“No.”
“Ever hear an’body speak ’bout me?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then how the hell did you know it was me?”
§ 37 An Earnest Cry for Help
Our town—I mean the one where I was born—formerly abounded in characters. One of our local institutions twenty years ago was a black driver named Abe, but called Old Abe for short. Abe was popular with both races. He had one social shortcoming, though. About once in so often he would slip out on a dark night and acquire something of value without the formality of speaking to the owner about it. For awhile he escaped a penitentiary sentence.
But eventually he was caught with what the Grand Jury and the prosecuting attorney regarded as the goods, the said goods consisting of a stray calf. He was lodged in jail to await trial. His cell was in the upper tier. On the Sunday afternoon following his incarceration his wife, accompanied by five or six pickaninnies, came to pay him a visit. It was the first time she had seen him since his arrest.
On her way out she was halted by the deputy jailer, whose name was Grady.
“Dora,” he said, “have you hired a lawyer for Abe yet?”
“Naw, suh,” she said, “effen Abe was guilty, right away I’d git him a lawyer. But he p’intedly tells me he ain’t de leas’ bit guilty. So, of co’se, dat bein’ de case, he ain’t needin’ no lawyer to git him clear.”