“I declare, I’m afeered this nigger is a-goin’ to stick us up, whether or no. I won’t feel much Christian humility with him at one table an’ us at another, but of course I know it ain’t common fer folks to eat with their slaves.”
Gill’s glance was sweeping the table and its tempting dishes with an indescribable air of disapproval.
“You are a-fixin’up powerful,” was his slow comment; “a body would think, to look at all this, that it was the fourth Sunday an’ you was expectin’ the preacher. You’d better begin right; we cayn’t keep this up an’ make a crop.”
Her eyes flashed angrily.
“You had no business to bring Big Joe heer, then,” she fumed. “You know well enough he’s used to fine doin’s, an’ I’m not a-goin’ to have ’im make light of us, ef we are pore. I was jest a-thinkin’; the Whitneys always tied napkins ‘round the’r necks to ketch the gravy they drap, an’ Big Joe’s bound to notice that we ain’t used to sech.”
It was finally agreed that for that day at least the slave was to have his dinner served to him where he sat; so Mrs. Gill arranged it temptingly on a piece of plank, over which a piece of cloth had been spread, and took it out to him. She found him almost asleep, but he opened his eyes as she drew near.
Drowsily he surveyed the contents of the cups and dishes, his eyes kindling at the sight of the two whole custards. But his pride—it was evidently that—enabled him to manifest a sneer of irreconcilability.
“I ain’t a-goin’ t’eat a bite,” was the way he put it, stubbornly.
For a moment Mrs. Gill was nonplussed; but she believed in getting at the core of things.
“Are you a-complainin’?” she questioned.