“It look mighty pale, suh,” she remarked. “I ’speck dey steam it ’fo’ dey mash it up.” She seated herself on the top step, lit her pipe, took a few whiffs, and then shook her head. “’Tain’t nigh rank ’nuff for me, suh. Hit tas’e like you er dreamin’ ’bout smokin’ an’ know all de time ’tain’t nothin’ but a dream.” She knocked the tobacco out, and then refilled the pipe with the crumbs and cutting from the end of a plug. This she smoked with an air of supreme satisfaction.
“I ’speck you got de idee dat I better be seein’ ’bout supper, stidder settin’ up here lookin’ biggity. But ’tain’t no use, suh. Marse Tumlin and Miss Vallie never is ter come home dis day less’n dey bring Marse Paul wid um. I done hear um sesso. An’ I know mighty well, deyer gwine ter come back late, bekaze Paul Conant’s one er dem kinder folks what go twel dey can’t go, an’ when dey git down dey make motions like dey gwine. Dey puts me in mind uv a lizard’s tail, suh. Knock it off, an’ it’ll hop ’bout an’ work an’ wiggle plum twel de sun go down.”
I suggested that the illustration was somewhat inapt (though not in those words), for the reason that Paul Conant’s energy was not expended blindly. But I found that Aunt Minervy knew what she was saying.
“I ain’t talkin’ ’bout his own business, suh, bekaze dey ain’t nobody beat ’im at dat. No, suh; I’m talkin’ ’bout dem ar doin’s out dar at de fair groun’s. He’s a-workin’ at dat lots harder dan he has ter work fer hisse’f. Maybe you tuck notice uv de way dem yuther folks done out dar, suh. Dey stood ’round wid dey mouf open, an’ de ribbon pinned on der coats, an’ when sump’n had ter be done, dey’d call out fer Conant. It ’uz ‘Conant!’ here an’ ‘Conant!’ dar, an’ ef Conant wuz out er hearin’ de whole shebang had ter stop right still an’ wait twel Conant kin be dragged up. I watched um p’intedly, suh, an’ it’s des like I tell you.”
Aunt Minervy Ann’s characterization of the directors was so acute and so unexpected that I laughed—not at what she said, but at the vivid picture of a lot of helpless men standing about, full of dignity, and yet waiting for young Conant to tell them what to do.
“‘Conant!’ here and ‘Conant!’ dar.”
“You may laugh, suh,” Aunt Minervy Ann went on with a little frown, “but I’m tellin’ you de Lord’s trufe. I kep’ my eyes on um, an’ ’twuz dat-a-way fum soon dis mornin’ ’twel I got mad an’ come home. You kin ax Hamp, suh, an’ he’ll tell you de same. I reckon you heer’d Marse Tumlin las’ night at de table ax Marse Paul ef his shoulder hurted ’im. I know you did, suh, bekaze I tuck notice how you looked, an’ I tried ter shake de baby up so he’d cry, but dat wuz one er de times, suh, when he wouldn’t be shuck up. Any udder time dat chil’ would er laid back an’ blated twel you’d hafter put yo’ fingers in yo’ years. I wuz mad wid ’im, suh, but I wuz bleedz ter laugh. Chillun mighty funny. When you don’t want um ter cry, dey’ll holler der heads off, an’ when you want um ter cry, dey’ll laugh in yo’ face. I bet you dey’s a blue place on dat baby’s arm whar I pinched ’im, but he didn’t no mo’ min’ it dan nothin’.”
“Well,” said I, “there was something peculiar in the way all of you looked and acted when the Major asked about Mr. Conant’s shoulder. It was a very simple question.”