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“Mebbe if Doct’ Duvall wuz to come hisse’f an’ mek manifest to you de high pupposes–” began Sister Eldora. But Aunt Dilsey cut her off short.

“Wouldn’t mek no diffe’nce ef he come eighty times a day an’ twice ez offen on Sunday. Anyway, I reckins my day fur jinin’ things is done over.”

There was a dead weight of finality in her words. She rose heavily. As Sister Menifee departed Aunt Dilsey became aware of the presence of Jeff Poindexter. He was emerging from behind the door.

“Been hidin’ inside dat kitchen lis’enin’, I s’pose?” demanded Aunt Dilsey.

“Couldn’t help frum hearin’,” admitted Jeff. It was evident that he was not deeply grieved over the failure of Sister Menifee to make headway against Aunt Dilsey’s opposition. “At the last you suttinly give dat woman her marchin’ orders, didn’t you, Aunt Dilsey?”

“An’ sech wuz my intention frum de start off,” she confided. “Minute she come th’ough dat back gate yonder I knowed whut she wuz comin’ fur an’ I wuz set an’ ready wid de words waitin’ on de tip of my tongue.”

“Me, I don’t fancy dat Duvall neither,” stated Jeff. “I ain’t been sayin’ much ’bout him one way or ‘nother but I been doin’ a heap o’ steddyin’.”

“Yas, I knows all ’bout dat too,” snapped Aunt Dilsey. “I got eyes in my haid. You los’ yore taste fur dis yere big-talkin’, fine-lookin’ man jes ez soon ez he started sparkin’ round dat tore-down limb of a ‘Phelia Stubblefield. Whut ails you is you is jealous; hadn’t been fur dat I lay you’d be runnin’ round wid yore tongue hangin’ out suckin’ in ever’thing he sez ez de gospil truth same ez a lot of dese other weak-minded ones is doin’. Oh, I know you, boy, frum ze ground up! An’ furthermo’ I knows dis Doct’ Duvall likewise also, even ef I ain’t never seen him but oncet or twicet sence fust he come yere to dis town all dress’ up lak a persidin’ elder. I don’t lak his looks an’ I don’t lak his ways, jedgin’ by whut I hears of ’em frum dis one an’ dat one, an’ most in special I don’t lak his color. He ain’t clear brown lak whut I is, an’ he ain’t muddy black lak whut you is, neither he ain’t high yaller lak some is. To me he looks most of all lak de ground side of a nickel wahtermelon. An’ in all de goin’ on sixty-two yeahs of my life I ain’t never seen no pusson callin’ theyselves Affikins dat had dat kind of a sickly greenish-yaller-whitish complexion but whut trouble come pourin’ frum ’em sooner or later, an’ most gin’rally sooner, lak manna pourin’ from de gourd of de Prophet Jonah. Dat man is a ravelin’ wolf, ef ever I seen one.”

“Whut kind of a wolf did you say, Aunt Dilsey?” asked Jeff.

“Consult de Scriptures an’ you won’t be so ignunt,” she answered crushingly. “Consult de Scriptures an’ you’ll read whar de ravelin’ wolf come down on de fold, an’ whut he done to de fold after he’d done come down on it wuz more’n aplenty. An’ now, boy, you git on out of my kitchen an’ go on ’bout yore business–ef you’s got any business, w’ich I doubts. I ain’t got no mo’ time to waste on you den whut I is on dat flighty-haided Eldora Menifee, a-traipsin’ round frum one back do’ to ‘nother with her talk ’bout ladies’ auxiliaries an’ gittin’ yo rights fur a dollah down an’ twenty cents a week.”

Jeff faded away. It was comforting in a way to find Aunt Dilsey on his side, even though her manner rather indicated she resented the fact that he was on hers. A few evenings later he found out something else. He was made to know that in another and entirely unsuspected quarter the endeavors of the diligently crusading and organizing Duvall person had roused more than a passing curiosity.