“A pore beginning,” his wife said, as he put it down on the hearth.
“I know it,” retorted Gill, angrily. “You needn’t begin that sort o’ talk, fer I won’t stand it. I’m a-doin’ all I can.” And Gill went back to his chair.
The good housewife fried some slices of dark red ham. She boiled a pot of sweet potatoes, peeled off their jackets, and made a pulp of them in a pan; into the mass she stirred sweet milk, butter, eggs, sugar, and grated nutmeg. Then she rolled out a sheet of dough and cut out some open-top pies.
“I never knowed a nigger that could keep his teeth out of ‘em,” she chuckled.
Half an hour later she called out to Gill to come in. He paused in the doorway, staring in astonishment.
“Well, I never!” he ejaculated.
She had laid the best white cloth, got out her new knives and forks with the bone handles, and some dishes that were never used except on rare occasions. She had placed Gill’s plate at the head of the table, hers at the foot, and was wiping a third—the company plate with the blue decorations.
“Whar’s he goin’ to set an’ eat?” she asked.
“Blast me ef I know any more ’n a rat,” Gill told her, with alarmed frankness. “I hain’t thought about it a bit, but it never will do fer ‘im to set down with me an’ you. Folks might see it, an’ it would give ‘em more room for fun.”
Mrs. Gill laid the plate down and sighed.