At length he rose and went back to the house. With a bunch of keys he had found he went to the stables, after some difficulty gained access, and propped the crazy doors and windows open to the sun. The building was airy and well-lighted and contained a dozen roomy box-stalls, a spacious loft and a carriage-house. The straw bedding had been unremoved, mice-gnawed sacking and rotted hay lay in the mangers, and the warped harness, hanging on its pegs, was a smelly mass of mildew and decay. In the carriage-house were three vehicles—a coach with rat-riddled upholstery and old-fashioned hoop-iron springs eaten through with rust, a rockaway and a surrey. The latter had collapsed where it stood. He found a stick, mowed away the festooning cobwebs, and moved the débris piece-meal.
“There!” he said with satisfaction. “There’s a place for the motor—if Uncle Jefferson ever gets it here.”
It was noon when he returned, after a wash-up in the lake, to the meal with which Aunt Daphne, in a costume dimly suggestive of a bran-meal poultice with a gingham apron on, regaled him. Fried chicken, corn-bread so soft and fluffy that it had to be lifted from the pan with a spoon, browned potatoes, and to his surprise, fresh milk. “Ah done druv ouah ol’ cow ovah, suh,” explained Aunt Daphne. “’Case she gotter be milked, er she run dry ez de Red Sea fo’ de chillen ob Izril.”
“Aunt Daphne,” inquired Valiant with his mouth full, “what do you call this green thing?”
“Dat? Dat’s jes’ turnip-tops, suh, wid er hunk er bacon in de pot. Laws-er-me, et cert’n’y do me good ter see yo’ git arter it dat way, suh. Reck’n yo’ got er appertite! Hyuh, Hyuh!”
“I have. I never guessed it before, and it’s a magnificent discovery. However, it suggests unwelcome reflections. Aunt Daphne, how long do you estimate a man can dine like this on—well, say on a hundred dollars?”
“Er hun’ed dollahs, suh? Dat’s er right smart heap o’ money, ’deed et is! Well, suh, ’pen’s on whut yo’ raises. Ef yo’ raises yo’ own gyarden-sass, en chick’ns en aigs, Ah reck’n yo’ kin live longah dan dat ar Methoosalum, en still haf mos’ of it in de ol’ stockin’.”
“Ah! I can grow all those things myself, you think?”
“Yo’ cert’n’y kin,” said Aunt Daphne. “Ev’ybody do. De chick’ns done peck fo’ deyselves en de yuddah things—yo’ o’ny gotter ’courage ’em en dey jes’ grows.”