Rat-tat-tat—rat-tat-tat. Bill’s fist pounded the cabin door. There came a pause. She felt the quickened beats of her heart. Rain pounding on the gutterless roof dripped in a steady trickle on her bare head and down her neck. From somewhere nearby came the mournful cry of a hoot owl.
Bill knocked again. Within the little house they heard the sound of footsteps. Dorothy stiffened.
The bolts of the door were withdrawn, the door opened and Dorothy stepped up beside Bill. Framed in the lighted rectangle was an ancient, white haired negro. He peered out at them from beneath the cotton-tufts of his eyebrows, blinded for the moment by the night.
“Good evening, Uncle. Can we come in out of the wet for a little while?”
Bill’s tone held the gentle camaraderie of those brought up by darky servants in the South.
“Lordy, Lordy—white folks, an’ drippin’ wet!” exclaimed the old fellow, straightening his bent back and smiling pleasantly. “Walk right in, Capt’in—and you, too, Missy. Ol’ Man River ain’t got quarters like you is prob’ly useter—But it’s dry and it’s warm, an’ yo-all’s sho’ is welcome!”
Chapter XI
MR. JOHN J. JOYCE
“Thank you, Uncle,” said Bill and motioning Dorothy to go first, he stepped across the threshold.
The old darky slammed the door shut behind them blotting out the storm, and sent the bolt home.
“Yo’all go over ter the fire an’ drip,” he beamed, pointing to the blazing logs in the fireplace of native stone. “Lordy, Lordy, you chillen is sho’ ’nuf half drown’. But we’s gwine ter fix dat sho’ nuf in a jiffy.”