“I propose a basket of grub for every nigger cabin in town!” Gaitskill proclaimed as he sat at the head of the table. “We have no poor whites in this village, but the negroes are always hungry.”
There was a unanimous murmur of assent.
Then Gaitskill laughed.
“By the way, what has happened to set all the coons to cleaning up? I’ve been too dang liberal with my benefactions—I’m short sixty-two barrels of lime!”
“Christmas is coming!” several voices murmured, and there were many nodding heads, and a broad grin passed around the table.
“Say, fellers,” Sheriff Flournoy grinned, rising to his feet and taking a newspaper from his pocket, “er—ah—I beg pardon, are we through with business?”
“Sure!” Gaitskill smiled. “We’re agreed that the niggers get the grub.”
“I started a little joke in town the other day,” Flournoy went on.
Then he explained about the article he had written, and read it aloud to them.
There was a whoop of laughter, after which one asked: