“White man what come hyer yether day, he say how dey ain’t gwine ’low de colored sojers to fight,” suggested Aunt Basha.  German propaganda reaches far and takes strange shapes.

“Don’ jer go to b’lieve dat white man, ’oman,” thundered Jeems, thumping with his fist.  “He dunno nawthin’, an’ I reckon he’s a liar.  Unc’ Sam he say we kin fight an’ we gwine fight.  An’ de war ain’t las’ long atter we git to fightin’ good.”

Aunt Basha, her hands folded on the rounded volume of apron considered deeply.  After a time she arrived at a decision.

“Jeems,” she began, “yo’ cert’nly is a strong reasoner.  Yassir.  But I got it bo’ne in upon me powerful dat I gotter give dese yer savin’s to Unc’ Sam.  It’s my country too, Jeems, same as dem sojers what’s fightin’, dem boys in de mud what ain’ got a soul to wash fo’ ’em.  An’ lak as not dey mas not dere.  Dem boys is fightin’, and gittin’ wet and hunted up lak young marse say, fo’ Aunt Basha and—­bress dere hearts”—­Aunt Basha broke down, and the upshot was that Jeems washed his hands of an obstinate female and—­the savings not being his in any case—­gave unwilling consent.

Youth of the sterner set is apt to be casual in making appointments.  It had not entered Lance’s head to arrange in case he was not at the office.  As for Aunt Basha, her theory was that he reigned there over an army of subordinates from morning till evening.  So that she was taken aback when told that Mr. Lance was out and no one could say when he would be in.  She had risen at dawn and done her housework and much of the fine washing which she “took in,” and had then arrayed herself in her best calico dress and newest turban and apron for the great occasion and had reported at the Daybreak office at nine-thirty.  And young marse wasn’t there.

“I’ll set and rest ontwell he comes in,” she announced, and retired to a chair against the wall.

There she folded her hands statelily and sat erect, motionless, an image of fine old dignity.  But much thinking was going on inside the calm exterior.  What was she going to do if young marse did not come back?  She had the $200 with her, carefully pinned and double pinned into a pocket in her purple alpaca petticoat.  She did not want to take it home.  Jeems had submitted this morning, but with mutterings, and a second time there might be trouble.  The savings were indeed hers, but a rebellious husband in high finance is an embarrassment.  Deeply Aunt Basha considered, and memory whispered something about a bank.  Young marse was going to the bank with her to give her money to Uncle Sam.  She had just passed a bank.  Why could she not go alone?  Somebody certainly would tell her what to do.  Possibly Uncle Sam was there himself—­for Aunt Basha’s conception of our national myth was half mystical, half practical—­as a child with Santa Claus.  In any case banks were responsible places, and somebody would look after her.  She crossed to the desk where two or three young men appeared to be doing most of the world’s business.