“Lawd!” he mourned. “Dey got me dis time!”
The north-bound express whistled for the station. The agent ran out, flagged it, and the deputy helped Pap climb on. Pap had suddenly become an old and feeble man, broken, hopeless, forsaken, shamed, dreading above everything his return trip to Tickfall.
The deputy led him to a seat in the smoking car and offered him a cigar. Pap gazed at him as if he did not understand, then took the cigar and looked at it as if he did not know what it was. All the light had gone out of his eyes, and his face looked like a scarred and wrinkled shell.
Detraining at Tickfall, the deputy waited for Pap to get ahead of him. Pap, noticing his gesture, muttered in a far-away voice, as in a dream:
“Comin’, white folks! I’s right at yo’ hip!”
When Gaitskill, in response to a knock, opened the door of the Tickfall National Bank to admit them, he greeted the deputy in his strong, cordial voice, conducted the two back to his private office, and seated the sheriff and his prisoner in two comfortable chairs.
“You brought him safe back, Sheriff,” Gaitskill smiled cordially, as he seated himself. “Take a cigar. Take two—here! Hold your pocket open!”
He grabbed a handful of the cigars, slipped them carefully into the deputy’s pocket, and sat down again.
Pap Curtain watched them like a trapped wolf, breathing in deep, audible gasps like a man choking.
Gaitskill’s face was genial and humorous, his fine eyes twinkled, and he beamed upon Pap Curtain with a smile as cordial as sunshine.