Jessie laughed gleefully; it was evident that Joe had not told Mr. Wilson of his recent financial transaction. When Jessie told him, he got up—the colt had been tied at the gate and we were all within doors again, in spite of Mr. Wilson’s first entreaty to Jessie to “get right in”—crossed the room and held out his hand to the old negro.
“Shake, friend!” As Joe, rather reluctantly, I thought, for he was a shy old man, laid his black hand in Mr. Wilson’s clasp, the latter continued: “I reckon I know a man when I see one, be he white or black, and I tell you I’m proud to have the chance of shaking hands with you!”
Joe, furtively rubbing the hand that he had released—for, in his earnestness, Mr. Wilson had evidently given it a telling pressure—hung his head, and responded, sheepishly: “I reckons I’se be a whole Noah’s A’k full of animals ef dish yer sort ob t’ing gwine keep on. Miss Leslie, she done call me a angel, and now yo’ done says I’se a man. Kine o’ ha’d on a ole feller like me, hit is!”
Mr. Wilson laughed good-humoredly.
“You’re all right, Joe; we won’t talk about it. And now, how is Miss Jessie to get the money?”
“I’se gwine draw a check on de bank in Fa’hplay to cobber de whole ’posit,” returned Joe, with dignity; “I done axed the cashier ’bout hit, an’ he tole me w’at ter do. He gin me some papers w’at he called blanket checks, an’ tole me how to fill ’em out. I’se done been keepin’ ob ’em safe.” In proof of which statement Joe drew an old-fashioned leather wallet from an inner pocket of his ragged coat, undid the strap with which it was bound, and, opening it, carefully extracted therefrom two or three bits of paper, that a glance sufficed to show were blank checks on the First National Bank of Fairplay. While he was getting the checks out another paper, loosely folded and yellow with age, slipped from the wallet, falling to the hearth. As it fell there slid from its loose folds a soft curl of long, bright hair, of the exact hue of little Ralph’s. Stooping, Jessie picked up the shining tendril, pausing to twine it gently around her finger before tendering it to Joe.
“Ralph’s hair is a little darker, I believe, than it was when you cut this, Joe,” she remarked, going to the light for a nearer view.
“Dat ar’ cu’l didn’ grow on dis Ralph’s head, honey; I cut dat offen de head ob dat odder Ralph w’at’s a lyin’ in de grabeya’d, w’en he was littler dan dis one; an’ I’se ’done carried dat cu’l close to my heart fo’ upwa’ds ob fo’ty yeah,” responded Joe simply, as he took the bit of hair from Jessie’s finger, and carefully replaced it. “W’en I dies,” he continued, “I ain’ carin’ w’at sort ob a berryin’ I gets, ner w’at sort ob clo’se my ole body is wrapped up in, but I’d like fur to be suah dat dish yer bit o’ hair goes inter de groun’ wid me.”
He looked up at us, his beloved young master’s children, solemnly and questioningly, as though exacting a promise, which was given, though no words were spoken on either side. Eyes have a language of their own.