Somehow, she reminded Chub so much of himself, as he had looked and acted April Fool’s Day, that he almost laughed. The door began again to close.
Chub, frantic that his plan was failing when he was this near his goal, put one sturdy oxford in the door and held it open. He couldn’t give up, now. “Just go ask the lady of the house if she’d like some nice, fresh doughnuts, my good woman.” He had heard that phrase, “my good woman,” on the stage, and thought it would impress the maid.
He had to get that picture!
“Ma name’s Sarah, and not ‘my good woman’ like dat. I ain’t aiming to budge. I done told you, we don’t want none of your doughnuts.” She began mumbling under her breath again.
What should he do? Ideas, usually so ready for him in an emergency, seemed to have left him stranded, now. Then he had a thought. “But you’re new here, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Right new,” Sarah admitted. “But what’s dat to you?”
“Well, Mrs. King’s been getting doughnuts for years and years,” Chub rattled on, with a sick smile. “I’m just sure she wants them. Just ask her, will you?”
Sarah was unconvinced, but she edged a bit, wheeled around in the doorway and waddled toward the stairs at the end of the room.
Chub dashed to the fireplace, and grabbed the picture. There was only one there. He was out of the house like a flash, his tweed skirt flapping against his legs, the bag of doughnuts rattling around in the basket.
“Tell Mrs. King I had to have this, but I’ll send it back all right,” he called over his shoulder in panting gasps, as he hurried down the steps to the sidewalk.