“I’m glad you happened in just now, Vinegar,” Gaitskill said, changing the subject. “This gentleman sitting here is Mr. Shirley Rouke of New York City.”
“Glad to meet yo’ ’quaintance,” Vinegar mumbled.
Rouke rose and held out his hand.
Gaitskill watched Vinegar with a smile: a negro positively hates to shake hands with any white man who is not his personal friend.
Vinegar looked down at Rouke’s hand, then reached out and caught hold of it about as a man would handle the tail of a vicious rat.
“Glad to meet you,” Rouke murmured, to whom this comedy was hidden.
“Yes, suh, dat’s right, suh!” Vinegar responded.
“Vinegar Atts is a preacher, Mr. Rouke,” Gaitskill remarked. “He is the leader of the negro race in Tickfall. I suggest that you talk over your plans with him and engage him to help you.”
“Thanks, Colonel,” Rouke said. “And now, not to detain you longer from your business, I’ll take a walk with Atts and we’ll have a talk.”
“My automobile is at your service,” Gaitskill said, as he shook hands. “I’ll be glad to help you in any way. Make yourself at home in this office.”