"Havers!" broke in Mrs. Macleay, the housekeeper briskly. "'Twas the usual quantity, and the wash no bigger than usual. Julia, you bin give soap to that feller Ben."
"No, no, missis, Julia no gib Ben good pfeller soap. That Ben no good." Julia's air of virtuous surprise and indignation was perfect.
Mrs. Warner pondered, and then turned to a little girl.
"Mary, you go and bring me Julia's bag."
Julia heard the order unmoved—a circumstance that did not escape Mrs. Macleay's keen eye. She slipped away, as the little girl, returning with the lubra's woven grass bag, tipped the contents out on the floor for Mrs. Warner's inspection. There were a few lumps of sugar, half a stick of coarse tobacco, some string, a half-eaten chop, a cup handle and a strip of bright print. But no soap.
"I bin tell you truth, missis," said Julia smugly. "Now, you gib it more soap?"
Mrs. Warner hesitated. Then came the whisk of Mrs. Macleay's starched skirt, and a large and capable hand deposited part of a bar of yellow soap on the table before her.
"You bin no good, Julia," said Mrs. Macleay severely. "Carefully planted under a tub of clothes, ma'am. I know Julia."
Julia's eyes rolled anew, and her lips parted in a childlike grin.
"I bin put 'em there by mistake," she said airily. "Mine thinkit you very good woman, Missis Mac."