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"Dat Henry Hooker," criticized Tump, "allus was a lil ole dried-up snake in de grass." "He abused his position of trust," said Peter, gloomily; "I must say, his motives seem very obscure to me." "Dat sho am a fine way to put hit," said Tump, admiringly. "Why do you suppose he bought in the Tomwit tract and sold me the Dillihay place?"
Hooker turned away to a big ledger on a breast-high desk, and apparently was about to settle himself to the endless routine of bank work. Peter knew the Dillihay place well. It lacked the timber of the other tract; still, it was fairly desirable. He hesitated before the tarnished grill. "What do you think about it, Tump?" "You won't make a mistake in buying," answered the high voice of Mr.
The cashier repeated the smile that bracketed his thin nose in wrinkles. "That's with you, but you know what you say goes with the niggers here in town, and, besides, I won't promise how long I'll hold the Dillihay place. Real estate is brisk around here now. I didn't want to delay a good work on account of not having a location." Mr.
But the negro did not understand Henry Hooker's action at all. The banker had abused his position of trust as holder of a deed in escrow snapping up the sale himself; then he had sold Peter the Dillihay place. It was a queer shift. Tump Pack caught his principal's mood with that chameleon-like mental quality all negroes possess.
It was so dark that when Peter first entered he could not make out the little group, but he soon recognized their voices: Parson Ranson, Wince Washington, Jerry Dillihay, and all of the Berry family. They were talking of Cissie, of course. They hoped Cissie wouldn't really be sent to the penitentiary, that the white folks would let her out in time for her to have her child at home.
Bluegum Frakes had told Wince; Jerry Dillihay had told Bluegum; but any further meanderings of the message, when it started, or what its details might be, Nan could not state. It was a typical message from a resident of the white town to a denizen of Niggertown. Such messages are delivered to any black man for any other black man, not only in the village, but anywhere in the outlying country.
"Natchelly, natchelly," agreed the old cavalryman, dryly. "Henry has a different way to talk to ever' man, Peter." "In fact," proceeded Peter, "Mr. Hooker sold me the old Dillihay place in lieu of the deal I missed with you." Old Mr. Tomwit moved his quid in surprise. "The hell he did!" "That at least shows he doesn't think a negro school would ruin the value of his land.
"But but there is a clause in this deed, Mr. Hooter, estopping colored persons from occupying the Dillihay place." "Precisely. What about it?" Mr. Hooker snapped out his inquiry and looked up suddenly, catching Peter full in the face with his narrow-set eyes. It was the equivalent of a blow. "According to this, I I can't establish a school on it." "You cannot."
"Don' speak lak dat uv dem as is in trouble, Sally," reproved old Parson Ranson, solemnly; "anybody can say 'Ef." "Sho am de troof," agreed Jerry Dillihay. "Sho am, black man." The conversation drifted into the endless moralizing of their race, but it held no criticism or condemnation of Cissie. From the tone of the negroes one would have thought some impersonal disaster had overtaken her.
He owns farms all around the Dillihay place." Old Mr. Tomwit turned his quid over twice and spat thoughtfully. "That your deed in your pocket?" With the air of a man certain of being obeyed he held out his hand for the blue manuscript cover protruding from the mulatto's pocket. Peter handed it over.
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