For two weeks he had seen the light of day only through the
deep, narrow opening of one small window.
At first he had had visitors--indignant, excited visitors who came in
hotly to remonstrate, to threaten, to abuse. Dr. Fenton had charged in
upon him with a whole battery of reproaches. In stentorian tones he
rehearsed the judge's kindness in befriending him, he pointed out his
generosity, and laid stress on Sandy's heinous ingratitude. Mr.
Moseley had arrived with arguments and reasons and platitudes, all
expressed in a polysyllabic monotone. Mr. Meech had come many times
with prayers and petitions and gentle rebuke.
To them all Sandy gave patient, silent audience, wincing under the
blame, but making no effort to defend himself. All he would say was
that Ricks Wilson had not done the shooting, and that he could say no
more.
A wave of indignation swept the town. Almost the only friend who was
not turned foe was Aunt Melvy. Her large philosophy of life held that
all human beings were "chillun," and "chillun was bound to act bad
sometimes." She left others to struggle with Sandy's moral welfare and
devoted herself to his physical comfort.
With a clear conscience she carried to her home flour, sugar, and lard
from the Hollises' store-room, and sat up nights in her little cabin
at "Who'd 'a' Thought It" to bake dumplings, rolls, and pies for her
"po' white chile.
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