He asked, “You been fumigatin’?”

“Fumigatin’!  Why, Dammy, there ain’t been a disease in the house since you had whoopin’ cough.”

“Sulphur,” Adam drawled.

“Why, Dammy Egg!  I never used sulphur for nothin’ in my life!”

He took a jar of preserves and ripped off the paraffin wafer that covered the top.  Then he set the jar aside and sat down on the floor.  Mrs. Egg watched him unlace his shoes.

He commanded, “You sit still, Mamma.  Be back in a minute.”

“Dammy, don’t you go near that heathen!”

“I ain’t.”

He swung across the kitchen floor in two strides and bumped his head on the top of the door.  Mrs. Egg winced, but all her body seemed to move after the boy.  Shiverings tossed her.  She lifted her skirts and stepped after him.  The veranda was empty.  Adam had vanished, although the moon covered the dooryard with silver.  The woman stared and shook.  Then something slid down the nearest pillar and dropped like a black column to the grass.  Adam came up the steps and shoved Mrs. Egg back to the pantry.

He spread some quince preserve on a slab of bread and stated, “He’s sittin’ up readin’ a lot of old copybooks, kind of.  Got oil all over his head.  It’s hair remover.  Sulphur in it.”

“How could you ever smell that far, Dammy?”

“I wonder what’s in those books?” Adam pondered.  He sat cross-legged on the ice chest and ate slowly for a time, then remarked, “You didn’t put up these quinces, Mamma.”

“No; they’re Sadie’s.  Think of your noticin’!”

“You got to teach Edie cookin’,” he said.  “She can’t cook fit for a Cuban.  Lots of time, though.  Now, Mamma, we can’t let this goof stay here all night.  I guess he’s a thief.  I ain’t goin’ to let the folks have a laugh on you.  Didn’t your father always keep a diary?”

“Think of your rememberin’ that, Dammy!  Yes, always.”

“That’s what Frisco’s readin’ up in.  He’s smart.  Used to do im’tations of actors and cry like a hose pipe.  Spotted that.  Where’s the strawb’ry jam?”

“Right here, Dammy.  Dammy, suppose he killed Papa somewheres off and stole his diaries!”

“Well,” said Adam, beginning strawberry jam, “I thought of that.  Mebbe he did.  I’d better find out.  Y’oughtn’t to kill folks even if they’re no good for nothin’.”

“I’ll go down to the barn and wake some of the boys up,” Mrs. Egg hissed.

“You won’t neither, Mamma.  This’d be a joke on you.  I ain’t goin’ to have folks sayin’ you took this guy for your father.  Fewer knows it, the better.  This is awful good jam.”  He grinned and pulled Mrs. Egg down beside him on the chest.  She forgot to be frightened, watching the marvel eat.  She must get larger jars for jam.  He reflected:  “You always get enough to eat on a boat, but it ain’t satisfyin’.  Frisco prob’ly uses walnut juice to paint his face with.  It don’t wash off.  Don’t talkin’ make a person thirsty?”