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Updated: May 9, 2025
A child who had come to feed the squirrels in the square had put the rose in his coat, and he had transferred it to the glass of water. He turned towards his desk and took up several cards that he had not seen. So Rann had called in his absence and Vaden and Diggs. As he pushed the cards aside, he summoned mentally the men before him and weighed the possible values of each.
Before they had risen from the table, Rann joined them, and the conversation branched at once into impersonal topics. Diggs told a story or two, at which Rann roared appreciatively, while Vaden fingered his coffee spoon in pensive abstraction.
They said he was a West Indian. He talked of olden times but I don't remember well enough to tell you. Father owned a home that we was living on when I first remember. Mother was bright color, too. Vaden, Mississippi was our trading post. Mother had twenty children. She was a worker. She would work anywhere she was put. My folks never talked much about slavery. I don't know how they got our place.
They were honest men, whose honesty was dangerous because it went with dull credulity. In appearance they were so unlike as to make the connection ludicrous. Vaden was long, emaciated, with a shrunken chest in which a consumptive cough rattled.
The next morning Vaden and Diggs dropped in to breakfast, and before it was over he had ascertained that they were seeking to sound him upon his attitude towards the recent National Party Platform. As he dodged their laboured cross-examination he laughed at the overdone assumption of indifference.
Rann was a match for any man in politics, he knew the great, silent voice, some one had said the man who was clever enough to let others do his talking for him. Yes, he was glad that Rann would back him up. The remaining callers appeared together in his reverie Vaden and Diggs. They were never mentioned apart, and they never worked singly.
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