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Updated: June 7, 2025
Ever'body say you a mighty long-haided nigger. Jim Pink he tell us 'bout Tump Pack marchin' you 'roun' wid a gun. I sho don' want you ever git mad at me, Mister Siner. Man wid a gun an' you turn yo' long haid on him an' blow him away wid a wad o' women's clo'es. I sho don' want you ever cross yo' fingers at me, Mister Siner." Peter stared at the grotesque, bullet-headed roustabout.
Tump Pack was openly proud of having been connected, even in a casual way, with the purchase. As he walked down the steps, he turned to Peter. "Don' reckon nobody could git a deed off on you wid stoppers in it, does you?" "We don't know any such word as 'stop, Tump," declared Peter, gaily. For Peter was gay. The whole incident at the bank was beginning to please him.
Peter, wid dat Tump Pack gallivantin' roun' wid a forty-fo'. Hit would keep 'mos' anybody's weddin' ve'y quiet onless he wuz lookin' fuh a short cut to heab'n." As the two negroes passed the Berry cabin, Nan Berry thrust out her spiked head and called to Peter Captain Renfrew wanted to see him.
The two negroes sat down on the ramshackle porch of an old jeweler's shop, and Tump began a complicated tally of ten dollars. By the time he had his dimes, quarters, and nickels in separate stacks, services in the village church were finished, and the congregation came filing up the street.
Not far from the portage at the foot of the rapids there was an old logging road, if they could but find it in the dark. The last mile could be covered more quickly by this route than by following the tump trail past the rapids, and it would lead them straight to the camp.
After a short pause Tump said in a slightly different tone: "'Pears lak you don' haf to ma'y her comin' to yo' room." A queer sinking came over the mulatto. "Listen, Tump, I we in my room we simply talked, that's all. She came to tell me she was goin away. I I didn't harm her, Tump." Peter swallowed. He despaired of being believed. But his defense only infuriated the soldier.
It gave him the appearance of accidentally rolling off while immersed in deep thought. The death of Tump Pack moved Peter with a sense of strange pathos. He always remembered Tump tramping away through the night to carry Cissie some underclothes and, if possible, to take her place in jail.
This song commemorating Tump Pack's bravery and faithfulness to his love may very well take the place of the Congressional medal which, unfortunately, was lost on the night the soldier was killed.
It chemically combined loathsome familiarity, leering suggestion, slimy piety and rancid 'social service' in one fuming compost that fairly lifted me off my feet. 'Yes, said he, after compliments. 'It's the most vital, arresting and dynamic bit of tump I've done up to date. Non nobis gloria! I met Sir Thomas Ingell in his own park. He talked to me again. He inspired most of it. 'Which?
Peter showed the list, with Cissie's name on it. "She told me to collect from you." Tump brightened up. "So dat wuz whut you two niggers wuz a-talkin' 'bout over at yo' house." He ran a fist down into his khaki, and drew out three or four one-dollar bills and about a pint of small change. It was the usual crap-shooter's offering.
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