“Auntie, who pays our grocery bills?”
“I do, chile,” she answered, giving him an odd look.
“And where do you get the money?” he continued.
Auntie was beating eggs for a custard. She pretended not to hear him. Phil repeated the question.
“Marse Ferg’son done gi’ me a lot,” said she, in a matter of course way.
“Forty dollars, I believe,” the boy rejoined, rather bitterly.
“Mo’ ’n dat, honey; lots mo’.”
“When?”
“’Fore we shifted oveh to dis yeah house. Den he done guv me fohty dollehs mo’, an’ said dat were all dere was left. But I guess it’ll do, all right.”
“Auntie,” said Phil, taking both her hands and looking her squarely in the eyes, “tell me truly; is any of that last forty dollars left?”