Aunt Minervy Ann’s characterization of the directors was so acute and so unexpected that I laughed—not at what she said, but at the vivid picture of a lot of helpless men standing about, full of dignity, and yet waiting for young Conant to tell them what to do. [Illustration: “‘Conant!’ here and ‘Conant!’ dar.”] “You may laugh, suh,” Aunt Minervy Ann went on with a little frown, “but I’m tellin’ you de Lord’s trufe. I kep’ my eyes on um, an’ ’twuz dat-a-way fum soon dis mornin’ ’twel I got mad an’ come home. You kin ax Hamp, suh, an’ he’ll tell you de same. I reckon you heer’d Marse Tumlin las’ night at de table ax Marse Paul ef his shoulder hurted ’im. I know you did, suh, bekaze I tuck notice how you looked, an’ I tried ter shake de baby up so he’d cry, but dat wuz one er de times, suh, when he wouldn’t be shuck up. Any udder time dat chil’ would er laid back an’ blated twel you’d hafter put yo’ fingers in yo’ years. I wuz mad wid ’im, suh, but I wuz bleedz ter laugh. Chillun mighty funny. When you don’t want um ter cry, dey’ll holler der heads off, an’ when you want um ter cry, dey’ll laugh in yo’ face. I bet you dey’s a blue place on dat baby’s arm whar I pinched ’im, but he didn’t no mo’ min’ it dan nothin’.” “Well,” said I, “there was something peculiar in the way all of you looked and acted when the Major asked about Mr. Conant’s shoulder. It was a very simple question.” “Ah, Lord!” exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann, raising her right hand on high, “dey better ax ’bout dat shoulder. Yesser! ev’y day an’ ev’y night, an’ in betwixt times.” “Is Mr. Conant troubled with rheumatism?” I inquired. “Rheumatiz! bless yo’ soul, honey! Ef ’twuz rheumatiz dey wouldn’t be no Paul Conant ’round dis house, ner no Conant baby.” Here is something decidedly interesting, I thought, but held my peace, knowing that whatever it was would be more quickly disclosed if there were any disclosure to make. “Ain’t you never hear ’bout it, suh? Well dat bangs me! An’ you right up dar in Atlanty, too! No, suh; you must er been in Savanny, bekaze ’twuz de town talk in Atlanty. Anyhow, wharsomever you wuz er might er been, dey ain’t no rheumatiz de matter wid Marse Paul Conant’s shoulder-blade. I know dat much, an’ I know it mighty well, bekaze I wuz right here in dis house, an’ nowhars else ’cep’n ’roun’ de lot an’ up town an’ back. “Well, den, suh, ef you ain’t never hear ’bout dat, I most know you ain’t never hear tell er how I run’d off, and how I run’d back, bekaze nobody ain’t never talk ’bout dat—leas’ways, not as I knows un.” I declared to Aunt Minervy Ann that I never heard a whisper of it. She leaned back against the railing of the steps and drew a long whiff from her pipe.