“Hit may be,” continued the old man reflectively, “dat I ain’ got all dem verses jess right, but dat was deir senses. W’at s’prises me, Miss Jessie, is dat yo’ alls is talkin’ ob wantin’ fur to borrow money, too. W’at fur yo’ wan’ ter borry money, w’en de’re’s a plenty in de fambly? A plenty ob hit, yes. W’at yo’ reckons I’s been doin’ all dese yer weeks, off an’ on? T’inks I’s a ’possum, an’ doan know w’en hit’s time ter come t’ life? Ain’ I been a knowin’ ’bout dish yer lan’ business an’ a gittin’ ready fur hit, ebber sense long ’fore Mas’r Ralph was took. I didn’t git drownded w’en he did—wish’t I had, I does—an’ long ’fore dat, I’se been sabin’ up my wages agin’ a time w’en Mas’r Ralph goin’ need ’em wustest. I reckoned he goin’ need ’em w’en hit comes to de provin’ up on dish yer claim. Hit doan tek’ much ter keep a ole nigger like me, an’ I ain’ been crippled wid de rheumatiz so bad until ’long dis summah, an’ so, chillen, I’se done got five hundred dollahs in de bank at Fa’hplay, fo’ de credit ob Mas’r Ralph Gordon—dat’s yo’s now, Miss Jessie, honey, cause yo’s ob age.”
Joe had remembered that important fact, too, it seemed. We could only stare at him in speechless amazement, while he concluded, abruptly: “So doan let’s heah no more fool talk ’bout borrowin’ money. We’s got a plenty, I tells yo’. I been a-keepin’ hit in de bank at Arnold—whar’ Mas’r Ralph an’ me stopped fur quite a spell ’afore we done come yer—an’ so, a few days ago, I done slipped ober to Arnold an’ drawed de money out, an’ put it in de bank at Fa’hplay, subject to de order ob Miss Jessie Gordon—dat’s yo’, honey,” he added, as if fearful that Jessie might not recognize herself under this formal appellation. He was holding his coffee-cup suspended, half-way to his lips, while he looked at us exultantly, and then we both expressed our feelings in a characteristic manner. I ran to him, and threw my arms around his neck.
“Oh, Joe! Joe! you are an angel!” I sobbed, dropping my head on his shoulder.
“Maybe I is,” the old man admitted, stiffly, edging away; “but if dere’s airy angel, w’ite or black, w’at likes ter hab hot coffee spilled ober his laigs, I ain’ nebber met up wid him!”
“I’ll get you another cup, Joe,” I said, laughing, as I brushed away my tears. While I was getting it, Jessie clung to his rough old hand.
“God bless you, Joe! Oh, you have lifted such a weight from my heart! I don’t know how to thank you; but Joe, we’ll pay it all back to you! We will, if it takes the place to do it!”
Joe, freeing his hand from her clasp, rose to his feet—not stiffly, this time, but with a certain grave dignity. Motioning aside the coffee that I was bringing, he picked his ragged old hat up from the floor beside his chair, put it on, pulled it down over his eyes, and started for the door.
“’Fore Heaben! I wouldn’t ’a’ beliebed dat one ob Mas’r Ralph Gordon’s chillen gwine fur insult me like dis!” he muttered, huskily; “Talk ob payin’ me! Me, like I was a stranger, an’ didn’ belong to de fambly!”
“Wait!” cried Jessie, springing forward, as the old man laid a trembling hand on the door knob. “Wait, sit down, Joe, dear Joe, don’t desert us when we need you most! As for the money, God bless you for making sure of our home, for, of course, it’s your home, too, always, always! And I’ll never pay a cent of the money back; not if I use it all!”
“Yo’s gwine hab to use hit all, honey,” Joe returned, with a beaming face, as he resumed his seat. “Dere’s de fence buildin’ an’ breakin’ de new groun’, and de seedin’.”