“No’um; ‘tain’t no sign. De train des ‘bout lef’ de station. I yeard it w’istle.” Dimple stood on the back porch beside her mistress’ open window. She wore a calico dress so skimp and inadequate that her growing figure was bursting through the rents and apertures. She was constantly pinning it at the back of the waist with a bent safety-pin which was forever giving way. The task of pinning her dress and biting the old brass safety-pin into shape occupied a great deal of her time.
“It’s true,” Madame said. “I recommend to Daniel to drive those mule’ very slow in this how weather. They are not strong, those mule’.”
“He drive ‘em slow ‘nough long’s he’s in the fiel’ road!” exclaimed Dimple. “Time he git roun’in de big road whar you kain’t see ‘im – uh! uh! he make’ dem mule’ fa’r’ lope!”
Madame tightened her lips and blinked her eyes. She rarely replied otherwise to these disclosures of Dimple, but they sank into her soul and festered there.
The cook – in reality a big-boned field hand – came in with pans and pails to get out the things for supper. Madame kept her provisions right there under her nose in a large closet, or cupboard, which she had had built in the side of the room. A small supply of butter was in a jar that stood on the hearth, and the eggs were kept in a basket that hung on a peg near by.
Dimple came in and unlocked the cupboard, taking the keys from her mistress’ bag. She gave out a little flour, a little meal, a cupful of coffee, some sugar and a piece of bacon. Four eggs were wanted for a pudding, but Madame thought that two would be enough, finally compromising, however, upon three.
