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That
afternoon
a
strange
figure
stumped
through
Melanie
's
hedge
and
across
Pitty
's
back
yard
.
Obviously
,
he
was
one
of
those
men
whom
Mammy
and
Dilcey
referred
to
as
"
de
riff-raff
whut
Miss
Melly
pick
up
off
de
streets
an
'
let
sleep
in
her
cellar
.
"
There
were
three
rooms
in
the
basement
of
Melanie
's
house
which
formerly
had
been
servants
'
quarters
and
a
wine
room
.
Now
Dilcey
occupied
one
,
and
the
other
two
were
in
constant
use
by
a
stream
of
miserable
and
ragged
transients
.
No
one
but
Melanie
knew
whence
they
came
or
where
they
were
going
and
no
one
but
she
knew
where
she
collected
them
.
Perhaps
the
negroes
were
right
and
she
did
pick
them
up
from
the
streets
.
But
even
as
the
great
and
the
near
great
gravitated
to
her
small
parlor
,
so
unfortunates
found
their
way
to
her
cellar
where
they
were
fed
,
bedded
and
sent
on
their
way
with
packages
of
food
.
Usually
the
occupants
of
the
rooms
were
former
Confederate
soldiers
of
the
rougher
,
illiterate
type
,
homeless
men
,
men
without
families
,
beating
their
way
about
the
country
in
hope
of
finding
work
.
Frequently
,
brown
and
withered
country
women
with
broods
of
tow-haired
silent
children
spent
the
night
there
,
women
widowed
by
the
war
,
dispossessed
of
their
farms
,
seeking
relatives
who
were
scattered
and
lost
.
Sometimes
the
neighborhood
was
scandalized
by
the
presence
of
foreigners
,
speaking
little
or
no
English
,
who
had
been
drawn
South
by
glowing
tales
of
fortunes
easily
made
.
Once
a
Republican
had
slept
there
.
At
least
,
Mammy
insisted
he
was
a
Republican
,
saying
she
could
smell
a
Republican
,
same
as
a
horse
could
smell
a
rattlesnake
;
but
no
one
believed
Mammy
's
story
,
for
there
must
be
some
limit
even
to
Melanie
's
charity
.
At
least
everyone
hoped
so
.
Yes
,
thought
Scarlett
,
sitting
on
the
side
porch
in
the
pale
November
sunshine
with
the
baby
on
her
lap
,
he
is
one
of
Melanie
's
lame
dogs
.
And
he
's
really
lame
,
at
that
!
The
man
who
was
making
his
way
across
the
back
yard
stumped
,
like
Will
Benteen
,
on
a
wooden
leg
.
He
was
a
tall
,
thin
old
man
with
a
bald
head
,
which
shone
pinkishly
dirty
,
and
a
grizzled
beard
so
long
he
could
tuck
it
in
his
belt
.
He
was
over
sixty
,
to
judge
by
his
hard
,
seamed
face
,
but
there
was
no
sag
of
age
to
his
body
.
He
was
lank
and
ungainly
but
,
even
with
his
wooden
peg
,
he
moved
as
swiftly
as
a
snake
.
He
mounted
the
steps
and
came
toward
her
and
,
even
before
he
spoke
,
revealing
in
his
tones
a
twang
and
a
burring
of
"
r
s
"
unusual
in
the
lowlands
,
Scarlett
knew
that
he
was
mountain
born
.
For
all
his
dirty
,
ragged
clothes
there
was
about
him
,
as
about
most
mountaineers
,
an
air
of
fierce
silent
pride
that
permitted
no
liberties
and
tolerated
no
foolishness
.
His
beard
was
stained
with
tobacco
juice
and
a
large
wad
in
his
jaw
made
his
face
look
deformed
.
His
nose
was
thin
and
craggy
,
his
eyebrows
bushy
and
twisted
into
witches
'
locks
and
a
lush
growth
of
hair
sprang
from
his
ears
,
giving
them
the
tufted
look
of
a
lynx
's
ears
.
Beneath
his
brow
was
one
hollow
socket
from
which
a
scar
ran
down
his
cheek
,
carving
a
diagonal
line
through
his
beard
.
The
other
eye
was
small
,
pale
and
cold
,
an
unwinking
and
remorseless
eye
.
There
was
a
heavy
pistol
openly
in
his
trouser
band
and
from
the
top
of
his
tattered
boot
protruded
the
hilt
of
a
bowie
knife
.
He
returned
Scarlett
's
stare
coldly
and
spat
across
the
rail
of
the
banister
before
he
spoke
.
There
was
contempt
in
his
one
eye
,
not
a
personal
contempt
for
her
,
but
for
her
whole
sex
.
"
Miz
Wilkes
sont
me
to
work
for
you
,
"
he
said
shortly
.
He
spoke
rustily
,
as
one
unaccustomed
to
speaking
,
the
words
coming
slowly
and
almost
with
difficulty
.
"
M
'
name
's
Archie
.
"
