Joy in the Morning | Page 9

brownish calico
dress stood crisply about a solid and waistless figure, and a fresh white
apron covered it voluminously in front; a folded white handkerchief lay,
fichu-wise, around the creases of a fat black neck; a basket covered
with a cloth was on her arm. She stood and smiled as if to give the treat
time to have its effect on Lance. "Look who's here!" was in large print
all over her. And she radiated peace and good-will.
Lance was on his feet with a shout. "Bless your fat heart, Aunt
Basha--I'm glad to see you," he flung at her, and seized the basket and
slung it half across the room to a sofa with a casualness, alarming to
Aunt Basha--christened Bathsheba seventy-five years ago, but "rightly
known," she had so instructed Lance, as "Aunt Basha."
"Young marse, don' you ruinate the washin', please sir," she adjured in
liquid tones.
"Never you mind. It's the last one you'll do for me," retorted Lance.
"Did I tell you you couldn't have the honor of washing for me anymore,
Aunt Basha?"
Aunt Basha was wreathed in smiles.
"Yassir, young marse. You tole me dat mo'n tree times befo', a'ready,
sir."

"Well--it's final this time. Can't stand your prices. I _can't_ stand your
exorbitant prices. Now what do you have the heart to charge for dusting
off those three old shirts and two and a half collars? Hey?"
Aunt Basha, entirely serene, was enjoying the game. "What does I
charges, sir? Fo' dat wash, which you slung 'round acrost de room, sir?
Well, sir, young marse, I charges fo' dollars 'n sev'nty fo' cents, sir, dis
week. Fo' dat wash."
Lance let loose a howl and flung himself into his chair as if prostrated,
long legs out and arms hanging to the floor. Aunt Basha shook with
laughter. This was a splendid joke and she never, never tired of it. "You
see!" he threw out, between gasps. "Look at that! _Fo'_ dollars 'n
sev'nty _fo'_ cents." He sat up suddenly and pointed a big finger, "Aunt
Basha," he whispered, "somebody's been kidding you. Somebody's lied.
This palatial apartment, much as it looks like it, is not the home of John
D. Rockefeller." He sprung up, drew an imaginary mantle about him,
grasped one elbow with the other hand, dropped his head into the free
palm and was Cassius or Hamlet or Faust--all one to Aunt Basha. His
left eyebrow screwed up and his right down, and he glowered. "List to
her," he began, and shot out a hand, immediately to replace it where it
was most needed, under his elbow. "But list, ye Heavens and protect
the lamb from this ravening wolf. She chargeth--oh high Heavens
above!--she expecteth me to pay"--he gulped sobs--"the extortioner, the
she-wolf--expecteth me to pay her--_fo_' dollars 'n sev'nty _fo_' cents!"
Aunt Basha, entranced with this drama, quaked silently like a large
coffee jelly, and with that there happened a high, rich, protracted sound
which was laughter, but laughter not to be imitated of any vocal chords
of a white race. The delicious note soared higher, higher it seemed than
the scale of humanity, and was riotous velvet and cream, with no effort
or uncertainty. Lance dropped his Mephistopheles pose and grinned.
"It's Q sharp!" he commented. "However does she do it!"
"Naw, sir, young marse," Aunt Basha began, descending to speech. "De
she-wolf, she don' expecteth you to pay no fo' dollars 'n sev'nty fo'
cents, sir. Dat's thes what I charges. Dat ain' what you pay. You thes

pay me sev'nty fo' cents sir. Dat's all."
"Oh!" Lance let it out like a ten-year-old. It was hard to say which
enjoyed this weekly interview more, the boy or the old woman. The
boy was lonely and the humanity unashamed of her race and
personality made an atmosphere which delighted him. "Oh!" gasped
Lance. "That's a relief. I thought it was goodbye to my Sunday
trousers."
Aunt Basha, comfortable and efficient, was unpacking the basket and
putting away the wash in the few bureau drawers which easily held the
boy's belongings. "Dey's all mended nice," she announced. "Young
marse, sir, you better wa' out dese yer ole' undercloses right now,
endurin' de warm weather, 'caze dey ain' gwine do you fo' de col'. You
'bleeged to buy some new ones sir, when it comes off right cool."
Lance smiled, for there was no one but this old black woman to take
care of him and advise his haphazard housekeeping, and he liked it.
"Can't buy new ones," he made answer. "There you go again, mixing
me up with Rockefeller. I'm not even the Duke of Westminster, do you
see. I haven't got any money. Only sev'nty fo' cents for the she-wolf."
Aunt Basha chuckled. Long ago there had been a