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It held the casualness of one certain to be obeyed. Although Peter had done no crime, nor had even harbored a criminal intention, a trickle of apprehension went through him at Bobbs's nod. He recalled Jim Pink's saying that it was bad luck to see the constable. He walked up to the shuddering motor and stood about three feet from the running-board.
The officer bit on a sliver of toothpick that he held in his thin lips. "Accident up Jonesboro las' night, Peter." "What was it, Mr. Bobbs?" "Tump Pack got killed." Peter continued looking fixedly at Mr. Bobbs's broad red face. The dusty road beneath him seemed to give a little dip. He repeated the information emptily, trying to orient himself to this sudden change in his whole mental horizon.
A belated merchant stopped him by clapping both hands on his shoulders and shaking some composure into him. "What is it? What's so funny? Damn it! I miss ever'thing!" "I-i-it's that f-fool Tum-Tump Pack. Bobbs's arrested him!" The inquirer was astounded. "How the hell can he arrest him when he hit town this minute?" "Wh-why, Bobbs had an old warrant for crap-shoot three years old before the war.
They were Niggertown dogs, and the sight of a white man always drove them to a frenzy. Presently in the hullabaloo, Peter heard Dawson Bobbs's voice shouting: "Aunt Mahaly, if you kain't call off this dawg, I'm shore goin' to kill him." Then an old woman's scolding broke in and complicated the mêlée.
The mulatto was just entering that indefinite stretch of thoroughfare where a country road becomes a village street when there came a wail of brakes behind him and he looked around. It was Dawson Bobbs's car. The fat man now slowed up not far from the mulatto and called to him. "Yes, sir," said Peter. Dawson bobbed his fat head backward and upward in a signal for Peter to approach.
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