"No, ma'am," he mumbled.
"What's your name?"
"Buddy—I'se one of Aunt Rachel's chilluns."
"And where do you live, Buddy?"
"I lives with granny, on de upper place."
"Well, I'll see Aunt Rachel and ask her to send you to school."
"Won't do no good—she done ast, and Mr. Cresswell, he say he ain't going to have no more of his niggers—"
But Mr. Cresswell came out just then, and with him a big, fat, and greasy black man, with little eyes and soft wheedling voice. He was following Cresswell at the side but just a little behind, hat in hand, head aslant, and talking deferentially. Cresswell strode carelessly on, answering him with good-natured tolerance.
The black man stopped with humility before the trap and swept a profound obeisance. Cresswell glanced up quizzically at Miss Taylor.
"This," he announced, "is Jones, the Baptist preacher—begging."