On the evening in question, supper was over, but the table had not yet
been cleared. Uncle Sheba was a good deal of an epicure, and, having left
not a scrap of what his wife had vouchsafed to him, was now enjoying his
corn-cob pipe. Aun' Sheba also liked a good square meal as much as any
one, and she had the additional satisfaction that she had earned it. At
this hour of the day she was usually very tired, and was accustomed to
take an hour's rest before putting her living-room in order for the night.
Although the twilight often fell before she returned from her mercantile
pursuits, she never intrusted Uncle Sheba with the task of getting supper,
and no housekeeper in the city kept her provisions under lock and key more
rigorously than did Aun' Sheba. After repeated trials, she had come to a
decision. "Mr. Buggone," she had said in her sternest tones, "you's wuss
dan poah white trash when you gets a chance at de cubbard. Sence I can't
trus' you nohow, I'se gwine to gib you a 'lowance. You a high ole
Crischun, askin' for you'se daily bread, an' den eatin' up 'nuff fer a
week."
Uncle Sheba often complained that he was "skimped," but his appearance did
not indicate any meagreness in his "'lowance," and he had accepted his lot
in this instance, as in others, rather than lose the complacent
consciousness that he was provided for without much effort on his part.
Supper was Aun' Sheba's principal meal, and she practically dined at the
fashionable hour of six.
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