“It’s all very well, Miss Sheba,” he had said once, when she praised the skill with which he employed his scant resources. “It’s mighty easy to be a good cook when you’se got everythin’ right to han’. The giftness is to git up a fine table when you ain’t got nuffin’. Dat’s whar dish yer niggah likes to show out. De Lard knows I’se got too much yere dis ve’y minnit—to be a-doin’ credit to my ’sperience—too much, Miss Sheba.”
He was frying hoe-cake and talking to Miss Burford when Sheba came into the kitchen. He was a great comfort and aid to Miss Burford, and in a genteel way the old lady found him a resource in the matters of companionship and conversation. Her life was too pinched and narrow to allow her even the simpler pleasure of social intercourse, and Matt’s journeys into the world, and his small adventures, and his comments upon politics and social events were a solace and a source of entertainment to her.
Just now he was describing to her the stories he had heard of a celebrated lecturer who had just arrived in the city.
“Whether he’s a ’vivalist or jes’ a plain preacher what folks is runnin’ after, I cayn’t quite make out, ma’am,” he was saying. “I ain’t quite thinkin’ he’s a ’vivalist, but de peoples is a-runnin’ after him shore—an’ seems like dey doin’ it in ev’y city he goes to. Ev’ybody want to heah him—ev’ybody—rich en pore—young en ole. De Rev’end John Baird’s his name, an’ he’s got a fren’ travellin’ with him as they say is like Jonathan was to David in dese yere ole Bible times. An’ I heern tell ev when he rise in de pulpit de people’s jest gets so worked up at what he preach to ’em—dey jest cries an’ rocks de benches. Dat’s what make me think he might be a ’vivalist—cos we all knows dat cryin’ an’ rockin’ an’ clappin’ hands is what makes a ’vival.” He was full of anecdotes concerning the new arrival whose reputation had plainly preceded him.
“He gwine ter preach nex’ Sat’day on ‘’Pentance,’” he said to Sheba, with a chuckle. “Dat’s his big lecture ev’ybody want to hear. De hall shore to be pack full. What I’m a-hopin’ is dat it’ll be pack full er Senators an’ members er Congrest, an’ he’ll set some of ’em a-’pentin’, dey ain’t ’tend to dere business an’ git people’s claims through. Ef I know’d de gen’leman, I’d ax him to menshun dat special an’ pertickler.”
As they sat at supper, Sheba repeated his stories and comments. All the comments were worthy of repetition, and most of the anecdotes were suggestively interesting, illustrating, as they did, the power of a single man over many.
“I should like to go and hear him myself,” she said. “Uncle Tom, have you anything to repent? Rupert, have you? Uncle Tom, you have not forgotten the Senator. You look at me as if you were thinking of something that was not happy.”
“The Senator was not particularly happy,” remarked Tom. “He had just had an interview with Stamps, and he certainly was not happy at the sight of me. He thought he had another on his hands. He’s in better spirits by this time.”
Sheba got up and went to his side of the table. She put her arms round his neck and pressed her cheek against his.
“Forget about him,” she said.