Then he began to stitch, to the infinite disgust of Bill, who was sensitive touching his vocation.
"I do declare, father! how you can smile, seeing that child carrying on in this shape, is beyond my comprehension!"
"Joseph!" said Mr. Williams, good-naturedly, "I guess that'll do for to-night. Come, I want my spectacles."
He had sat down to his book again. He was a slow, thoughtful, easy, cheerful man, whom suffering and much humiliation had rendered very mild and patient, if not quite broken-spirited. His voice was indulgent and gentle, with that mellow richness of tone peculiar to the negro. After he had spoken, the laughter subsided; and Joe, impressed by the quiet paternal authority, quickly devised means to obey without appearing to do so. For it is not so much obedience, as the manifestation of obedience, that is repugnant to human nature,—not in children only, but in grown folks as well.
Joe disguised his compliance in this way. He got up, took off the beggar's hat, put the spectacles into it, holding his hand on a rip in the crown to keep them from falling through, and passed it around, walking solemnly in his brother's abused coat.
"I'm Deacon Todd," said he, "taking up a collection to buy Gentleman Bill a new cut: gunter make a missionary of him!"
He passed the hat to the women and the girls, all of whom pretended to put in something.
"I ha'n't got nothin'!" said Fessenden's, when it came to him; "I'm real sorry I but I'll give my hat!"—earnest as could be.
When the hat came to Mr. Williams, he quietly put in his hand and took out his glasses.
"Here, I've got something for you; I desire to contribute," said Gentleman Bill.