"Can't do it, M'um. They's er lot er folks comin' ter bid on the place."
"But I tell you I'm going to pay the tax bill."
"Well, M'um, hit'll have ter be paid afore the time sot, er I'll be erbleeged to sell."
"I'm sure Dr. Durham will get the money."
"Ef he does, hit'll be the fust time hit's happened in this county sence the sales begun."
In vain she waited for a letter or a telegram from Boston. Charlie went faithfully asking Dave Haley, the postmaster, two or three times on the arrival of each mail.
"I tell ye there's nothin' fur ye!" he yelled as he glared at the boy. "Ef ye don't go way from that winder, I'll pitch ye out the door!"
The scoundrel had recognised the letter in Dr. Durham's handwriting and had hidden it, suspecting its contents.
When the day came for the sale Mrs. Gaston tried to face the trial bravely. But it was too much for her. When she saw a great herd of negroes trampling down her flowers, laughing, cracking vulgar jokes, and swarming over the porches, she sank feebly into her chair, buried her face in her hands and gave way to a passionate flood of tears. She was roused by the thumping of heavy feet in the hall, and the unmistakable odour of perspiring negroes. They had begun to ransack the house on tours of inspection. The poor woman's head drooped and she fell to the floor in a dead swoon.
There was a sudden charge as of an armed host, the sound of blows, a wild scramble, and the house was cleared. Aunt Eve with a fire shovel, Charlie with a broken hoe handle, and Dick with a big black snake whip had cleared the air.
