“Old Miss says fer you-all to stop dat frowin’ papers an’ sech like trash outen de winder; dey blows over in our-all’s yard.”
He delivered the message in the same belligerent spirit with which it had evidently been conveyed to him, and rolled his eyes at Mr. Opp as if the offense had been personal.
Mr. Opp drew him in, and closed the door. “Did—er—did Mrs. Gusty send you over to say that?” he asked anxiously.
“Yas, sir; she done havin’ a mad spell. What’s dat dere machine fer?”
“It’s a printing-press. Do you think Mrs. Gusty is mad at me?”
“Yas, sir,” emphatically; “she’s mad at ever’body. She ’lows she gwine lick me ef I don’t tek keer. She done got de [p141] kitchen so full o’ switches hit looks jes lak outdoors.”
“I don’t think she would really whip you,” said Mr. Opp, already feeling the family responsibility.
“Naw, sir; she jes ’low she gwine to. What’s in dem dere little drawers?”
“Type,” said Mr. Opp. “You go back and tell Mrs. Gusty that Mr. Opp says he’s very sorry to have caused her any inconvenience, and he’ll send over immediate and pick up them papers.”
“You’s kinder skeered of her, too, ain’t you?” grinned the ambassador, holding up one bare, black foot to the stove. “My mammy she sasses back, but I runs.”