This singular group entered the yard from the rear, and not far from the house. A big black woman, who sat just without a cabin door, picking a pile of rusty-looking moss, called out at sight of them:—
"W'at's dat you's bringin' in dis yard, boy? top dat hoss?"
She received no reply. Bertrand, indeed, took no notice of her inquiry.
"Fu' a boy w'at goes to school like you does—whar's yo'sense?" she went on, with a fine show of indignation; then, muttering to herself, "Ma'ame Bertrand an' Marse St. Ange ain't gwine stan' dat, I knows dey ain't. Dah! ef he ain't done sot 'im on de gall'ry, plumb down in his pa's rockin'-cheer!"
Which the boy had done; seated the tramp in a pleasant corner of the veranda, while he went in search of bandages for his wound.
The servants showed high disapproval, the housemaid following Bertrand into his grandmother's room, whither he had carried his investigations.
"W'at you tearin' yo' gra'ma's closit to' pieces dat away, boy?" she complained in her high soprano.
"I'm looking for bandages."
"Den w'y you don't ax fu' ban'ges, an' lef yo' gra'ma's closit 'lone? You want to listen to me; you gwine git shed o' dat tramp settin' dah naxt to de dinin'-room! W'en de silva be missin', 'tain' you w'at gwine git blame, it's me."
"The silver? Nonsense, 'Cindy; the man's wounded, and can't you see he's out of his head?"