Larkin had captured Isaac, but his influence had not reached his wife. For any white man who stayed at a Negro’s house her contempt was beyond words. That the house happened to be her husband’s only aggravated the offence.
“I must see him,” urged Larkin.
“He’s in bed sick, I tell ye!”
“But you had’nt told me,” protested the Carpetbagger.
“Well I tells ye now. De Judge ain’t lif’ his head offen de piller ter day. De ghosts wuz here agin las’ night—an’ you’d better be a movin ‘fore Miss Stella find you here. She sick de dog on you.” Larkin took a threatening step toward her and said in low tones:
“Shut your mouth, and tell the Judge I’m here to see him on important business. I’m not going out of this house until I do see him. Tell him so.”
Aunt Julie Ann turned muttering and slowly climbed the stairs to Butler’s room.
In a moment the Judge came down, hastily dressed in a faded slouchy dressing-gown and a pair of bedroom slippers.
“Is it possible,” exclaimed Larkin, “that you know nothing of what’s happened here within the past twenty-four hours?”
“I’ve been sick in bed. Haven’t left the house,” was the nervous reply.