“Don't tell me dat is Marse Paul Rundel?” she cried. “I ain't gwine believe it. De gen'man's er foolin' you, you blockhead idiot!”
“That's who it is, Aunt Dilly.” Paul held out his hand cordially and clasped her rasping, toil-stiffened fingers. “I've got back, never to leave again.”
“Lawd, Lawd, it is—it sho is dat ve'y boy!” Dilly cried. “You right, Cato, he got de eyes en de voice. I'd know 'em anywhar. My, my, my, but you sho is changed er sight! I ain't never expect ter see dat raggety white boy turn inter er fine gen'man lak dis. Lawd, what gwine ter happen next?”
Paul conversed with the two for several minutes, and then went up to his room on a hint from Dilly that breakfast would soon be served. Paul had been in his room only a short while when he heard the door of Henry Hoag's room open and Henry appeared.
“Hello, Paul!” he said, cordially extending his hand. “I wouldn't have known you from a side of sole-leather if I hadn't heard you talking to Cato and Dilly down there. I didn't know you were back. I thought you'd cut this section off your map. I'm goin' to do it some day, if I can get up enough money to start on. What you ever came back here for is one on me. It certainly is the jumpin'-off place.”
“It is the only home I ever knew,” Paul returned. “You know it is natural for a man to want to see old landmarks.”
“I reckon so, I reckon so.” Henry's roving glance fell on. Paul's valise. “I suppose you've seen a good deal of the world. I certainly envy you. I am tired of this. I am dying of the dry-rot. I need something to do, but don't know how to find it. I tried life insurance, but every man I approached treated it as a joke. I made one trip as a drummer for a fancy-goods firm in Baltimore. I didn't sell enough to pay my railroad fare. The house telegraphed me to ship my sample trunks back. My father had advanced me a hundred to start on, and when I came home he wanted to thrash me. I'll give you a pointer, Paul; if you are lookin' for a job, you can land one with him. He's crazy to hire an overseer, but he wouldn't trust it to me. The chap that left 'im wouldn't stand his jaw and the old man can't attend to the work himself. Take a tip from me. If you accept the job, have a distinct understandin' that he sha'n't cuss you black an' blue whenever he takes a notion. He's worse at that than he used to be, an' the only way to git along with him is to knock 'im down and set on him right at the start. He hasn't but one decent trait, an' that is his love for little Jack. He'd go any lengths for that kid. Well, so would I. The boy is all right—lovely little chap. He hasn't a jill of the Hoag blood in him.”
“I haven't seen Jack yet,” Paul said. “He was a baby when I left.”
There was the harsh clanging of a bell below; Cato was vigorously ringing it on the back porch.
“That's breakfast now.” Henry nodded toward the door. “Don't wait for me—I usually dodge the old man. We've got summer boarders—kin folks. Cousin Eth' and her mammy are here with all their finicky airs. Eth's a full-fledged young lady now of the Atlanta upper crust, and what she don't know about what's proper and decent in manners never was written in a book of etiquette. She begun to give me lessons last year about how and when to use a fork—said I made it rattle between my teeth. I called her down. She knows I don't ask her no odds. There is a swell fellow in Atlanta, a banker, Ed Peterson, that comes up to spend Sunday with her now and then. I never have been able to find out whether Eth' cares for him or not. The old man likes him because he's got money, and he's trying to make a match of it. I think Aunt Harriet leans that way a little, too, but I'm not sure. Oh, he's too dinky-dinky for anything—can't drive out from town without a nigger to hold his horse, and wears kid gloves in hot weather, and twists his mustache.”