Aunt Basha, entranced with this drama, quaked silently like a large coffee jelly, and with that there happened a high, rich, protracted sound which was laughter, but laughter not to be imitated of any vocal chords of a white race.  The delicious note soared higher, higher it seemed than the scale of humanity, and was riotous velvet and cream, with no effort or uncertainty.  Lance dropped his Mephistopheles pose and grinned.

“It’s Q sharp!” he commented.  “However does she do it!”

“Naw, sir, young marse,” Aunt Basha began, descending to speech.  “De she-wolf, she don’ expecteth you to pay no fo’ dollars ‘n sev’nty fo’ cents, sir.  Dat’s thes what I charges.  Dat ain’ what you pay.  You thes pay me sev’nty fo’ cents sir.  Dat’s all.”

“Oh!” Lance let it out like a ten-year-old.  It was hard to say which enjoyed this weekly interview more, the boy or the old woman.  The boy was lonely and the humanity unashamed of her race and personality made an atmosphere which delighted him.  “Oh!” gasped Lance.  “That’s a relief.  I thought it was goodbye to my Sunday trousers.”

Aunt Basha, comfortable and efficient, was unpacking the basket and putting away the wash in the few bureau drawers which easily held the boy’s belongings.  “Dey’s all mended nice,” she announced.  “Young marse, sir, you better wa’ out dese yer ole’ undercloses right now, endurin’ de warm weather, ‘caze dey ain’ gwine do you fo’ de col’.  You ’bleeged to buy some new ones sir, when it comes off right cool.”

Lance smiled, for there was no one but this old black woman to take care of him and advise his haphazard housekeeping, and he liked it.  “Can’t buy new ones,” he made answer.  “There you go again, mixing me up with Rockefeller.  I’m not even the Duke of Westminster, do you see.  I haven’t got any money.  Only sev’nty fo’ cents for the she-wolf.”

Aunt Basha chuckled.  Long ago there had been a household of young people in the South whose clothes she, a very young woman then, had mended; there had been a boy who talked nonsense to her much as this boy—­Marse Pendleton.  But trouble had come; everything had broken like a card-house under an ocean wave.  “De fambly” was lost, and she and her young husband, old Uncle Jeems of today, had drifted by devious ways to this Northern city.  “Ef you ain’t got de money handy dis week, young marse, you kin pay me nex’ week thes as well,” suggested the she-wolf.

Then the big boy was standing over her, and she was being patted on the shoulder with a touch that all but brought tears to the black, dim eyes.  “Don’t you dare pay attention to my drool, or I’ll never talk to you again,” Lance ordered.  “Your sev’nty fo’ cents is all right, and lots more.  I’ve got heaps of cash that size, Aunt Basha.  But I want to buy Liberty Bonds, and I don’t know how in hell I’m going to get big money.”  The boy was thinking aloud.  “How am I to raise two hundred for a couple of bonds, Aunt Basha?  Tell me that?” He scratched into his thatch of hair and made a puzzled face.