“Jail,” Bojus suggested.
“Yes, sir, or right over the bank into some creek, maybe. I don’t want nothin’ to do with ’em, and that’s what I says from the first. I don’t want nothin’ to do with ’em, I says, and I’ve stuck to it.” Here he was interrupted by a demand upon his attention, for his cigarette had become too short to be held with the fingers; he inhaled a final breath of smoke and tossed the tiny fragment away. “I own one of ’em, though,” he said lightly.
At this the eyes of Bojus widened. “You own automobile, Mist’ Tuttle?”
“Yes, I got a limousine.”
“What!” Bojus cried, and stared the more incredulously. “You got a limousine? Whur you got it?”
“I got it,” Mr. Tuttle replied coldly. “That’s enough fer me. I got it, but I don’t go around in it none.”
“What you do do with it?”
“I use it,” said Tuttle, with an air of reticence. “I got my own use fer it. I don’t go showin’ off like some men.”
Bojus was doubtful, yet somewhat impressed, and his incredulous expression lapsed to a vagueness. “No,” he said. “Mighty nice to ride roun’ in, though. I doe’ know where evabody git all the money. Money ain’t come knockin’ on Bojus’ do’ beggin’ ‘Lemme in, honey!’ No, suh; the way money act with me, it act like it think I ain’ goin’ use it right. Money act like I ain’t its lovin’ frien’!”
He laughed, and Mr. Tuttle smiled condescendingly. “Money don’t amount to so much, Bojus,” he said. “Anybody can make money!”