"Yes, yes, dear; I see. Oh, look how you've rumpled your dress! What will Lewis say to that? Come, Shenton, give mother your hand." Slowly she led them down the steps, her eyes fixed on the approaching cab.
The Reverend Orme sprang out and up to meet them. He kissed his wife and children. Shenton clung to his arm.
"O Dad," he cried, "didn't you bring him?"
"Bring him? I should say I did. Here, step out, young man."
A chubby face above a blouse, a short kilt and fat legs, appeared from the shadows of the cab. Grave eyes passed fearlessly over the group on the steps until they settled on the broad black face of Mammy.
"Bad nigger!"
Mrs. Leighton gasped and arrested herself in the very movement of welcome. Mammy's genial face assumed a terrible scowl, her white eyes bulged, and her vast arms went suddenly akimbo.
"Wha' 's that yo' say, yo' young Marster?" she thundered.
"Go—go—good nigger," stuttered the chubby face and smiled. With that he was swept from the cab into Mrs. Leighton's arms, and Mammy, grinning from ear to ear, caught him by one fat leg and demanded in soft negro tones:
"Wha' fo' you call yo' mammy 'bad niggah,' young Marster? Ho! ho!
'Go—go—good niggah!' Did yo' hea' him, Mis' Ann?"