“What’s aching now, Vinegar?” Gaitskill asked.
“Marse Tom, ’bout dat left-handed screw driver dat you sont me out to borrer dis mawnin’; de black-smif tole me dat he loant it to Sheriff Flournoy, an’ de sheriff tole me dat Doc Moseley done borrered it, an’ Doc Moseley tole me dat he had Hitch Diamond wuckin’ wid it because Hitch already had such a powerful lef’ hook, an’ I hunted up Hitch an’ Hitch tole me I wus a dam’ ole fool. Hitch specify dat dar ain’t no sech thing as a left-handed screw driver!”
Gaitskill began to cough violently and ran to the window for fresh air, where he could also conceal his face from Vinegar Atts by turning his back.
To Mr. Rouke that cough sounded like a smothered laugh, but he had no interest in a screw driver and concentrated his attention on the negro.
Gaitskill had almost recovered from his fake cough when he chanced to turn his head and see Mr. Rouke. That brilliant New Yorker was gazing at Vinegar Atts with a scrutiny so intense, so penetrating that it seemed to go beneath the negro’s skin and pierce to the very marrow of his bones; while Vinegar gazed back into the Irishman’s blue orbs with the vacuous solemnity of a horse. That started Gaitskill in another fit of coughing.
Finally Gaitskill said:
“I’m sorry I put you to so much trouble, Vinegar. Here’s a half dollar to pay you for your work.”
“Wus you prankin’ wid me, Marse Tom?” Vinegar asked, as he pocketed the silver.
“Oh, no,” Gaitskill grinned. “How could I know there was no such thing as a left-handed screw driver?”
“Dat’s so,” Vinegar agreed. “Nobody cain’t find out nothin’ ’thout axin’.”