The old negro glanced all around him cautiously and even craned his neck to peer into the room beyond.
“Well, suh,” he began, “Judge Ernest ’as out this mornin’ to hyah me preach, an’ aftah service was ovah, he drawed me to one side, and ’gin to talk politics. He ast me how I felt towa’ds you all, Mistuh Halliday, an’—Ah didn’ like to say it—but you done tol’ me, ’membah.”
“That’s right,” said George, urging the parson out of his hesitation, “you made it strong, I hope.”
“Wellum, Ah tol’ the judge that Ah wasn’ pow’ful strong on you any moah, sense, Ah said, you all hadn’t felt ’sposed to help us ’ith the subscription fo’ the new roof on ouah chu’ch.”
“That was clever,” said George, “damned clever—I beg your pardon.” The old negro’s eyes had widened till their whites showed, and he had raised his hands, holding up his yellow palms before George. “But go on.”
“Well, suh, the jedge ’as al’ays had an interest in ouah spiritual welfare, an’ so he ’lowed we’d ought to be holpen out some.” The old man paused and swallowed ceremoniously. “An’ so, gen’lemen, he offered me a hundred an’ fifty dollahs.”
The dark eyes of the old man shone with a strange new luster.
“What did you say?”
“Well, suh,” the preacher hesitated, “Ah took it.”
George brought his hand down on the parson’s shoulder with a heavy slap and he laughed. “Good, Bishop, good.”