“Got any wuck fer a strong, willin’ nigger, boss?”
Of course the negroes spoke not a word which would reveal the reason for this sudden increase in industry, and the white people could only observe the amazing results and wonder.
Nearly every lawn in Tickfall held a boy busy with tools, cutting the grass, raking the dead leaves, hoeing out the flower-beds, and mending the fences. White people accustomed to seeing a workman take ten minutes to chop down one weed, and half an hour to light his corn-cob pipe, now observed that all were working with feverish haste, and at the same time with the most minute care and exactness as if it were a religious observance of some sort.
“What ails all these coons in town?” Gaitskill laughed as he looked down the street and saw not a single dusky loafer.
“Christmas is coming!” Flournoy laughed. “Day after to-morrow is Christmas. Had you forgotten?”
“They must expect to draw a prize-package from the white Santa Clauses this year,” Gaitskill grinned. “Heretofore they’ve been jest as lazy before as after.”
At that moment Hitch Diamond came around the corner and stopped in front of the Gaitskill store.
“Marse Tom,” he said earnestly. “How much do a barrel of lime cost?”
“Not much,” Gaitskill said. “Want to whitewash something?”
“Yes, suh; dat is, some yuther niggers do. Us is got a notion to waste a lot of whitewash on our fences an’ cabins.”