“Fourteen?” Then as she nodded. “And how long have you been engaged in what the statisticians call gainful occupations?”
“Suh?” She stared at him.
“How long have you been working here?”
“Oh! Why sence I was erbout six, suh.”
“Six?” He seemed to take in facts slowly, the fair young man.
“Yes, suh. You see, nowadays they dassent hire young-uns ’twel they right big. They put the law on us. But I was lucky—I got in befo’ they got all the rules fixed up that-a-way.”
“You were lucky?”
“Yes, suh! My po’ little cousin, Henry Clay Bean, that we mos’ly calls Beany, we’re plumb scared we can’t git him in at all! Mr. Carey, he owns this mill—he won’t let the least ones work, but M’liss’, that’s my aunt, she named hit to Super, and he ’lowed he could sneak Beany in, somehow.”
“Well, that was extremely nice of Super, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, suh,” she agreed a trifle doubtfully. “Super said he could hide when Mr. Carey come by, or ary them club ladies that nose round, an’ Beany kin say he’s jes’ dinner-totin’.”