Opposite a Negro baker shop Bellon dismounted, hitched the animal to a guava tree, and knocked upon the door.
"Who dat?" shouted a voice from within.
"Captain Prout," he replied, and the door swung to.
Squat and stout, Mother Cragwell, a Ba'bajan creole—mixture of white and Negro—admitted him, and shuffled back behind the counter, eying the visitor. She had been kneading dough, the counter was lathered with it, and her hands were scaly with shreds of flour.
"Mas' Prout," the old woman exclaimed, "wha' yo' a do down yah dis time o' night? Yo' na'h go home no?"
"Why, yes, Mother Cragwell," replied the officer jovially, "can't a law-abiding colonist walk the King's highway after dark?"
"De King's highways," the old woman sarcastically muttered, "wha' dey care 'bout any King?"
Fixing her brownish red eyes on the buckra, she looked puzzled, skeptical.
"Why, is that the sort of welcome you give a returning soldier, Mother Cragwell?" he inquired, flattered by the old woman's characteristically racial concern.
She shook her head, ruefully bestirring herself. "Han' me dat bucket dey," she said. "How much yo' want?"