At this moment the mammy evidently came in, for Mr. Graeme heard the man caution the child, and heard her voice for the first time,
“What dat you telling dat chile?” she demanded, suspiciously.
“Nothing. I was just entertaining him by blowing a few of those artistic wreaths he admires so much. My good friends keep me in cigars. It is one of the few consolations in a hard-working pastor's life. Well, sister, I called around to tell you your investment promises to be even more remunerative than I expected—and to tell you if you have any more, or even can borrow any, to let me place it as you did the other. I can guarantee to double it for you in a short time.”
“I ain' got any more—an' ain' got nobody to lend me none.”
“Well, ah! Could n 't you get any from your employer?” He lowered his voice; but Graeme caught the words. “You could raise money on the silver—and they would never know it. Besides, they owe it to you for all the work you have done without payment. Think how many years you worked for them as a slave without pay.”
“Now, I ain' gwine to do dat!” exclaimed the old woman.
At this moment Graeme softly opened the door. The mammy was standing with her back to him, and in one chair, tilted back with his feet in another chair, was a large and unctuous-looking negro of middle age, in all the glory of a black broadcloth coat and a white tie. He was engaged at the moment in blowing small wreaths, while little Ben stood by and gazed at him with open-eyed wonder and delight.
At sight of Mr. Graeme, the preacher with a gulp, which sadly disturbed his last effort, rose to his feet. An expression of fear flitted across his face, then gave way to a crafty, half-insolent look.
“Good evening, sir,” he began, with an insinuating smile, not wholly free from uneasiness.
“Good evening, Amos. Mammy, will you kindly go to your mistress. Take the boy with you. Run along, son.”