“Well, there won’t be many more of them pass by,” said the boy in a clear accent, but with that soft intonation which would have betrayed his Southern ancestry anywhere, “and before they are all gone, I would like to join one of them myself.”
“Why, my po’ li’l lamb!” exclaimed Martha, her arms akimbo, “dat Ah done nussed in dese ahms, is you gwine to de fight!”
The boy’s demeanour was anything but lamb-like. He made a fierce step toward her.
“Don’t you call me ‘lamb’ any more,” he said, “it’s ridiculous and——”
Mammy Martha started back in alarm.
“’Peahs mo’ lak a lion’d be better,” she admitted.
“Where’s mother?” asked the boy, dismissing the subject as unworthy of argument.
“I reckon she’s upstaihs wid Mars Howard, suh. Yo’ bruddah——”
“I want to see her right away,” continued the boy impetuously.
“Mars Howard he’s putty bad dis ebenin’,” returned Martha. “Ah bettah go an’ tell her dat you want her, but Ah dunno’s she’d want to leab him.”