Pap stopped. Keenly watching the tense lips and the white, angry face of Gaitskill, he saw that no nigger talk would placate the owner of the Niggerheel. He stood shuffling his feet in the dirt for a full minute before Gaitskill spoke.
“Now, Pap, I want you to get this: I have trouble every year to get hands to pick my cotton. The worthless niggers loaf on the banks of the bayou until winter catches them with nothing to eat, nothing to wear, and not a dollar. Then the white folks in Tickfall have to support them.”
“Yes, suh, dat’s a shore, certain fack——”
“Shut up, you crazy buck!” Gaitskill snarled. “When I talk—you listen. You are the worst idler and loafer in this town, and I tell you right now that you had better leave this town. Hear me? Pack up your rags right now and leave Tickfall, and don’t ever come back again. If you do I’ll have you arrested for vagrancy. Hurry now! Get out before night!”
“Oh, Lawdy, Marse Tom, I been livin’ in dis here town fer sixty year—I’s dug all de water-wells fer de livin’ an’ all de graves fer de dead—you an’ me is always got along peaceable ’thout no hard feelin’——”
“Go on off!” Gaitskill commanded in hoarse tones. “Hike!”
Gaitskill turned away, walked rapidly up the street, and stepped into his automobile. There was an explosive sound, a cloud of white smoke hid the rear wheels for a moment, then the big car swept into a side street, going toward the Niggerheel plantation.
“Lawdymussy!” Pap Curtain sighed, as he walked slowly down the street toward his cabin. “De kunnel done gimme my good-riddunce papers an’ axed me good-by!”
Pap sat down on the rickety porch of his cabin and gazed for a long time with unseeing vision straight before him. Half an hour passed, an hour, and still he looked into the thick branches of an umbrella china-tree without seeing it.