“But, Aunt Chloe, I’m getting mighty hungry,” said George.  “Isn’t that cake in the skillet almost done?”

“Mose done, Mas’r George,” said Aunt Chloe, lifting the lid and peeping in,—­“browning beautiful—­a real lovely brown.  Ah! let me alone for dat.  Missis let Sally try to make some cake, t’ other day, jes to larn her, she said.  ‘O, go way, Missis,’ said I; ’it really hurts my feelin’s, now, to see good vittles spilt dat ar way!  Cake ris all to one side—­no shape at all; no more than my shoe; go way!”

And with this final expression of contempt for Sally’s greenness, Aunt Chloe whipped the cover off the bake-kettle, and disclosed to view a neatly-baked pound-cake, of which no city confectioner need to have been ashamed.  This being evidently the central point of the entertainment, Aunt Chloe began now to bustle about earnestly in the supper department.

“Here you, Mose and Pete! get out de way, you niggers!  Get away, Mericky, honey,—­mammy’ll give her baby some fin, by and by.  Now, Mas’r George, you jest take off dem books, and set down now with my old man, and I’ll take up de sausages, and have de first griddle full of cakes on your plates in less dan no time.”

“They wanted me to come to supper in the house,” said George; “but I knew what was what too well for that, Aunt Chloe.”

“So you did—­so you did, honey,” said Aunt Chloe, heaping the smoking batter-cakes on his plate; “you know’d your old aunty’d keep the best for you.  O, let you alone for dat!  Go way!” And, with that, aunty gave George a nudge with her finger, designed to be immensely facetious, and turned again to her griddle with great briskness.

“Now for the cake,” said Mas’r George, when the activity of the griddle department had somewhat subsided; and, with that, the youngster flourished a large knife over the article in question.

“La bless you, Mas’r George!” said Aunt Chloe, with earnestness, catching his arm, “you wouldn’t be for cuttin’ it wid dat ar great heavy knife!  Smash all down—­spile all de pretty rise of it.  Here, I’ve got a thin old knife, I keeps sharp a purpose.  Dar now, see! comes apart light as a feather!  Now eat away—­you won’t get anything to beat dat ar.”

“Tom Lincon says,” said George, speaking with his mouth full, “that their Jinny is a better cook than you.”

“Dem Lincons an’t much count, no way!” said Aunt Chloe, contemptuously; “I mean, set along side our folks.  They ’s ’spectable folks enough in a kinder plain way; but, as to gettin’ up anything in style, they don’t begin to have a notion on ’t.  Set Mas’r Lincon, now, alongside Mas’r Shelby!  Good Lor! and Missis Lincon,—­can she kinder sweep it into a room like my missis,—­so kinder splendid, yer know!  O, go way! don’t tell me nothin’ of dem Lincons!”—­and Aunt Chloe tossed her head as one who hoped she did know something of the world.

“Well, though, I’ve heard you say,” said George, “that Jinny was a pretty fair cook.”