h unto three hunderd; an'
Little Lizay two hunderd an' fawty-seven.--That's the bigges' figger yer's
ever struck yit, Lizay: shows what yer kin do. Min' yer come up ter it
ter-morrer an' ev'ry other day."

"Days gits shawter 'bout Chrismus-time," Little Lizay ventured to suggest,
"an' it gits col', an' my fingers ain't limber."

"Don't give me none yer jaw. Reckon I knows 'nuff ter make 'lowances fer
col' an' shawt days an' scatterin' bolls an' sich like."

The next day, Alston, humiliated by his failure and by the brutal reprimand
he had received, went to the cotton-field before any of the other
hands--indeed, before it was fairly light. There he worked if ever a man
did work. When the other negroes came on the field there were laughing,
talking, singing, nodding and occasional napping in the shade of the
cotton-stalks. But Alston took no part in any of these. He had no interest
for anything apart from his work. At this all his faculties were engaged.
His lithe body was seen swaying from side to side about the widespreading
branches; he stood on tiptoe to reach the topmost bolls; he got on his
knees to work the base-limbs, pressing down and away the long grass with
his broad feet, tearing and holding back even with his teeth hindering
tendrils of the passion-flower and morning-glory and other creepers which
had escaped the devastating hoe when the crop was "laid by," and had made
good their hold on occasional stalks. Persistently he worked in this intent
way all through the hot day, every muscle in action. He lingered at the
work till after the last of the other pickers had with great baskets poised
on head joined the long, weird procession, showing white in the dusk, that
went winding through field and lane to the ginhouse. On he worked till the
crescent moon came up and he could hardly discern fleece from leaf. At
last, fearing that the basket-weighing might be ended before he could reach
the ginhouse, a half mile distant, he emptied his pick-sack, belted at his
waist, into the tall barrel-like basket, tramped the cotton with a few
movements of his bare feet, and then kneeling got the basket to his
shoulder: he was not used to the balancing on head which seemed natural as
breathing to the old hands. With long strides he hurried to the ginhouse.
He was not a minute too early. Almost the last basket had been weighed,
emptied and stacked when he climbed the ladder-like steps to the scaffold
where the cotton was sunned