I told her that instead of having come to pick for her, as I had done the first summer she lived here, we had come to buy. As pickle manufacturers we might want thirty or forty bushels, I said, talking big. And having ordered four bushels as a starter, at two dollars a basket, we followed her to the house and wrote out a check.
“You haven’t told me,” says she curiously, sipping a glass of cold water, “who’s goin’ to do the picklin’ for ye.”
“Aunt Jemima,” laughed Poppy, who, I might say, having but recently come to Tutter, never had been in the stone house before.
Mrs. O’Mally’s face showed plainly enough that she didn’t know who “Aunt Jemima” was.
“Don’t you remember,” I put in with a grin. “Aunt Jemima is the colored lady who makes the swell pancakes. She’s going to work for us, too.”
That, of course, puzzled her all the more. But however curious she was we couldn’t very well tell her the truth.
Though it was blistering hot in the sun the house was cool, largely on account of its thick walls, I suppose. So, seated comfortably, we were in no particular hurry to leave. Besides, not having forgotten that Mrs. O’Mally usually kept a supply of swell cookies on hand, it might pay us, I figured, to sort of stick around.
Suddenly something tipped over in the cellar. At the sound the woman screamed, her hands clutching the front of her dress. And turning to us, as white as chalk, I saw, too, that she was trembling from head to foot. Scareder eyes I never expect to see.
“There’s some one down there,” I cried.
“The cat,” she says, getting quick control of herself. “Come,” she seemed anxious to get rid of us. “Let’s go outside.”