“Yep.”
“All right. You understand this piece of news is not for general circulation.”
Folding and pocketing the three copies, Flournoy walked slowly back toward his office in the courthouse.
Sitting on a stone step in front of the court house, trusting the December sun to limber up his rheumatic muscles, was old Isaiah Gaitskill. Motionless as a stone idol, his battered wool hat in his clawlike hand, toothless, his face wrinkled like the withered hull of a walnut, his snow-white wool fitting his head like a rubber cap, he made a characteristic picture of the South.
“Have you seen a copy of the Tickfall Whoop this morning, Isaiah?” Flournoy asked.
“Naw, suh. I lef’ my specks to home, an’ so I didn’t git no paper,” Isaiah answered easily.
“Here’s one of ’em,” Flournoy grinned, taking it from his pocket. “You better look it over—there’s something about you in it.”
“How’s dat, boss?” Isaiah asked quickly. “Who knowed my name so good dat he writ’ me in de paper?”
“Your name isn’t mentioned,” Flournoy smiled. “It just speaks of the colored folks in general. Shall I read the article to you?”
“Yes, suh, ef you please, suh,” Isaiah answered eagerly. “I hadn’t oughter lef’ my readin’ specks at de hawg-camp. My Lawd, how come all de niggers got spoke about in de white folks’ paper?”