“He will that!” agreed the doctor savagely. “No doubt he imagines he’s coming to a kindly countryside of gentle-born people with souls and imaginations; he’ll find he’s lit in a section that’s entirely too ready to hack at his father’s name and prepared in advance to call him Northern scum and turn up its nose at his accent—a community so full of dyed-in-the-wool snobbery that it would make Boston look like a poor-white barbecue. I’m sorry for him!”
Mrs. Gifford, having learned wisdom from experience, resisted the temptation to reply. She merely rocked a trifle faster and turned a smile which she strove to make amusedly deprecative upon her hostess. Just then from the rear of the house came a strident voice:
“Yo’, Raph’el! Take yo’ han’s outer dem cherries! Don’ yo’ know ef yo’ swallahs dem ar pits, yo’ gwineter hab ’pendegeetus en lump up en die?”
The sound of a slap and a shrill yelp followed, and around the porch dashed an infantile darky, as nude as a black Puck, with his hands full of cherries, who came to a sudden demoralized stop in the embarrassing foreground.
“Raph!” thundered the doctor. “Didn’t I tell you to go back to that kitchen?”
“Yas, suh,” responded the imp. “But yo’ didn’ tell me ter stay dar!”
“If I see you out here again,” roared the doctor, “I’ll tie your ears back—and grease you—and SWALLOW you!” At which grisly threat, the apparition, with a shrill shriek, turned and ran desperately for the corner of the house.
“I hear,” said the doctor, resuming, “that the young man who came to fix the place up has hired Uncle Jefferson and his wife to help him. Who’s responsible for that interesting information?”
“Rickey Snyder,” said Mrs. Mason. “She’s got a spy-glass rigged up in a sugar-tree at Miss Mattie Sue’s and she saw them pottering around there this morning.”
“Little limb!” exclaimed Mrs. Gifford, with emphasis. “She’s as cheeky as a town-hog. I can’t imagine what Shirley Dandridge was thinking of when she brought that low-born child out of her sphere.”