“I ketch on!” Vinegar beamed. “You wants to make a trade. Well, suh, when Marse Tom wants me to git him some plantation hands, he pays me one dollar apiece per each nigger an’ one dollar per day extry fer knowin’ whar dey is at an’ how to argufy ’em loose from de yuther planters.”
“I’ll pay you two dollars for every negro I employ in the play and five dollars a week for wages. When I see the actors, I’ll arrange rates with them. Is that all right?”
“Yes, suh, dat shore sounds like free charity,” Vinegar agreed.
“What about a contract?” Rouke asked.
“A which?”
“A contract—a writing—write up the agreement!” Rouke explained.
“You means a obscribe!” Vinegar said. “Naw, suh, ’tain’t wuth writin’ up. Niggers don’t favor obscribes. Us gits in lawsuits wid de cotehouse when us scratches on paper. Ef you pays us eve’y day, us niggers will wuck. Ef de pay stops, restin’ time is done come.”
“Very good!” Rouke said, as he rose from his chair. “Go out now and get all the niggers who have ever acted in a show. Tell them to meet me here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. I’ll see you then. So long!”
He turned and walked back toward the village of Tickfall.
Vinegar watched him until he disappeared from view; then he said: