These fragmentary phrases, however, feathered with consternation, filled Peter with vague premonitions.  He whirled his legs out of bed and began drawing on his clothes.  When he was up and into the crescent, however, nobody was in sight.  He stood breathing the chill, damp air, blinking his eyes.  Lack of his cold bath made him feel chilly and lethargic.  He wriggled his shoulders and considered going back, after all, and having his splash.  Just then he saw the Persimmon coming around the crescent.  Peter called to the roustabout and asked about Tump Pack.

The Persimmon looked at Peter with his half-asleep, protruding eyeballs.

“Don’ you know ’bout Tump Pack already, Mister Siner?”

“No.”  Peter was astonished at the formality of the “Mr. Siner.”

“Then is you ‘spectin’ somp’n ’bout him?”

“Why, no, but I was asleep in there a moment ago, and somebody came along talking about Tump and Cissie.  They—­they aren’t married, are they?”

“Oh, no-o, no-o-o, no-o-o-o-o.”  The Persimmon waggled his bullet head slowly from side to side.  “I heared Tump got into a lil trouble wid de jailer las’ night.”

“Serious?”

“I dunno.”  The Persimmon closed one of his protruding yellow eyes.  “Owin’ to whut you call se’ius; maybe whut I call se’ius wouldn’t be se’ius to you at all; ’n ’en maybe whut you call se’ius would be ve’y insince’ius to Tump.”  The roustabout’s philosophy, which consisted in a monotonous recasting of a given proposition, trickled on and on in the cold wind.  After a while it fizzled out to nothing at all, and the Persimmon asked in a queer manner:  “Did you give Tump some women’s clo’es, Peter?”

It was such an odd question that at first Peter was at loss; then he recalled Nan Berry’s despatching Cissie some underwear.  He explained this to the Persimmon, and tacked on a curious, “Why?”

“Oh, nothin’; nothin’ ’tall.  Ever’body say you a mighty long-haided nigger.  Jim Pink he tell us ‘bout Tump Pack marchin’ you ‘roun’ wid a gun.  I sho don’ want you ever git mad at me, Mister Siner.  Man wid a gun an’ you turn yo’ long haid on him an’ blow him away wid a wad o’ women’s clo’es.  I sho don’ want you ever cross yo’ fingers at me, Mister Siner.”

Peter stared at the grotesque, bullet-headed roustabout.  “Persimmon,” he said uneasily, “what in the world are you talking about?”

The Persimmon smiled a sickly, white-toothed smile.  “Jim Pink say yo’ aidjucation is a flivver.  I say, ‘Jim Pink, no nigger don’ go off an’ study fo’ yeahs in college whut ‘n he comes back an’ kin throw some kin’ uv a hoodoo over us fool niggers whut ain’t got no brains.  Now, Tump wid a gun, an’ you wid jes ordina’y women’s clo’es!  ‘Fo’ Gawd, aidjucation is a great thing; sho is a great thing.”  The Persimmon gave Peter an apprehensive wink and moved on.

There was no use trying to extract information from the Persimmon unless he was minded to give it.  His talk would merely become vaguer and vaguer.  Peter watched him go, then turned and attempted to throw the whole matter off his mind by assuming a certain brisk Northern mood.  He must pack, get ready for the down-river gasolene launch.  The doings of Tump Pack and Cissie Dildine were, after all, nothing to him.