“I tole you he warn’t gwine stay quiet,” Luster said.
“You vilyun!” Dilsey said, “Whut you done to him?”
“I aint done nothin. I tole you when dem folks start playin, he git started up.”
“You come on here,” Dilsey said. “Hush, Benjy. Hush, now.” But he wouldn’t hush. They crossed the yard quickly and went to the cabin and entered. “Run git dat shoe,” Dilsey said. “Dont you sturb Miss Cahline, now. Ef she say anything, tell her I got him. Go on, now; you kin sho do dat right, I reckon.” Luster went out. Dilsey led Ben to the bed and drew him down beside her and she held him, rocking back and forth, wiping his drooling mouth upon the hem of her skirt. “Hush, now,” she said, stroking his head, “Hush. Dilsey got you.” But he bellowed slowly, abjectly, without tears; the grave hopeless sound of all voiceless misery under the sun. Luster returned, carrying a white satin slipper. It was yellow now, and cracked and soiled, and when they placed it into Ben’s hand he hushed for a while. But he still whimpered, and soon he lifted his voice again.
“You reckon you kin find T. P. ?” Dilsey said.
“He say yistiddy he gwine out to St. John’s today. Say he be back at fo.”
Dilsey rocked back and forth, stroking Ben’s head.
“Dis long time, O Jesus,” she said, “Dis long time.”
“I kin drive dat surrey, mammy,” Luster said.
“You kill bofe y’all,” Dilsey said, “You do hit fer devilment. I knows you got plenty sense to. But I cant trust you. Hush, now,” she said. “Hush. Hush.”