Each day the supplies would be issued according to the amount on hand and the number standing in line.
Slowly the procession would march up with baskets to get what was offered; black and white, rich and poor, old and young, all fared and shared alike.
One evening after the issue had been made and the room cleared, an old colored man, who had been sitting off in one corner on a box, arose and shuffled along towards Mr. Foster. Taking off his old torn hat he made a low bow.
“Why, you’re too late; why didn’t you come up when the others did?”
“No, massa, I izent. Ben’s done gone and got my rashuns. I’se cum har on bizness.”
“Well, what can I do for you?”
“I’ze mos’ ’shamed to tell you, Capt’n,” and he put his old hat to his face and chuckled heartily. Then continued, “You see, Capt’n, day’s sellin’ lot uv guv’ment mules cheap, mighty cheap, mos’ as cheap as dirt, and I cud make a fortin if I could buy one; day’s sellin’ for twenty dollars, massa—but’ful guv’ment mules.” Then there was an awkward pause.
“Well?”
“I thot mebbe you’d len’ me de money.”
Foster laughed heartily.