Humphrey Bryant waited for her, waited with serious old eyes, leaning downward in his chair, tapping a foot rhythmically. He had so much to tell!
Night.
A lull in the rain.
Aunty May hung up her dishpan and draped the clean cloth over it. When she had wiped her hands she wiped her eyes.
She stood a long time in the doorway, peering at the lights in the men's shanty where a grimed crew talked of that day's fight and of Helen Foraker. A figure moved outside.
"Hey!" she called, in a cracking voice. The figure paused. "Send Joe here."
He came, scuttling through the fresh torrent and paused on the step and looked up at the woman with shock in his eyes.
"Black Joe, come in here!" she said impatiently.
He stepped inside, incredulous; for the first time in two decades she had addressed him!
"You've been wrong," she said. "You've been wrong for twenty years, you stubborn old devil! But I've had a lesson today—I—" brushing angrily at her eyes. "I've saw what misunderstandings lead to. You're wrong, but I give in, Joe. That's a woman's way; to give in, to yield, to take the blame. But I'll do it. I ain't a body to let things run along until they get serious!"
His face grew alive with amazement, with hope. He stared at her as she dabbed at her eyes with an apron corner.
"Well, you old fool, ain't you ever goin' to speak?" she cried.
