Delamere winced at the familiarity. He had reached that degree of moral deterioration where, while principles were of little moment, the externals of social intercourse possessed an exaggerated importance. McBane had never before been so personal.
He had addressed the young aristocrat first as “Mr. Delamere,” then, as their acquaintance advanced, as “Delamere.” He had now reached the abbreviated Christian name stage of familiarity. There was no lower depth to which Tom could sink, unless McBane should invent a nickname by which to address him. He did not like McBane’s manner—it was characterized by a veiled insolence which was exceedingly offensive. He would go over to the club and try his luck with some honest player—perhaps something might turn up to relieve him from his embarrassment.
He put his hand in his pocket mechanically—and found it empty! In the present state of his credit, he could hardly play without money.
A thought struck him. Leaving the hotel, he hastened home, where he found Sandy dusting his famous suit of clothes on the back piazza. Mr. Delamere was not at home, having departed for Belleview about two o’clock, leaving Sandy to follow him in the morning.
“Hello, Sandy,” exclaimed Tom, with an assumed jocularity which he was very far from feeling, “what are you doing with those gorgeous garments?”
“I’m a-dustin’ of ’em, Mistuh Tom, dat’s w’at I’m a-doin’. Dere’s somethin’ wrong ’bout dese clo’s er mine—I don’ never seem ter be able ter keep ’em clean no mo’. Ef I b’lieved in dem ole-timey sayin’s, I’d ’low dere wuz a witch come here eve’y night an’ tuk ’em out an’ wo’ ’em, er tuk me out an’ rid me in ’em. Dere wuz somethin’ wrong ’bout dat cakewalk business, too, dat I ain’ never unde’stood an’ don’ know how ter ’count fer, ’less dere wuz some kin’ er dev’lishness goin’ on dat don’ show on de su’face.”
“Sandy,” asked Tom irrelevantly, “have you any money in the house?”
“Yas, suh, I got de money Mars John give me ter git dem things ter take out ter Belleview in de mawnin.”
“I mean money of your own.”
“I got a qua’ter ter buy terbacker wid,” returned Sandy cautiously.
“Is that all? Haven’t you some saved up?”
“Well, yas, Mistuh Tom,” returned Sandy, with evident reluctance, “dere’s a few dollahs put away in my bureau drawer fer a rainy day—not much, suh.”
“I’m a little short this afternoon, Sandy, and need some money right away. Grandfather isn’t here, so I can’t get any from him. Let me take what you have for a day or two, Sandy, and I’ll return it with good interest.”
“Now, Mistuh Tom,” said Sandy seriously, “I don’ min’ lettin’ you take my money, but I hopes you ain’ gwine ter use it fer none er dem rakehelly gwines-on er yo’n—gamblin’ an’ bettin’ an’ so fo’th. Yo’ grandaddy’ll fin’ out ’bout you yit, ef you don’ min’ yo’ P’s an’ Q’s. I does my bes’ ter keep yo’ misdoin’s f’m ’im, an’ sense I b’en tu’ned out er de chu’ch—thoo no fault er my own, God knows!—I’ve tol’ lies ’nuff ’bout you ter sink a ship. But it ain’t right, Mistuh Tom, it ain’t right! an’ I only does it fer de sake er de fam’ly honuh, dat Mars John sets so much sto’ by, an’ ter save his feelin’s; fer de doctuh says he mus’n’ git ixcited ’bout nothin’, er it mought bring on another stroke.”
“That’s right, Sandy,” replied Tom approvingly; “but the family honor is as safe in my hands as in grandfather’s own, and I’m going to use the money for an excellent purpose, in fact to relieve a case of genuine distress; and I’ll hand it back to you in a day or two—perhaps tomorrow. Fetch me the money, Sandy—that’s a good darky!”
“All right, Mistuh Tom, you shill have de money; but I wants ter tell you, suh, dat in all de yeahs I has wo’ked fer yo’ gran’daddy, he has never called me a ‘darky’ ter my face, suh. Co’se I knows dere’s w’ite folks an’ black folks—but dere’s manners, suh, dere’s manners, an’ gent’emen oughter be de ones ter use ’em, suh, ef dey ain’t ter be fergot enti’ely!”
“There, there, Sandy,” returned Tom in a conciliatory tone, “I beg your pardon! I’ve been associating with some Northern white folks at the hotel, and picked up the word from them. You’re a high-toned colored gentleman, Sandy—the finest one on the footstool.”
Still muttering to himself, Sandy retired to his own room, which was in the house, so that he might be always near his master. He soon returned with a time-stained leather pocketbook and a coarse-knit cotton sock, from which two receptacles he painfully extracted a number of bills and coins.
“You count dat, Mistuh Tom, so I’ll know how much I’m lettin’ you have.”
“This isn’t worth anything,” said Tom, pushing aside one roll of bills. “It’s Confederate money.”
“So it is, suh. It ain’t wuth nothin’ now; but it has be’n money, an’ who kin tell but what it mought be money agin? De rest er dem bills is greenbacks—dey’ll pass all right, I reckon.”
The good money amounted to about fifty dollars, which Delamere thrust eagerly into his pocket.
“You won’t say anything to grandfather about this, will you, Sandy,” he said, as he turned away.
“No, suh, co’se I won’t! Does I ever tell ’im ’bout yo’ gwines-on? Ef I did,” he added to himself, as the young man disappeared down the street, “I wouldn’ have time ter do nothin’ e’se ha’dly. I don’ know whether I’ll ever see dat money agin er no, do’ I ’magine de ole gent’eman wouldn’ lemme lose it ef he knowed. But I ain’ gwine ter tell him, whether I git my money back er no, fer he is jes’ so wrop’ up in dat boy dat I b’lieve it’d jes’ break his hea’t ter fin’ out how he’s be’n gwine on. Doctuh Price has tol’ me not ter let de ole gent’eman
