search-wa'nt to see ef some nigger had n' stole dat flapjack goin' down his th'oat.”
“Mr. Bobbs has to do his work, Mother,” put in Peter. “I don't suppose he enjoys it any more than we do.”
“Den let 'im git out'n dis business an' git in anudder,” scolded the old woman. “Dis sho is a mighty po' business.”
The ponderous Mr. Bobbs finished with a practised thoroughness his inspection of the cabin, and then the inquisition proceeded down the street, around the crescent, and so out of sight and eventually out of hearing.
Old Caroline snapped her chair back beside her greasy table and sat down abruptly to her spoiled ham again.
“Dat make me mad,” she grumbled. “Ever' time a white pusson fail to lay dey han' on somp'n, dey comes an' turns over ever'thing in my house.” She paused a moment, closed her eyes in thought, and then mused aloud: “I wonder who is got Miss Arkwright's roaster.”
The commotion of the constable's passing died in his wake, and Niggertown resumed its careless existence. Dogs reappeared from under the cabins and stretched in the sunshine; black children came out of hiding and picked up their play; the frightened Ophelia came out of Nan's cabin across the street and went her way; a lanky negro youth in blue coat
