Mam Lyddys Recognition | Page 8

one chair, tilted back with his feet
in another chair, was a large and unctuous-looking negro of middle age,
in all the glory of a black broadcloth coat and a white tie. He was
engaged at the moment in blowing small wreaths, while little Ben stood
by and gazed at him with open-eyed wonder and delight.
At sight of Mr. Graeme, the preacher with a gulp, which sadly
disturbed his last effort, rose to his feet. An expression of fear flitted
across his face, then gave way to a crafty, half-insolent look.
"Good evening, sir," he began, with an insinuating smile, not wholly
free from uneasiness.
"Good evening, Amos. Mammy, will you kindly go to your mistress.
Take the boy with you. Run along, son."
The old woman with a half-scared air led the child out, and Mr. Graeme
closed the door and turned back to the visitor, who looked much
embarrassed.

"Take my cigars out of your pocket."
The preacher's hand went involuntarily to his breast-pocket, and then
came down.
"What! Your cigars out of my pocket? I have no cigars of yours, sir."
He spoke with slightly rising severity, as Mr. Graeme remained so
calm.
"Oh, yes, you have. But no matter for the present. You had just as well
leave them there for a moment. What are you doing, coming here all
the time?"
"What am I doing?--Coming here? I am a minister of the Gawspel, sir,
and I have a member of my congregation here, and I come to look after
her welfare."
"And to see that she gets recognition?"
"Suh?"--with a wince.
"And incidentally to rob me of my cigars, and her of her small
savings"--pursued Mr. Graeme, calmly.
"Suh? Nor, suh, I has not done dat I will take my oath to it on the word
of Almighty God."
The veneer of his fine speech had all been dropped, and the Rev.
Johnson was talking naturally enough now.
"What did you do with that money you took from her?"
"What did I do wid--? What money?"
Mr. Graeme showed impatience for the first time.
"The four hundred and fifty-five dollars you got from her. Was there
more than that?"

At this point Mam' Lyddy opened the door and came in. She looked
somewhat mystified and rather disturbed, but she said nothing. She
only took her stand, and with arms folded waited silent and observant.
The negro saw that Mr. Graeme knew of the fact and answered
promptly.
"Oh! You are mistaken, sir. I have taken no money of her. You can ax
her. She had a sum of money which I as a favor to her invested for her.
You can ask the sister there. I suppose you refer to that!"
"Invested! In what?"
"Ah--ur--in--ur--the Afro-American Sister's Loan and Trust
Association. I have promised to invest it in that for her."
He stammered a good deal at the start, but was glib enough when he
brought out the name. "Didn't I, sister!"
"Yes, sir." The old woman was manifestly impressed. The preacher's
cunning face brightened.
"You see what she says?"
"With its chief office at the Race-course out here," said Graeme, with a
toss of his head. "Look here, I want you to get that money."
The negro shot a glance at Mam' Lyddy and decided that she would
stand by him. He suddenly stiffened up and resumed his affected
manner.
"Well, sir, I do not know by what right you interfere with my affairs--or
this lady's."
"You don 't? Well, that's what I am going to show you now. My right is
that she is a member of my family, whom I am going to protect from
just such scoundrels and thieves as you, Amos Brown."
The preacher received the name like a blow.

At the words the old mammy jumped as if she were shot. She leaned
forward, moving up slowly.
"What's dat?--'Amos Brown'? What's dat you said, Marse Cabell?
'Amos Brown'?"
Mr. Graeme nodded. "Yes. This is Amos Brown, 'a friend of Caesar's.'"
"Indeed, I ain 't suh. I'm de Reverend Amos Johnson--" began the
preacher, but his looks belied him. Mammy Lyddy took in the truth,
and the next second the storm broke.
"'Amos Brown' you is? I might 'a' knowd it! You thief! You a friend of
Caesar's! Whar's my money?--My money you stole from Caesar? You
come talkin' to me 'bout rec'nition? I done rec'nize you, you black
nigger. Let me get at him, Marse Gabelle."
The old woman swept toward him with so threatening an air that
Graeme interposed, and the preacher retreated behind him for
protection. Even that place of security did not, however, save him from
her vitriolic tongue. She poured out on him the vials of her wrath till
Graeme, fearing she might drop down in a