"Why, I don't see how you live that way."
"Oh, we lives all right," answered the man; "we has plenty to eat an' drink, an' clothes to wear, an' some place to stay. I reckon folks ain't got much use fu' nuffin' mo'."
Dokesbury sighed. Here indeed was virgin soil for his ministerial labors. His spirits were not materially raised when, some time later, he came in sight of the house which was to be his abode. To be sure, it was better than most of the houses which he had seen in the Negro part of Mt. Hope; but even at that it was far from being good or comfortable-looking. It was small and mean in appearance. The weather boarding was broken, and in some places entirely fallen away, showing the great unhewn logs beneath; while off the boards that remained the whitewash had peeled in scrofulous spots.
The minister's guide went up to the closed door, and rapped loudly with a heavy stick.
"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 asking: "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."