“I will. I won’t. Good luck,” contradicted Constance, as she ran back into the house, and Mammy drove off toward South Riveredge; a section of the town as completely given over to commercial interests as Riveredge proper was to its homes. There a large carpet factory throve and flourished giving employment to many hands. There, also, stood a large building called the Central Arcade in which many business men had their offices. It was about a mile from the heart of Riveredge proper and as Mammy jogged along toward her destination, she had ample time to think, and chuckle to herself at her astuteness in carrying out her own ideas of the fitness of things while apparently fully concurring with Constance’s wishes. Mammy had no objections to Constance making all the candy she chose to make; that could be done within the privacy of her own home and shock no one’s sensibilities. But when the girl had announced her intention of going among her friends to secure customers, Mammy had descended upon her with all her powers of opposition. The outcome had been the present compromise. Very few people in South Riveredge knew the Carruths or Mammy, and this was exactly what the old woman wished.
Driving her “gallumping” steed to the very heart of the busy town she drew up at the curbstone in front of the Arcade just a few moments before the five o’clock whistles blew. Stepping from her vehicle she placed a campstool upon the sidewalk beside it, and lifting her box of candy from the seat established herself upon her stool with the open box upon her lap. Within two minutes of the blowing of the whistles the streets were alive with people who came hurrying from the buildings on every side. Mammy was a novelty and like most novelties took at once, so presently she was doing a thriving business, her tongue going as fast as her packages of candy. People are not unlike sheep; where one leads, all the others follow.
“Home-made candy, sah! Fresh f’om de home-kitchen; jis done mek hit. Ain’ hardly col’. Ten cents a package, sah. Yes sah, yo’ better is bleeve hit’s deleshus. Yo’ ain’ tas’ no pralines lak dem in all yo’ bo’n days,” ran on Mammy handing out her packages of candy and dropping her dimes into the little bag at her side.
“Here, Aunty, give me four of those packages of fudge,” cried a genial, gray-haired, portly old gentleman with a military bearing. “Porter, here, has just given me some of his and they’re simply great! Did you make ’em? They touch the spot.”
“La, suh, I ain’ got four left: I ain’, fer a fac’. Tek some of de pralines; deys mighty good, suh,” bustled Mammy, offering her dainties.
“Take all you’ve got. Did you make ’em?” persisted her customer.
“My pa’tner done mak ’em,” said Mammy with dignity, as she handed over her last package.
“Well you darkies can cook,” cried the gentleman as he took the candy.
For a moment it seemed as though Mammy were about to fly at him, and her customer was not a little astounded at the transformation which came over her old face. Then he concluded that the term “darkie” had been the rock on which they had split, and smiled as he said:
“Better set up business right here in the Arcade. Buy you and your partner out every day. Good-bye, Auntie.”