“Huh! Don’t you fret ober de ’surance. Jis clap yo’ eyes on dat,” and Mammy thrust into her Miss Jinny’s hands a paper which she hastily drew from the bosom of her frock.
[CHAPTER X—Readjustment]
It was all over. The excitement had subsided and all that remained to tell the story of the previous afternoon’s commotion was a fire-scorched, water-soaked dwelling with a miscellaneous collection of articles decorating its lawn. When the early morning sunshine looked down upon the home which for eight years had sheltered the Carruths, it beheld desolation complete. Alas for Eleanor’s chemicals! Her experiments had cost the family dear.
The only living being in sight was a policeman mounting guard over the ruins. A staid and stolid son of the Vatterland who had spent the wee sma’ hours upon the premises and now stood upon the piazza upright and rigid as the inanimate objects all about him. Beside him was a small, toy horse “saddled and bridled and ready to ride,” and anything more absurd than the picture cut by this guardian of the law and his miniature charger it would be hard to imagine.
Meanwhile the family was housed among friends who had been quick to offer them shelter, Mr. Stuyvesant insisting that Mrs. Carruth and Constance accept his aunt’s hospitality through him, while the next door neighbor, Mr. Henry, harbored Eleanor, Jean and Mammy, who refused point blank to go beyond sight of the premises and her charge—Baltie.
Mammy was the heroine of the hour; for what the old woman had not thought of when everyone else’s wits were scattered was hardly worth thinking of. In the blanket which she had charged the girls to guard were all of Mrs. Carruth’s greatest treasures, among them a beautiful miniature of Mr. Carruth of which no one but Mammy had thought. Jewelry which had belonged to her mother was there, valuable papers hastily snatched from her desk, and many of the girl’s belongings which would never have been saved but for Mammy’s forethought. At seven o’clock, when all was over, the crowd dispersed and the family gathered together in Mr. Henry’s living-room to collect their wits and draw a long breath, Mrs. Carruth drew Mammy to one side to ask:
“Mammy, what is the meaning of this receipt? I cannot understand it. Who has paid this sum and where was it paid?”
“Baby, dere comes times when ’taint a mite er use ter tell what we gwine do. Dat ’surance hatter be squar’d up an’ dat settled it. So I squar’d it—.”
“Oh, Mammy! Mammy!” broke in Mrs. Carruth, almost in tears.
“Hush, chile! Pay ’tention ter me. What would a come of we-all if I hadn’t paid dat bill den an’ dar? Bress de Lawd I had de cash an’ don’ pester me wid questions. Ain’ I tole yo’ I’se rich? Well den, dat settles it. When yo is, yo’ kin settle wid me. Dat don’ need no argufyin’ do it? Now go long wid Miss Constance an’ Massa Stuyvesant lak dey say an’ git yo’ sef ca’med down. Yo’ all a shakin’ an’ a shiverin’ lak yo’ got de ager, an’ dat won’ never do in de roun’ worl’. Yo’ll be down sick on my han’s.”