Money—money—money—how much is it worth?—how much can I make out of it?—these were the first, last and intermediate stages of Mr. Robertson’s every thought, every statement, every action. I’ll go through with it, thought Jean, but I’ll never let my soul be turned into a moneygrubber’s. The resolution, even though he knew it couldn’t possibly be carried out completely in this new world he was entering, nevertheless gave Jean some comfort. …
Mrs. Plummer waddled down the hall, pushed open the screen door, and slapped with the corner of her gingham apron at the insects which buzzed inside. “These nasty bugs’ll be the death of me yet,” she complained to her companion, Mrs. Sophronisba King, lean, acidulous, suspicious of all humans and their motives save her own. Mrs. King was as curveless as a young sapling as she went around the room giving quick little jabs at the furniture with an oiled cloth, pursuing relentlessly bits of dust which had settled upon the chairs and table and mantelpiece since late afternoon.
“Heard the news about that Lizzie Stone?” she asked Mrs. Plummer. “You ain’t?” she demanded incredulously when Mrs. Plummer shamefacedly admitted she had not. The possession of a juicy morsel which had not yet come to her friend’s ears caused Mrs. King’s skinny frame to swell with prideful importance. “Why, honey, it’s all over town!”
“She always seemed to me such a nice, Christian girl—so quiet and respectable—”
“Mis’ Plummer, them’s the very ones who’ll fool you nine times out of ten—they go to church and they’s sweet as pie in the daytime—but slipping and sliding into all sorts of devilment.”
Mrs. Plummer’s ears seemed to stretch out from her head in her eagerness to learn the derelictions of Lizzie Stone. “Tell me what she’s done. You know my heart’s bad and the doctor told me I couldn’t stand much excitement,” she pleaded.
“You know Jerry Reed—he’s head of the Royal United Order of Heavenly Reapers?”
“ ’Cose I do—ain’t I a member of the Ladies Auxil’ry?”
“You know, Mis’ Plummer, I ain’t one of these no-count women who runs around town meddlin’ in other folks’s business—I stays at home and tends to my own bus’ness.”
“ ’Cose you don’t, Mis’ King—ev’rybody knows you don’t gossip. But what’s Lizzie and Jerry Reed been doing?”
“I’ll tell you, Mis’ Plummer, though I ain’t vouching for the truth of it ’cause I wasn’t there to see it with my own eyes—but they tell me they saw Lizzie getting in Jerry Reed’s automobile down on Auburn Avenue late last Tuesday night—and he had all the curtains up.”
“You don’t say! A body’d think she’d have mo’ sense than to do her dirt so bold like! I always heard that Jerry Reed wouldn’t have a girl work for him unless he could get fresh with her. The nerve of her—she was at church last Sunday, struttin’ round just as brazen as any fancy woman!”
“Lord, Mis’ Plummer, I don’t know what’s gettin’ into these coloured folks—they gettin’ mo’ like white folks ev’ry day. Comes from workin’ in white folks’ houses and in these here hotels—seein’ all their dirt and thinkin’ they got to do the same things white folks does.”
“That’s the God’s truth! And say, Mis’ King, did you know these new folks is Cath’lics? Well, they is—their name’s ‘Day-Quinn’ or ‘Day-kin’ or something Frenchy like that. He’s goin’ to work down to the Lincoln Mutual Life Insurance Company—that’s the company got them swell offices down Auburn Avenue.”
“Cath’lics, is they? Any time I hear tell of coloured folks bein’ anything ’cept Baptists or Methodists I know some white man’s been tamperin’ with their religion. That’s what Booker T. said once and he sho’ did know what he was talkin’ ’bout.”
“That’s the God’s truth! Wonder where these folks goin’ to church? They tell me down in N’Awleens where there’s so many furriners most anybody can go where they please long’s they ain’t black. But they better not try it in Georgia.”
“Is you got a picture, Mis’ Plummer, of any coloured folks no matter what kinda religion they got stickin’ their heads in that ‘Sacred Heart’ church out Peachtree Street? White folks talk about Jesus but the only Jesus they thinkin’ ’bout’s got a white skin. An’ the only heaven they want’s one got a sign on it ten foot high, ‘No Niggers Allowed in Here.’ ”
“Lord, Mis’ King, there they come. An’ me settin’ here talkin’. I bet them ’taters done boiled to death!”
Mrs. Plummer rocked briskly in the chair wherein she had rested her weary frame. The needed momentum gained, she heaved her bulky person to her feet and disappeared in the general direction of the kitchen as through the open door Mr. Robertson’s hearty voice came: “Well, folks, here we are!” …
Mimi and Jean and Mary climbed down from the surrey and entered the house. Mrs. Plummer, her potatoes looked after with incredible speed considering her size, greeted them as though she were welcoming them into her own home.
“Come right in! Come right in! I know you must be as tired as all-out-doors. My name’s Mrs. Plummer—I live right down the street and Mr. Robertson got me to sorter fix things up—” she poured forth.
“Mrs. King! Mrs. King!” she called. Mrs. King hastened from the kitchen, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand as she came, scanning the arrivals from head to foot in one swift, critical—very critical—glance.
“This is Mrs. King,” introduced Mrs. Plummer grandly. “She was nice enough to help too.”
Mrs. King nodded in rapid succession to the three, adding one for Mr. Robertson though she had seen him only an hour before. He had employed only Mrs. Plummer to clean up the house and arrange everything but it had not been a difficult matter to persuade Mrs. King to assist—it gave both women ample
