“Come now, your wife tol’ me all about him. He’s a curly-headed boy. He come along on a flatboat. You took him on as a hand in the warehouse.”
“Huh? I did, did I?” grunted Jimson, not at all willing to give in that he knew whom the deputy sheriff was talking about.
“I mean a curly-headed Yankee boy that come over yere last night in that old boat of yours, Jimson,” said the deputy sheriff, chuckling. “And your woman wants to know when you’re going to bring the boat back?”
“Huh?” growled Jimson.
“Don’t yo’ call him Curly?”
“Oh! you mean him?” said the boss. “Wal—I reckon he’s yere. Got a broken laig. Doctor won’t let him be moved. Impossible, Mr. Ricketts. Impossible!”
“I reckon I’ll look to suit myself, Jimson,” said Ricketts, firmly. “This ain’t no funnin’, you know.” Then he turned to the man in the boat. “Tie that rope to one o’ these posts, Tom, and come ashore. I may need you to hold Jimson,” and he winked and chuckled at the chagrined warehouse boss.
The big deputy sheriff strode across the porch, in at the door, scattering the wide-eyed negroes right and left, and came face to face with three pretty young girls, dressed in the party frocks donned for the ball the night before, all the frocks they had to wear on this occasion.
“Bless my soul, ladies!” gasped the confused Ricketts, sweeping off his hat. “Your servant!”
“Oh, Mr. Ricketts!” exclaimed Nettie Parsons, her hands clasped, and looking in her most appealing way up into the big man’s face. Although Nettie stood a step up from the hall floor, the deputy sheriff still towered above her head and shoulders. “Oh, Mr. Ricketts!”