"'You are pouting,' she said, 'or you'd never be sitting in this room where nobody ever comes'"
Old Jonas reached out his hand to make a move, and held it suspended in the air while Adelaide was talking to Cally-Lou. "Sanders," he said, after awhile, "do you suppose the child really thinks she's talking to some one. Can she see Cally-Lou?"
"Why not?" replied Mr. Sanders placidly. "Folks ain't half as smart when they grow up as they is when they're little children. They shet the'r eyes to one whole side of life. Kin you fling your mind back to the time when your heart was soft, an' your eyes sharp enough for to see what grown people never seed? Tell me that, Jonas."
Old Jonas paused over a contemplated move, hesitated and sighed. "Did you ever have little things happen to you," Mr. Sanders went on, frowning a little, "that you never told to anybody? Did you ever dream dreams when you was young that kinder rattled you for the longest, they was so purty and true?"
"I think you have me beat, Sanders," responded old Jonas; and no one ever knew whether he referred to the game, or to the dreams.
"You think so, maybe, but it's more; I'm a-gwine to make two more moves and wipe you off the face of the earth!" And it happened just as Mr. Sanders said it would; two more moves, and he captured four men, and swept into the royal line where they crown kings. Old Jonas frowned and pushed the men into the box where they were kept, with "I can't play to-day, Sanders; my mind isn't on the game."
"Well," said Mr. Sanders, "that's diffunt an' I don't blame you much, for ef that little gal was loose in my house, what games I played would be with her."
"Sanders," said old Jonas, with some asperity, "you don't mean to say that a little bit of a child like that would worry you!"
"Worry me!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, with as scornful a look as he could on his bland and benevolent face. "Worry me! why, what on earth do you suppose I'm a-doin' in this house?"
"I thought you came to play checkers with me," old Jonas responded.
"Well," Mr. Sanders retorted, "ef you'd put your thoughts in a bag and shake 'em up, an' then pour 'em out, you couldn't tell 'em from these flyin' ants that was swarmin' from under your front steps awhile ago. No, Jonas! Don't le' me shatter any fond dream you've got about me, but sence Nan Dorrin'ton come into the state of Georgy by the Santy Claus route, this little gal is the only human bein' that I ever wanted to pick up an' smother wi' huggin' an' kissin'."
"Is that so, Sanders?" old Jonas inquired, straightening up, with a queer sparkle in his little eyes. "Why, I never thought——"
"Tooby shore you didn't," Mr. Sanders interrupted. "Nobody ever thought that you had any sech thoughts. Ef it was a crime to think 'em, an' you was to git took up on sech a charge, the case'd be non-prosecuted by the time it got in the courthouse. When it comes to that you've got the majority of folks wi' you. You'll hear 'em talk an' brag how fond they are of children, from morning tell night, but jest let one of the youngsters make a big fuss, an' you'll see 'em flinch like the'r feelin's is hurt. No Jonas, don't fool yourself. This world, an' not only this world, but this town is full of children so lonesome that when I think about it I feel right damp; an' thar's times when I set an' think of these little things runnin' about wi' not a soul on top of the yeth for to reely understand 'em, my heart gits so full that ef some un was to slip up behind me an' put salt on my back, I reely believe I'd melt an' turn to water like one of these gyarden snails. It's the honest fact. Now, that child in thar—Adelaide—has allers had some un to understand her an' know what she was thinkin' about; allers tell she come here. Ef I hadn't know'd her mother, I could tell jest by lookin' at Adelaide an' hearin' her talk, that she was one 'oman amongst ten thousan'."
"You put me in the wrong, Sanders, indeed you do; you may not intend it, but you certainly do me wrong."
Mr. Sanders regarded him with unfeigned astonishment: "Why, what have I said, Jonas? Think it over! Is it doin' you wrong for me to say that more than nine-tenths of the little children in the world is lonesome? Does it hurt you when I say that Cordelia, your sister, was a 'oman among ten thousand? If these sayin's hurt you, Jonas, you must have a mortal tender conscience or a mighty thin skin. I've allers had the idee that you ain't a bit wuss than you look to be; do you want me to change my mind? Was thar ever under the blue sky a lonesomer gal than Cordelia, or one easier to love? Did you love her as you ought? Did you treat her right ever' day in the year? Did she ever have a good time of your makin'? An' in spite of it, didn't she keep on gittin' nicer and nicer, an' purtier an' purtier, tell bimeby, along come a young feller—as good a man as ever trod shoe leather—an' snatched her right from under your wing? An' didn't William H. Sanders, late of said county, show the young fellow how, an' when, an' whar to snatch her?"
"Did—did you do that, Sanders? Well, I'm glad I didn't know it at the time, for I am afraid I'd have shot you."
"Shot me!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, his blue eyes beaming innocently. "Well, I've seed a good many quare things in my day an' time, but I've yit to see the gun that could go off ahead of mine—not when thar was any needcessity. You say you'd 'a' shot me; an' what did I do? I holp Cordelia to the fust an' last taste of happiness she ever had in this world. Did you ever do that much for her? You give her her vittles an' cloze—sech as they was—but do plain vittles an' plain cloze make anybody happy? Ef they do, then this old ball we 're walkin' on—when we ain't fallin' down—must be runnin' over wi' happiness. Why, Jonas, you wouldn't let the gal have no kind of company, male or female; she couldn't go out, bekaze she had nobody for to take her; one little picnic was all the gwine out she done arter she fell in your hands. I tuck her to that an' I never was as glad of anything in my life as I was when she an' Dick Lumsden made up the'r little misunderstandin' that you had been the occasion of, an' had connived at, an' nursed like it was a baby.
"Well, they run away an' got married, an' went to housekeepin' not forty yards from your door—an' you seen 'em ever' day of the world, an' yit you done like you didn't know they was in town. An' wuss 'n that," Mr. Sanders continued, his anger rising as he stirred the embers of recollection—"wuss'n that, you never spoke a word to Cordelia from that day tell the day she died—an' she your own sister! It's a mighty good thing that Lumsden was well off while the war lasted. When it ended, he was as poor as I was. He had land, but who kin eat land? Thar wa'n't but one reely rich man in the community, Jonas, an' that man was you. You had bought up all the gold for a hundred mile aroun', but not so much as a thrip did Cordelia ever git out'n you.
"What I'm a-tellin' you, Jonas, you know as well as I do; but I jest want to let you know that we-all ain't been asleep all this time. Lumsden got a good job in Atlanta, an' took his wife an' baby thar. Him an' his wife was so well suited to one another that when one died, the other thought the best thing she could do was to go an' jine him. Both on 'em know'd mighty well that the Lord would look arter the little gal. Oh, I know what you want to say: you want to tell me that you was afear'd Lumsden would turn out to be no 'count, bekaze he was wild when a boy—an' would have his fling now an' then; but that don't go wi' me, Jonas. You know what he turned out to be; you know what Cordelia had to go through; you know that one kind word from you would 'a' been wuth more to her than all the money you've got in the world; an' yit, your pride, or your venom—you kin name it an' keep it—hender'd you from makin' that poor child as happy as she mought 'a' been. An' I'll tell you, Jonas, jest as shore as the Lord lives an' the sun shines on a troubled world, you'll have to pay for it."
Several times during this remarkable tirade—remarkable because it was delivered with some vehemence, right in old Jonas's teeth—he made an effort to interrupt Mr. Sanders, but the latter had put him down with a gesture that a novel writer would call imperious. Imperious or not, it gave pause to whatever old Jonas had to say in his own behalf; and it must have all been true, too, for the old fellow finally turned away, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and pretended to be looking at something interesting that he saw from the window. Mr. Sanders, when he had concluded, was surprised to find that old Jonas seemed to be more hurt than angry; and he would have gone into the parlour where Adelaide was still playing with Cally-Lou, but old Jonas turned around and faced him.
"You've said a great many things, Sanders, that nobody else would have said, and I gather that you consider me to be a pretty mean fellow; but did it ever occur to you that perhaps I'm not as mean as I seem to be? Did it ever occur to you that a man could be so shy and suspicious that he was compelled to close his mind against what you call love and affection; and, that, with his mind thus closed, he could cease to believe in such things? I don't suppose you follow me; but it's the simple truth. That child in there won't be put to bed at night until she kisses me good-night, and, even then she wont go until I kiss her. Think of that, Sanders! No matter what you and other people may think, the child doesn't believe that I am a mean man."
"I could tell you, Jonas, that Adelaide ain't old enough for to tell a mean man ef she met him in the road. But I'll not do that, bekaze I know mighty well that you ain't as mean as you try to make out. Thar never was a man on this green globe that didn't have a tender spot in his gizzard for them that know'd jest when an' whar to tetch it. Ef I took you at your face value, Jonas, not only would I never put my foot in your house, but I wouldn't speak to you on the street. I tell you that flat an' plain."
The conversation of the two men had been carried on in a tone something louder than was absolutely necessary, especially on the part of Mr. Sanders. Indeed, finical folk would have said that the rosy-faced Georgian was actually rude; but he had found an opportunity to deliver himself of a burden that had long been a weight on his mind, and he did it in no uncertain terms. He fully expected either to find himself in the midst of a row, or to be ordered from old Jonas's house, and he had prepared himself for both emergencies. But instead of offending the lonely old money-lender, he had merely set him to thinking; and his thoughts were not very pleasant ones. He heard every word that Mr. Sanders said, and it was true, but even as he listened, the whole panorama of his past life moved before him, and he could see himself in a narrow perspective, living his cheerless childhood, his almost friendless youth, and his lonely manhood. In those days, long gone, he had had his dreams, even as now Adelaide had hers, but their existence was brief, and their date inconsiderable. He pitied the child, the youth, and the young man, but strange to say, he had no pity for the grown man to whom Mr. Sanders was reading one of his cornfield lectures. He knew that what he was, was the direct outgrowth and development of all that had gone before.
His sister had never understood him, and was afraid of him. He, silent and self-contained, never sought her confidence nor gave her his. A word from her, a word from him, would have made clear everything that was dark, or doubtful, or suspicious in their attitude toward each other. He thought that her silence spelled contempt of a certain kind, and she was sure that she had his hearty dislike. And so it went, as such matters do in this world where no one save a chosen few see more than an inch beyond their noses.
I could fetch Adelaide on the scene just by waving my hand, but there is no need to, for the tone in which Mr. Sanders pitched his lecture was quite sufficient. Her quick, firm steps sounded on the floor with such emphasis, that any one acquainted with the lady would have known that she was indignant. But her careful training told even here, for composure held her irritation in check, and her refinement showed in her attitude and gestures, giving her small person a cuteness and prettiness quite out of the common.
"Why, good gracious me, Bishop! You don't know how many noises you're making. How can Cally-Lou sleep in the house? She sleeps a good deal lately, and I'm afraid she'll be sick, poor little thing, if she wakes up quicker than she ought."
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, in a loud and an excited whisper. "Now, don't tell me that Cally-Lou has gone and drapped off to sleep ag'in! Why, at this rate, she'll turn night into day, an' vicy-versy, an' Time, old an' settled as he is, will git turned wrong-sud-out'erds, an' ever'thing'll git so tangled up that you can't tell howdy from good-bye, ner ef the clock's tickin' backerds or forrerds; we'll git so turned around that we can't tell grasshoppers from turkey-buzzards. I'm reely sorry she didn't see you shoot the Boogerman, be jigger'd ef I ain't. The sight of that would 'a' made her open her eyes wider than they've been sence I fust know'd her."
In reply to this, Adelaide said she was afraid Cally-Lou wasn't very well. "Won't you come in and see her, Bishop? The truly-ann Bishop used to come to see my mother before they sent her where my papa was—the place where people get well when they're sick. Yes! and he used to bring things in his pocket—all sorts of goodies—gum-drops and candy kisses, and he said that if I ate them, all by myself, he wouldn't be hoarse in his throat any more when he had to holler loud at the sinners to keep them from goin' to the Bad Place; and once when I ate a whole heap of them at once, he cleared his throat, the truly-ann Bishop did, and said he was almost cured."
"I'll shorely try that trick ef it'll he'p me for to be a truly-ann Bishop, bekaze I've been so hoarse lately that I can't see my own voice in the lookin'-glass, no matter how I holler. Nothin' shows up in the glass but a little muddly mist, an' I have to wipe that off wi' my red silk han'kcher. Speakin' of Cally-Lou, when had I oughter pay my party call?"
"She doesn't like for anybody to see her because she isn't right white," Adelaide explained, "but she's asleep now, and you might come in to see her now if you'll walk easy."
Talk about burglars! Talk about thieves in the night! Talk about wild animals with padded feet creeping and stealing on their prey! All of them could have taken lessons in their craftiness from Adelaide and Mr. Sanders. Yes, and for a brief moment or two from old Jonas, for he joined the creeping procession, impelled by some mysterious motive. They stole into the darkened parlour, Adelaide in advance, and paused when she waved her hand. Then she pointed to the darkest corner.
Mr. Sanders will tell you to this day that he thought he saw something dim and dark huddled there—some wavering shape that had no outlines; but just at the critical moment, just when they were all about to see Cally-Lou, what should old Jonas do but stumble against a chair, as he craned his neck forward? Well, of course, with such awkwardness as this on the part of a man old enough to be Adelaide's grandfather, their scheme was ruined. Cally-Lou heard the noise, opened her eyes, and fled from the room so nimbly and with such dispatch that none of them could see her. Even Adelaide only caught the faintest glimpse of her as she whisked out of the room, and all she could say, was, "Did you ever see any one so foolish?" Then she ran after Cally-Lou, pursuing her into the sitting-room and then into the library, where she seemed to have caught her, for the others heard her upbraiding and scolding her in the style approved by all parents who are strict disciplinarians.
"Jonas," said Mr. Sanders, "did you see anything? Didn't you notice somethin' in the corner—it mought 'a' been nothin' an' then, ag'in, it mought 'a' been the biggest thing mortual eyes ever gazed on—didn't you see somethin' like a shadder?"
Old Jonas's reply was very prompt. He smacked his lips as though he tasted something nice. "No, Sanders! I didn't see anything, and what's more, I didn't expect to see anything."
Mr. Sanders opened wide his eyes and stared at old Jonas as hard as if he had been some rare kind of curiosity placed on exhibition for the first time.
"I hope you'll know me next time you see me!" exclaimed old Jonas, somewhat snappishly. "Do you want me to tell you I saw something, when in fact I saw nothing?"
Mr. Sanders passed his hand over his face, as though the gesture would better enable him to contemplate the sorrowful condition of his companion. "Jonas," he said with a sigh as heavy as if he had been a sleepy cow in a big pasture, "ef you'd 'a' had your two eyes put out a quarter of an hour arter you were born, you couldn't talk any more like a blind man than you did jest then. You said you seed nothin,'an' a blind man could say the same, day or night."
The reply that old Jonas made was characteristic; he pulled his hat a little further down over his ears, and said nothing. Fortunately for him perhaps, there was a timely diversion at that moment. Some one raised the big knocker on the door and let it fall again. Such a bang had not been heard in the house for many a long day; it set the frightened echoes flying. Adelaide heard them, and they must have been following her pretty close, for she ran into the sitting-room, crying:
"Good gracious, Bishop! Gracious goodness, Nunky-Punky! what was that? Did some one shoot at my Boogerman? He's already been kill'ded once, and he ought not to be kill'ded again."
Neither of the men could give her any satisfaction, and so she ran into the parlour and peeped through the blinds of a window that commanded a view of the piazza. Almost instantly she came running back again, pretended amazement in her eyes.
"I know who it is!" she said in a tragic whisper. "It's my wild Injun-rubber man, and, oh, my goodness! he looks vigorous and vexified! Where shall we hide?"
As a matter of fact, it had been such a long time since the knocker had been used that a big fat spider had spun a silken arbour there. Old Jonas hesitated so long about responding that Lucindy, who had heard the noise in the kitchen, put her head in the back door, with the query:
"Did any er you-all turn loose a gun in dar? Seem like I sho heern a gun go off!"
Lucindy's voice seemed to have a reassuring effect on old Jonas, for he brushed some dust specks from the front of his coat, straightened himself, and started for the front door which was the centre of the disturbance. As he made his way along the hall, Mr. Sanders, in obedience to an imperious gesture from Adelaide, disappeared behind a huge rocker, while the child concealed herself behind the door. Mr. Sanders took off his hat, whipped out his red silk handkerchief, threw it over his head and tied it under his chin. Adelaide had a partial view of her Bishop, and the sight she saw seemed to be too much for her: she gave a gasp, and sank to the floor as though in great pain.
They heard old Jonas urging the visitor to come in, while the other protested that he only wanted to say a word to Mr. Sanders, which could be said at the door as well, if not better, than anywhere else. Old Jonas called Mr. Sanders, but no one answered him. Then Adelaide and her Bishop heard old Jonas and the visitor coming along the hallway. "I don't want to trouble you at all, Mr. Whipple. They told me at the tavern that Mr. Sanders was here, and I just wanted to put a flea in his ear about a little matter."
"Well, just come right in," responded old Jonas, cordially. "Sanders!" he called.
Adelaide ventured to glance at Mr. Sanders again, and this time she could not restrain herself. She gave utterance to an ear-piercing shriek, which was more than sustained by a blood-curdling yell from Mr. Sanders!
PART IV
And now, good comrades, what shall it be,
A dungeon cell or a gallows tree?
—Varner's Lynching Songs.
Never, since the day you were born, have you seen such a jump, or heard such a grunt as old Jonas gave. You would have thought the Ku-Klux had him, for this was the year Eighteen-Hundred-and-under-the-Bushes, with old Raw-Head-and-Bloody-Bones keeping his green eyes wide open. For one brief and fleeting moment, old Jonas's whole body seemed to be wrenched out of socket, as Mr. Sanders said afterward; his hat fell off, and it was as much as he could do to keep his feet. He scowled, and then he tried to smile, but the scowl felt very much at home on his wrinkled countenance, and refused to be ousted by a feeble smile.
Even the visitor, whose name was Augustus Tidwell, was startled, and he showed it in his face, but he recovered much sooner than old Jonas did. He was one of the most prominent lawyers in that whole section, where prominent lawyers were plentiful. He was dignified, because he had to live up to his position, but all his dignity was dispersed by Adelaide and her Bishop. Adelaide called Mr. Tidwell her Injun-rubber because he wore his hair long, so that it fell in glistening waves over his coat collar. This gave him a very romantic appearance, and when engaged in the practice of law he always made the most of it; he could tousel his hair and look the picture of rage; he could push it straight back from his wide forehead, and seem to stand for innocence and virtue; and he could ruffle it up on one side, and tell juries how they should find in cases where the interests of his clients were concerned.
But dignity and a romantic appearance couldn't stand before Adelaide and her Bishop. Mr. Sanders, with the red silk handkerchief thrown over his head and tied under his chin, was a sight you would have gone far to see. He had such marvellous control of his features that, one moment he had the appearance of an overgrown baby, and the next, he was the living image of an old country granny who had come to town to swap a pound of snow-white butter for a hank or two of spun-truck. The fact is, Adelaide was compelled to roll on the floor and kick, so acute were the paroxysms of laughter. Mr. Sanders laughed, too, but when Adelaide glanced at him he would wipe the smile from his face and look as solemn as a real truly-ann Bishop; and this was worse than laughing, for Adelaide would be compelled to roll over the floor again.
Old Jonas didn't have any of the pains that come from laughter. At first he was frightened nearly to death at the manifestations for which Adelaide and her Bishop were responsible; then the reaction was toward hot anger, which finally developed into a feeling of impatient disgust at the spectacle which Mr. Sanders presented.
"Sanders," he said, sharply and earnestly, "if I didn't know you I'd be willing to swear you had gone crazy! Why, who under the blue sky ever heard of a grown man indulging in such antics and capers! It's simply scandalous, that's what it is."
"It is that-away!" blandly remarked Mr. Sanders. "An' more especially it's a scandal when me an' that child thar can't have five minnits' fun all by ourselves but what you come a-stickin' your head in the door, an' try for to turn a somerset wi'out liftin' your feet off'n the floor! I leave it to Gus Tidwell thar ef anybody in this house has cut up more capers than what you have. I wish you could 'a' seed yourself when you was flinging your hat on the floor, an' tryin' for to keep your feet in a slanchindic'lar position, an' workin' an' twistin' your mouth like you was tryin' for to git it on top of your head—ef you could 'a' seed all that you'd agree wi' me that thar wa'n't no room in this house for youth an' innocence."
Adelaide took advantage of the conversation to run out of the room to see if Cally-Lou had been frightened by all the noise; and presently the men heard her relating all the circumstances to her brown Ariel, and laughing almost as heartily at her own recital as she laughed when Mr. Sanders winked at her with the red handkerchief on his head.
"Who is she talking to?" Lawyer Tidwell inquired.
"Just talking to herself," responded old Jonas, with unnecessary tartness.
"Don't you nigh believe it, Gus," said Mr. Sanders. "She ain't twins, an' she's talkin' to some un that she can see an' we can't. Why, ef thar wa'n't nothin' thar, she'd be the finest play-actor that ever played in a county courthouse."
"She is certainly a wonderful child," said the lawyer. "Lucindy brought her to see my wife the other day, and I happened to be at home. I never enjoyed anybody's company so well on a short acquaintance as I did hers. My wife is daft about her, and she believes with you, Mr. Sanders, that the Cally-Lou she talks about so much is really her companion."
"Why, tooby shore, Gus. Children see an' know a heap things that they don' say nothin' about for fear they'll be laughed at. All you've got to do to see Cally-Lou is turn your head quick enough. I ain't limber enough myself, an' I reckon I never will be any more."
"Speaking of Lucindy, Mr. Sanders, I wanted to see you about some little business of hers, and it's business that she doesn't know anything about. Moreover, she wouldn't help matters much if she knew about it. I don't know how Mr. Whipple feels, but I know very well how you and I feel. You don't need to be told that nearly all the negroes have fallen out of sympathy with the whites; but there are a few we can still trust and have a genuine friendship for—and Lucindy is one of them. Now, I was sitting in my office to-day reading, when all of a sudden I heard someone talking in low tones. I didn't hear everything that was said, but I heard enough to learn that Lucindy's son Randall is somewhere in the county."
"He shorely is for a fact!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders. "Right in the state, county, town, an' deestrick aforesaid. Go on, Gus."
"Well you know, he's the boy that came within an ace of putting old Tuttle out of business in 1864. But now old Tuttle is the Radical Ordinary, elected by the niggers, and he is afraid to bring suit against Randall in the Superior Court. But he wants the boy put out of business if it can be done without mixing his name with the affair. I couldn't overhear all that was said, but I heard enough to know that old Tuttle intends to have Randall arrested on a charge of assault with intent to murder, and run him out of the county. Now, I wouldn't care a snap of my finger if it wasn't for the fact that Randall is Lucindy's son, and he must be taken care of. I don't know how you gentlemen feel about it, but that's the way I feel."
"Ef it'll do you any good to know," Mr. Sanders remarked, "me an' Jonas feel exactly the same way; an' what's more, we don't intend that Randall shall be run off. He's right here on this lot, an' here he's a-gwine to stay, ef I have any sesso in the matter. I'll pay his board, Jonas, ef that'll suit you, bekaze I've got a crow to pick wi' ol' Tuttle, an' when I git it picked he'll have more loose feathers than he kin walk off wi'. Jest mark that down."
"Pish-tush!" exclaimed old Jonas, smacking his thin lips, and frowning. He rose and went to the back door, and presently the others heard him calling Randall, who seemed to be somewhat slow in answering—so much so that Lucindy's voice was added to his.
"Randall!" she cried, "what in de name er goodness you doin' in dar? Don't you hear Mr. Whipple hollain' atter you? Look like you des ez triflin' now as what you wuz when you loped off!"
Randall replied after a while, and old Jonas's command was, "Come here, you no account scoundrel, and black my shoes!"
"Why, Jonas," said Mr. Sanders, when the former had returned to the room, "ain't you afraid you'll take cold? You ain't had your shoes blacked sence the war!"
The only reply old Jonas made to that was in the shape of a scowl. Randall came running with a puzzled expression on his face. He dropped his hat somewhere outside the door, and went in.
"They tell me," said old Jonas, somewhat curtly, "that you are studying to be a bishop."
"That's what I laid off in my mind, suh. It come to me when I hear um prayin' an' singin'; I allow to myself, I did, that ef it's all ez purty an' ez nice ez that, they wa'n't nothin' gwine to keep me from bein' a minister when the time got ripe. That's what I said to myself, suh."
"Well," remarked Mr. Sanders, reassuringly, "you've already got to be a Boogerman, an' I reckon that's long step forrerd."
"Black my shoes!" commanded old Jonas in a tone that was almost brutal. Randall hustled around until he found an old box of blacking that had been in the kitchen for many years. With this and an old brush that Lucindy found in some impossible place, he proceeded to give old Jonas's shoes a polish that caused them to shine brightly.
"Don't you think it is beneath the dignity of a pastor to black shoes?" old Jonas asked.
Randall chuckled. "That's the way some white folks'd feel about it," he answered; "but me—I'm black, an' I ain't got no business for to feel so—not me! St. Paul, or it may be St. Timothy, he says, somewhere, I dunner 'zackly where, 'What your han' finds to do, let your heart commend.'"
"Wa'n't it Shakespeare said that?" Mr. Sanders inquired.
"It mought 'a' been, suh," replied Randall. "All I know, it was some of them Bible folks. They say, 'Do what yo' han' finds to do, an' do it better'n some un else could 'a' done it.' That's why you see these shoes lookin' like they're spang new."
