They stepped back from the entrance and closed the door.

And the evening and the morning were the second day.

V.

By sleeping until the noon-hour the two love-captives shortened the
third day by half.

In the two days past they had exhausted every theme of conversation, had
wearied of every kind of amusement they could devise, and had pumped
their hearts dry of language to proclaim and protest their affection for
each other to lubricate the machinery of existence amid the friction of
their disposition and temperament.

The day before Plaster had made a hit with a song, so he decided to fill
every moment of that day until the sun sank below the horizon with vocal
music, for song banishes conversation and song is not provocative of
difference of opinion and argument--so he thought. While he and his wife
were dressing, Plaster began:

"Does you know dat I am dyin'
Fer a little bit of love?
Everywhar dey hears me sighin'
Fer a little bit of love.
Fer dat love dat grows mo' strong,
Fills de heart wid hope and song,
I has waited--oh, so long--
Fer a little bit of love."

"Whut makes you sing so dang loud, Plaster?" Pearline asked wearily, as
she rested her head upon her hands. "You sounds like a brayin' jackace
mournin' because he done tumbled down a open well."

"One time you said you liked my singin'," Plaster retorted.

"I couldn't tell you whut I really thought about it in dem sad days,"
Pearline remarked.

They ate their noon meal in silence because neither could think of
anything to say. Plaster had got the hook at the very beginning of his
musical career, and the things he thought of to say were not fit for
utterance or publication.

As they rose from the table, they looked with surprise out of the
window.

A long procession of negroes