St. George, who had been listening to the old woman with mingled feelings of wonder and curiosity, raised his hand to silence her. Whether she had gone daft or was more than usually excited he could not for the moment decide.
“Get your breath, Jemima, and tell me what you're talking about. Who's downstairs?”
“Ain't I jes' don' tol' yer? Got a look on him make ye shiver all over; says he's gwineter s'arch de house. He's got a constable wid him—dat is, he's got a man dat looks like a constable, an'—”
St. George laid his hands on the old woman's shoulders, and turned her about.
“Hush your racket this instant, and tell me who is downstairs?”
“Marse Talbot Rutter,” she wheezed; “come f'om de country—got mud all ober his boots.”
“Mr. Harry's father?”
Aunt Jemima choked and nodded: there was no breath left for more.
“Who did he ask for?” St. George was calm enough now.
“Didn't ask fer nobody; he say, 'I'm lookin' fer a man dat come in yere las' night.' I see he didn't know me an' I neber let on. Den he say, 'Hab you got any boa'ders yere?' an' I say, 'I got one,' an' den he 'tempted ter pass me an' I say, 'Wait a minute 'til I see ef he's outen de bed.' Now, what's I gwineter do? He doan' mean no good to Marse Harry an' he'll dribe him 'way ag'in, an' he jes' come back an' you gittin' well a-lovin' of him—an'—”