The transfer had disturbed him so little that, after his first screams of surprise, he had renewed his insatiable demands for pennies, and having one clasped tightly in either fist he sat in the middle of the floor viewing the world in general, and Aunt Charity in particular, with the suspicion of a financier. On her side, suspicion was equally apparent. “Fo’ de Lawd!” she said, and swept another half yard, then stopped and viewed the intruder. “Fo’ de Lawd!” she said again. Sammy heard her and clasped his pennies tighter; he read enmity in her eye and doubted. Aunt Charity swept harder, her broom approaching the rear end of Sammy’s calico petticoat. “Git up, yo’ white trash, yo’,” she commanded, using the broom to emphasize her order. “Won’t!” wailed Sammy, “won’t! Shan’t have my pennies!” “Git up!” said Aunt Charity; “w’at yo’ heah for, ennyway?” “Yow!” yelled Sammy, wriggling along before the broom and weeping. On this scene entered Caleb Trench, grave, somewhat weary, and with a new stern look that came from a night’s wrestle with his own will. “What’s all this, Aunt Charity?” “Ain’t noffin,” said she aggressively; “I’se sweepin’. I ain’t doin’ noffin an’ I ain’t gwine ter do noffin to dat pore white trash.” “Yes, you will,” said Caleb calmly; “you’ll give him a bath and put some decent clothes on him.” “N-o-o-o-o-o!” shrieked Sammy. “’Deed I ain’t!” retorted Aunt Charity, with indignation. “Ain’t dat Jean Bartlett’s chile?” Trench nodded, looking from the old black woman to the small aggressive bundle on the floor. Aunt Charity tossed her head. “I ain’t gwine ter touch him!” A sudden fierce light shone in Caleb’s gray eyes, a light that had a peculiarly quelling effect on the beholder. Aunt Charity met it and cowered, clasping her broom. “You’ll do what I say,” he replied, without raising his voice. “Fo’ de Lawd!” gasped Aunt Charity and whimpered; “yo’ sho ain’t gwine ter keep dat chile heah?” “And why not?” asked Caleb. “Lawsy me, suh, ain’t yo’ gwine ter know w’at folks’ll say? Dere’s gwine ter be a talkation.” “Very likely, poor little devil!” Caleb retorted grimly, “and your tongue to help it, but you’d better hold it, Charity; you’re here to do what I want--or to go elsewhere, see?” “Yass, suh,” she replied hastily, “I’se gwine ter do it, but I sure wishes yo’d let me take de chile where he b’longs.” “Where he belongs?” Caleb turned sharply. “I ain’t sayin’,” cried Aunt Charity, thoroughly frightened, “I ain’t saying--” Then she stopped with her mouth open, for she had seen the figure in the outer room that Caleb did not see. Her look made him turn, however, to come face to face with Jacob Eaton. He went out and closed the door on the inner office sharply, not conscious that Aunt Charity promptly dropped on her knees and put her eye to the keyhole. Meanwhile, the two men measured each other with peculiar enmity. Jacob thrust his hands into his pockets and stood smiling, a smooth face but not a pleasant one.