Here Mr. Bixby cut in unexpectedly with the snatch of an old negro spiritual:—
He’ben! He’ben!
E’vy’body talk about He’ben ain’t goin’ there!
he sang.
“Tim!” his wife flared up. “Now you’ll apologize right this minute to Mrs. Wicket for that piece of impertinence,” she commanded.
The color drove into his face up to his eyes; he hesitated. But Mrs. Wicket, who had completely missed the significance of the words, said politely, “Aw, that’s all right. Mis’ Bixby. I don’t object to singin’ on Sunday s’long as it’s hymn tunes.”
At this point Aunt Sadie Johnson came out on the little stoop in front of her door and created a diversion.
“Julie,” she said, “did you know Mr. and Mrs. Bixby was looking at my upstairs rooms?”
Julie did not know it, and was surprised.
“Well, now, this is a real nice part of town for you all to locate in, it’s so central,” Mrs. Wicket said.