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Old Tobe, keeper of the "rasteran," may have been right in saying that Uncle Sheba had backslidden as far as he could slide, remembering the limitations of a life like his, but circumstances had recently occurred which brought his church relations to a crisis. Tobe was the opposite pole in character to Uncle Sheba. There was an energy about the old caterer which defied age and summer heat.
What she termed her dinner was a very uncertain affair. Sometimes she swallowed it hastily at "Ole Tobe's rasteran," as she termed the eating-room kept by a white-woolled negro; again she would "happen in" on a church sister, when, in passing, the odor of some cookery was appetizing. She always left, however, some compensation from her basket, and so was not unwelcome.
Uncle Sheba hitched uneasily in his chair, feeling that the conversation rather reflected on him, and he was conscious that old Tobe, keeper of the "rasteran," was glaring at him. "I reckin," he said, "dat de min'ster might offer a word ob prar an' comfort fore he go." "What pressin' business," asked his wife, severely, "hab you got, Unc., dat you in sech a hurry fer de min'ster ter go?
Dere's a wum at de root or a wum in de leaves, or dey's too much rain or too much sun, or de sile's like a beef bone dat's been biled fer soup mo' dan's reasonable. Now Aun' Sheba's de indewidooel cotton-plant we's a-'siderin', an' I doan see how she's gwine to res' a while any mo'n I kin. Ef I shet up my rasteran de business gwine ter drap off ter some oder rasteran."
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