“G’ ’way f’om dah, an’ quit you’ foolin’,” came in a large voice from within.
The guide grinned, and rapped again. There was a sound of shuffling feet and the pushing back of a chair, and then the same voice saying: “I bet I’ll mek you git away f’om dat do’.”
“Dat’s A’nt Ca’line,” the guide said, and laughed.
The door was flung back as quickly as its worn hinges and sagging bottom would allow, and a large body surmounted by a face like a big round full moon presented itself in the opening. A broomstick showed itself aggressively in one fat shiny hand.
“It’s you, Tom Scott, is it—you trif’nin’—” and then, catching sight of the stranger, her whole manner changed, and she dropped the broomstick with an embarrassed “’Scuse me, suh.”
Tom chuckled all over as he said, “A’nt Ca’line, dis is yo’ new preachah.”
The big black face lighted up with a broad smile as the old woman extended her hand and enveloped that of the young minister’s.
“Come in,” she said. “I’s mighty glad to see you—that no-’count Tom come put’ nigh mekin’ me ’spose myse’f.” Then turning to Tom, she exclaimed with good-natured severity, “An’ you go ’long, you scoun’ll you!”
The preacher entered the cabin—it was hardly more—and seated himself in the rush-bottomed chair which A’nt Ca’line had been industriously polishing with her apron.