“Well?” Obadiah’s enthusiasm in the proposed purchase had cooled as hers increased.
She squeezed his arm up against her and announced breathlessly, “I want a truck, Daddy.”
“A truck!” Obadiah viewed his daughter as if he deemed the immediate attentions of an alienist essential in her case. “What on earth would you do with a truck?”
“I need it to take those colored orphans out for a ride each week,” she explained, full of the plan. “I am going to have benches made to fit on each side of the truck so that it will take them all comfortably. Isn’t it a fine idea?”
Obadiah, dumfounded for the moment, regained speech and sought information as one who had not heard aright. “Do you mean to say that you want me to buy a truck to haul those negro children around town?”
“Yah–yah–yah.” Upon the front seat, Ike so far forgot the proprieties of his station that he gave vent to noisy merriment at the domestic perplexities of gentlefolk.
“Keep your mind on your business,” Obadiah commanded, glaring at his chauffeur’s neck.
Virginia, disregarding the faux pas of the chauffeur and its condign reproof, proceeded to explain her plans. “We have decided, Daddy, that those orphans must be taken for a ride every week.”
“Who has decided that?”
“Hennie and I have worked it all out.”