“Yes.”
“Leavin' smallpox patients in their own holes under quarantine guard till they git a place to put 'em, ain't they?”
“Yes.”
“You know how many niggers in that shack?”
“Four, ain't they?”
“Yessir, four of 'em. One died to-night, another's goin' to, another ain't tellin' which way he's goin' yit; and the last one, Joe Cribbins, was the first to take it; and he's almost plumb as good as ever ag'in. He's up and around the house, helpin' nurse the sick ones, and fit fer hard labour. Now look here; that nigger does what I tell him and he does it quick—see? Well, he knows what I want him to do to-night. So does Charley Gruder, the guard over there. Charley's fixed; I seen to that; and he knows he ain't goin' to lose no job fer the nigger's gittin' out of the back winder to go make a little sociable call this evening.”
“What!” exclaimed the policeman, startled; “Charley ain't goin' to let that nigger out!”
“Ain't he? Oh, you needn't worry, he ain't goin' fur! All he's waiting fer is fer you to give the signal.”
“Me!” The man in the helmet drew back.
“Yessir, you! You walk out there and lounge up towards the drug-store and jest look over to Charley and nod twice. Then you stand on the corner and watch and see what you see. When you see it, you yell fer Charley and git into the drug store telephone, and call up the health office and git their men up here and into that Dago cellar like hell! The nigger'll be there. They don't know him, and he'll just drop in to try and sell the Dagoes some policy tickets. You understand me?”