The painter squeezed a tube of white on his palette, relit his
cigarette, fumbled over his sheaf of brushes and continued:
"The first of every month--just about now, by the way--they bring twenty
or thirty of these poor devils down from the mountains and lock them up
in Covington jail. They pass Aunt Chloe's house. Oh, Aunt Chloe!"--and
he turned to the old woman--"did you see any of those 'wild people' the
last two or three days?--that's what she calls 'em," and he laughed.
"Dat I did, Colonel--hull drove on 'em. 'Nough to make a body sick to
see 'em. Two on 'em was chained together. Dat ain't no way to treat
people, if dey is ornery. I wouldn't treat a dog dat way."
Aunt Chloe, sole dependence of the Art Club below-stairs: day or night
nurse--every student in the place knows the touch of her hand when his
head splits with fever or his bones ache with cold; provider of buttons,
suspender loops and buckles; go-between in most secret and confidential
affairs; mail-carrier--the dainty note wrapped up in her handkerchief so
as not to "spile it!"--no, _she_ wouldn't treat a dog that way, nor
anything else that lives and breathes or has feeling, human or brute.
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