“Never heard of such a thing!” said Louise, that being her invariable formula for occasions demanding expression before she was prepared to commit herself. By this time a glimmering notion of the state of things had reached the coachman’s brain, and he was in an ecstasy. Talboys thought it fitting to speak. He turned to Mrs. Demming, who was looking from one to another of the group, in a scared way.
“Were you in a swoon?” he asked.
“Oh, laws!” cried the poor woman. “Oh, Demming, what hev you gwine an’ done now? Gentlemen, he didn’t mean no harm, I’m suah!”
“You were not, then?” said Talboys.
“Leave her ’lone, Cunnel,” Demming said, quietly. “Don’ yo’ see she cyan’t stan’ no sech racket? ’Sence yo’ so mighty peart ’bout it, no, she wahn’t, an’ thet thar’s the truf. I jes’ done it fur ter raise money. It wuz this a way. Thet thar mahnin’, w’ile I wuz a-considerin’ an’ a-contemplatin’ right smart how I wuz evah to git a few dollars, I seen Mose Barnwell gwine ’long,—yo’ know Mose Barnwell,” turning in an affable, conversational way to the grinning negro,—“an’ he’d a string o’ crape ’roun’ his hat ’cause he’d jes done los’ his wife, an’ he wuz purportin’ ter git a cyoffin. So I ’lowed I’d git a cyoffin fur him cheap. An’ I reckon,” said Demming, smiling graciously on his delighted black auditor,—“I reckon I done it.”
“Demming,” cried the Bishop, with some heat, “this exceeds patience—”
“I know, Bishop,” answered the vagabond, meekly,—“I know it. I wuz tempted an’ I fell, as you talked ’bout in yo’ sermon. It’s orful how I kin do sech things!”
“And those chickens, too!” ejaculated the Bishop, with rising wrath, as new causes rushed to his remembrance. “You stole chickens,—Judge Eldridge’s chickens; you who pretend to be such a stanch friend of the North—”
“Chickens!” screamed the woman. “Oh, Lordy! Oh, he nevah done thet afo’e! He’ll be took to jail! Oh, Demming, how cyould ye? Stealin’ chickens, jes’ like a low-down, no-’cyount niggah!” Sobs choked her voice, and tears of fright and shame were streaming down her hollow cheeks.
Demming looked disconcerted. “Now, look a yere!” said he, sinking his voice reproachfully; “w’at wuz the use o’ bringin’ thet thar up befo’ th’ ole ’ooman? She don’ know nuthin’ on it, you unnerstan’, an’ why mus’ you rile ’er up fur? I’d not a thought it o’ you, Bishop, thet I wyouldn’t. Now, Alwynda,” turning to the weeping woman, who was wiping her eyes with the cape of her sunbonnet, “jes’ you dry up an’ stop yo’ bellerin’, an’ I ’splain it all in a holy minit. Thar, thar,” patting her on the shoulder, “’tain’t nuthin’ ter cry ’bout; ’tain’t no fault o’ yourn, onyhow. Fac’ is, gen’lemen, ’twuz all ’long o’ my ’preciation o’ the Bishop. I’m a ’Piscopal, like yo’self, Bishop, an’ I tole Samson Mobley thet you overlaid all the preachers yere fur goodness an’ shortness bofe. An’ he ’lowed, ‘Mabbe he may fur goodness; I ain’t no jedge,’ says he; ‘but fo’ shortness, we’ve a feller down at the Baptis’ kin beat ’im outen sight. They’ve jes’ gin up sleepin’ down thar,’ says he, ‘’cause ’tain’t worth w’ile.’ So we tried it on, you unnerstan’, ’cause thet riled me, an’ I jes’ bet on it, I did; an’ we tried it on,—you in the mahnin’ and him in the arternoon. An’ laws, ef didn’t so happen as how you’d a powerful flow o’ speech! ’Twuz ’mazin’ edifyin’, but ’t los’ me the bet, you unnerstan’; an’ onct los’ I hed ter pay; an’ not havin’ ary chick o’ my own I had ter confiscate some from th’ gineral public, an’ I tuk ’em ’thout distinction o’ party frum the handiest cyoop in the Baptis’ dernomination. I kin’ o’ hankered arter Baptis’ chickuns, somehow, so’s ter git even, like. Now, Bishop, I jes’ leaves ter you uns, cyould I go back on a debt o’ honah, like thet?”