He climbed the steps into the Planter’s Bank and opened the screen-door.  The cashier glanced up briefly, but continued busily at his ledger.

Peter walked shakenly to the barred window in the grill.

“Mr. Hooker.”

“Very busy now, Peter,” came the high voice.

“I want to know about this deed.”

The banker was nimbly setting down long rows of figures.  “No time to explain deeds, Peter.”

“But—­but there is a clause in this deed, Mr. Hooter, estopping colored persons from occupying the Dillihay place.”

“Precisely.  What about it?” Mr. Hooker snapped out his inquiry and looked up suddenly, catching Peter full in the face with his narrow-set eyes.  It was the equivalent of a blow.

“According to this, I—­I can’t establish a school on it.”

“You cannot.”

“Then what can I do with it?” cried Peter.

“Sell it.  You have what lawyers call a cloud on the title.  Sell it.  I’ll give you ten dollars for your right in it, just to clear up my title.”

A queer trembling seized Peter.  The little banker turned to a fantastic caricature of a man.  His hatchet face, close-set eyes, harsh, straight hair, and squeaky voice made him seem like some prickly, dried-up gnome a man sees in a fever.

At that moment the little wicket-door of the window opened under the pressure of Peter’s shoulder.  Inside on the desk, lay neat piles of bills of all denominations, ready to be placed in the vault.  In a nervous tremor Peter dropped in his blue-covered deed and picked up a hundred-dollar bill.

“I—­I won’t trade,” he jibbered.  “It—­it wasn’t my money.  Here’s your deed!” Peter was moving away.  He felt a terrific impulse to run, but he walked.

The banker straightened abruptly.  “Stop there, Peter!” he screeched.

At that moment Dawson Bobbs lounged in at the door, with his perpetual grin balling up his broad red face.  He had a toothpick, in his mouth.

“’S matter?” he asked casually.

“Peter there,” said the banker, with a pale, sharp face, “doesn’t want to stick to his trade.  He is just walking off with one of my hundred-dollar bills.”

“Sick o’ yo’ deal, Peter?” inquired Bobbs, smiling and shifting the toothpick.  He bit down on it.  “Well, whut-chu want done, Henry?”

“Oh,” hesitated the cashier in a quandary, “nothing, I suppose.  Siner was excited; you know how niggers are.  We can’t afford to send every nigger to the pen that breaks the law.”  He stood studying Peter out of his close-set eyes.  “Here’s your deed, Peter.”  He shoved it back under the grill.  “And lemme give you a little friendly advice.  I’d just run an ordinary nigger school if I was you.  This higher education don’t seem to make a nigger much smarter when he comes back than when he starts out.”  A faint smile bracketed the thin nose.

Dawson Bobbs roared with sudden appreciation, took the bill from Peter’s fingers, and pushed it back under the grill.