“Did you get results?”
“No,” Flournoy said disgustedly. “I ought not to have started it with old Isaiah Gaitskill—he’s about half-witted.”
“By George!” Gaitskill exclaimed, springing to his feet. “That accounts for all this cleaning up and whitewash—the niggers are expecting an epidemic of disease and are getting ready to die!”
Perfect silence greeted this announcement as its full significance dawned upon each man. Then Dr. Moseley, the parish health officer, spoke earnestly:
“Gentlemen, let us not say one word to the contrary. Let the darkies clean up and keep clean!”
“I have done good by stealth and blush to find it fame!” Flournoy interrupted mockingly.
“It means health, gentlemen,” Dr. Moseley declared. “Health and long life to us all—er—by the way, I propose that as a toast right now!”
For nearly forty years Gaitskill had held this meeting in the rear of his bank on every Christmas Eve. The men were familiar with his custom, and the physician’s suggestion met with instant response.
Gaitskill rose, unlocked his desk, pushed back the top, and the men gazed with lively anticipation upon the glasses and decanters there concealed.
“Hitch!” Gaitskill called. “Oh, Hitch Diamond! Come here!”