Fully satisfied at last, Porgy told the tale of the killing and the subsequent arrest of Peter.
When he had finished the recital, Archdale sat silent for a while. “The dirty hounds!” he said under his breath. Finally he turned wearily to Porgy, and explained slowly:
“Of course we can go to law about this; but it will take no end of time. There is an easier way. He must have someone, who is acceptable to the magistrate, to go his bond. Do you know a man by the name of Huysenberg, who keeps a corner-shop down by the West-end wharf?”
Porgy, listening intently, nodded.
Archdale handed him a bill. “Take this ten dollars to him, and tell him that you want him to go Peter’s bond. He hasn’t any money of his own, and his shop is in his wife’s name; but he has an arrangement with the magistrate that makes him entirely satisfactory.”
He handed Porgy a card with an address pencilled under a printed name. “You will find me here,” he said. “If Peter is not out in two days after you hand over the ten, let me know.” Then, with a brisk, but friendly “Good night,” he left the court.
§
There was great rejoicing in Catfish Row. Peter had returned. The ten dollar bill which Archdale had given Porgy had worked the miracle. Except for the fact that the old negro’s shoulders drooped, and his grip on actualities seemed weakened by his confinement, there was no evidence to show that he had been absent. He had gone to the horse-dealer, and had found his ancient beast still awaiting a purchaser. Another contract had been signed which had started him off again on the eternal weekly payment. The German had driven back with the furniture, which Peter had docilely purchased for the second time. Again “The Great Emancipator” had been hung in his accustomed place above the mantel. Now, each morning, the old wagon rattled out over the cobbles, with the usual number of small, ecstatic, black bodies pendant from its dilapidated superstructure.
“De buckra sho pots nigger figgered out tuh a cent!” said Peter philosophically, and even with a note of admiration in his voice. “Dem knows how much money wagon make in er week; an’ de horse man, de furniture man, an’ de lan’lo’d mek dey ’rangement’ accordin’. But I done lib long ’nough now tuh beat ’em all, ’cause money ain’t no use tuh a man attuh he done pass he prime, nohow.”
When the old man had settled firmly back into his nook, and had an opportunity to look about him, he noticed a change in Porgy.