“Yessum, Miss Jenny.” One of the deputation uncovered his grizzled wool and bowed. “How you gittin’ on?” The others shuffled their feet, and one by one they removed their hats. The leader clasped his across his chest like a congressional candidate being photographed.
“Here, Simon,” old Bayard said. “What’s this? What did you bring these niggers around here for?”
“Dey come fer dey money,” Simon explained.
“What?”
“Money?” Miss Jenny repeated with interest “What money, Simon?”
“Dey come fer de money you promised ‘um,” Simon shouted.
“Itold you I wasn’t going to pay that money,” old Bayard said. “Did Simon tell you I was going to pay it?” he demanded of the committee.
“Whatmoney?” Miss Jenny repeated. “What are you talking about, Simon?” The leader of the deputation was shaping his mouth to words, but Simon forestalled him.
“Why, Cunnel, you tole me yo’self to tell dem niggers you wuz gwine pay’um.”
“I didn’t do any such thing,” old Bayard answered violently. “I told you that if they wanted to put you in jail, to go ahead and do it. That’s what I told you.”
“Why, Cunnel, you said it jes’ ez plain. I kin prove it by Miss Jenny you tole me—”
“Not by me,” Miss Jenny denied. “This is the first I heard about it. Whose money is it, Simon?”
Simon gave her a pained, reproachful look. “He tole me to tell ‘um he wuz gwine pay it.”
“I’m damned if I did,” old Bayard stormed. “I told you I wouldn’t pay a damn cent of it. And I told you that if you let ‘em worry me about it, I’d skin you alive, sir.”
“I ain’t gwine let ‘um worry you,” Simon answered soothingly. “You jes’ give ‘um dey money, en me en you kin fix it up later.”
“I’ll be eternally damned if Iwill; if I let a lazy nigger that ain’t worth his keep—”
“But somebody got to pay ‘um,” Simon pointed out patiently. “Ain’t dat right, Miss Jenny?”
“That’s right,” Miss Jenny agreed. “But it’s not me.”
“Yessuh, dey ain’t no argument dat somebody got to pay ‘um. Ef somebody don’t pay ‘em dey’ll put me in jail And den whut’ll y’all do, widout nobody to keep dem hosses fed en clean, and to clean de house en wait on de table? Co’se I don’t mine gwine to jail, even ef dem stone flo’s ain’t gwine do my mis’ry no good.” And he drew a long and affecting picture, of high and grail-like principles, and patient abnegation. Old Bayard slammed his feet to the floor.
“How much is it?”
The leader swelled impressively in his Prince Albert. “Brudder Mo’,” he said, “will you read out de total emoluments owed to de pupposed Secon’ Baptis’ church by de late Deacon Strother in his capacity ez treasurer of de church boa’d?”
Brother Moore in the rear of the group genuflected himself, Thai ready hands pushed him into the foreground—a small ebon negro in sombre, over-large black—where the parson majestically made room for him. He laid his hat on the earth at his feet and from the right-hand pocket of his coat he produced in the following order, a red bandana handkerchief; a shoe horn; a plug of chewing tobacco, and holding these in his hand he delved yet further, with an expression of mildly conscientious alarm. Then he replaced the objects, and from his left-hand pocket he produced a pocket knife; a stick on which was wound a length of dingy string; a short piece of leather strap attached to a rusty buckle, and lastly a greasy, dog-eared notebook. He crammed the other things back into the pocket, dropping the leather strap, which he stooped and recovered, then he and the parson held a brief whispered conversation. He opened the notebook and fumbled the pages over, fumbled at them until the parson leaned over hisshoulder and found the proper page and laid his finger upon it.
“How much is it, reverend?” old Bayard asked.
“Brudder Mo’ will now read out de amount,” theparson said. Brother Moore stared at the page andmumbled something in a weak, indistinguishablevoice.
“What?” old Bayard demanded.
“Make ‘im talk up,” Simon said. “Can’t nobody tell whut he sayin’.”
“Louder,” the parson rumbled, with just a trace of impatience.
“Sixty-sevum dollars en fawty cents,” Brother Moore articulated at last. Old Bayard sat and swore for a time, then rose and tramped into the house, still swearing. Simon sighed and relaxed. The deputation milled again, politely, and Brother Moore faded briskly into the rear rank of it The parson, however, still retained his former attitude of fateful and solemn profundity.
“What became of that money, Simon?” Miss Jenny asked curiously. “You had it, didn’t you?”
“Dat’swhutdey claims,” Simon answered.
“What did you do with it?”
“Hit’s all right,” Simon assured her. “Ijes’ put it out, sort of.”
“I bet you did,” she agreed drily. “I bet it never even got cool while you had it. Who did you put it outto?”
“Oh, me and Cunnel done fix dat up” he said, “long time ago.” Old Bayard tramped in the hall again, and emerged flapping a check in his hand.
“Here,” he commanded, and the parson approached the railing and took it and folded it away in his coat pocket. Old Bayard glared at Simon. “And the next time you steal money and come to me topay it back, I’m going to
