“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.  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.  The old gentleman unfolded the deed, then moved it carefully to and from his eyes until the typewriting was adjusted to his focus.  He read it slowly, with a movement of his lips and a drooling of tobacco-juice.  Finally he finished, remarked, “I be damned!” in a deliberate voice, returned the deed, and proceeded across the street to the livery-stable, which was fronted by an old mulberry-tree, with several chairs under it.  In one of these chairs he would sit for the remainder of the day, making an occasional loud remark about the weather or the crops, and watching the horses pass in and out of the stable.

Siner had vaguely enjoyed old Mr. Tomwit’s discomfiture over the deed, if it was discomfiture that had moved the old gentleman to his sententious profanity.  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.

“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?”

Asked for an opinion, Tump began twiddling military medal and corrugated the skin on his inch-high brow.

“Now you puts it to me lak dat, Peter,” he answered with importance, “I wonders ef dat gimlet-haided white man ain’t put some stoppers in dat deed he guv you.  He mout of.”

Such remarks as that from Tump always annoyed Peter.  Tump’s intellectual method was to talk sense just long enough to gain his companion’s ear, and then produce something absurd and quash the tentative interest.

Siner turned away from him and said, “Piffle.”

Tump was defensive at once.

“‘T ain’t piffle, either!  I’s talkin’ sense, nigger.”

Peter shrugged, and walked a little way in silence, but the soldier’s nonsense stuck in his brain and worried him.  Finally he turned, rather irritably.