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Show Page 62 "What is your real name, Twig?" I asked as we passed clucking hens pecking for beetles in the garden. "Just Twig," he answered, shutting the palisade gate behind us. "Have you not a family name-or even a different given name?" "Just Twig." "But what did your mother and father call you?" Twig fixed a fierce gaze upon me. "Never had a father or a mum. "Master Davidson's tobacco field," he said then, pointing to a plot of land of about a half acre on the river side of the dwelling. I could see Walter walking slowly down the field, a basket over his arm. Beside each bare mound of soil that warted from the field, he dropped a small plant. "I mustn't be long," Twig said. "I have to help the master stick the cursed plants into the hills." He led me toward the gully behind the Davidsons'. A worn path ambled down through the trees and some stones led across the stream to the far side. We came out of the trees near a dwelling with a large tree shading the wattle-fenced yard. "Master Boys' place," Twig stated, jerking his head toward the house, but making no mention of the four or five other houses set farther away. |