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Siner shouted from across the street two or three times before he caught Tump's attention. The ex-soldier looked around, sobered abruptly. "Whut-chu want, nigger?" His inquiry was not over-cordial. Peter nodded him across the street. The heavily built black in khaki hesitated a moment, then started across the street with the dragging feet of a reluctant negro. Peter looked at him as he came up.
He suddenly broke into violent profanity. "Hot damn you! shut yo black mouf! Whut I keer whut-chu done! You weaned her away fum me. She won't speak to me! She won't look at me!" A sudden insanity of rage seized Tump. He poured on his victim every oath and obscenity he had raked out of the whole army. Strangely enough, the gunman's outbreak brought a kind of relief to Peter Siner.
"Sick o' yo' deal, Peter?" inquired Bobbs, smiling and shifting the toothpick. He bit down on it. "Well, whut-chu want done, Henry?" "Oh," hesitated the cashier in a quandary, "nothing, I suppose. Siner was excited; you know how niggers are. We can't afford to send every nigger to the pen that breaks the law." He stood studying Peter out of his close-set eyes. "Here's your deed, Peter."
Peter would be glad to get well away from such a place. "Think I'll go North, Jim Pink," remarked Peter, chiefly to keep up a friendly conversation with his companion. "Whut-chu goin' to do up thaiuh?" "Take a position in a system of garages." "A position is a job wid a white color on it," defined the minstrel. "Whut you goin' to do wid Cissie?" Peter looked around at the foolish face.
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