“Here, sonny—the old man says it’s too sweet for his stomach, so you can have this.” She set the yellow cornstarch before Sandy. “He’s seen these ripe peaches out here today and he wants some, that’s all. More trouble than he’s worth, po’ old soul, and me in a hurry!” She began to peel the fruit. “Just like a chile, ’deed he is!” she added, carrying the sliced peaches into the dining-room and leaving Sandy with a plate of food before him, eating slowly. “When you rushing to get out, seems like white folks tries theirselves.”

In a moment she returned, ill-tempered, and began to scold Sandy for taking so long with his meal.

“I asked you to help me so’s I can get to the lodge on time, and you just set and chew and eat! . . . Here, wipe these dishes, boy!” Annjee began hurriedly to lay plates in a steaming row on the shelf of the sink; so Sandy got up and, between mouthfuls of pudding, wiped them with a large dish-towel.

Soon Mrs. Rice came into the kitchen again, briskly, through the swinging door and glanced about her. Sandy felt ashamed for the white woman to see him eating a left-over pudding from her table, so he put the spoon down.

“Annjee,” the mistress said sharply. “I wish you wouldn’t put quite so much onion in your sauce for the steak. I’ve mentioned it to you several times before, and you know very well we don’t like it.”

“Yes, m’am,” said Annjee.

“And do please be careful that our drinking water is cold before meals are served.... You were certainly careless tonight. You must think more about what you are doing, Annjee.”

Mrs. Rice went out again through the swinging door, but Sandy stood near the sink with a burning face and eyes that had suddenly filled with angry tears. He couldn’t help it—hearing his sweating mother reprimanded by this tall white woman in the flowered dress. Black, hard-working Annjee answered: “Yes, m’am,” and that was all—but Sandy cried.

“Dry up,” his mother said crossly when she saw him, thinking he was crying because she had asked him to work. “What’s come over you, anyway?—can’t even wipe a few plates for me and act nice about it!”

He didn’t answer. When the dining-room had been cleared and the kitchen put in order, Annjee told him to empty the garbage while she wrapped in newspapers several little bundles of food to carry to Jimboy. Then they went out the back door, around the big house to the street, and trudged the fourteen blocks to Aunt Hager’s, taking short cuts through alleys, passing under arc-lights that sputtered whitely in the deepening twilight, and greeting with an occasional “Howdy” other poor colored folks also coming home from work.

“How are you, Sister Jones?”

“Right smart, I thank yuh!” as they passed.

Once Annjee spoke to her son. “Evening’s the only time we niggers have to ourselves!” she said. “Thank God for night . . . ’cause all day you gives to white folks.”