He was glad he'd come, although he didn't like the look in John Brown's eyes while he spoke. Their fierce light seemed to bore through him and hurt. Now that he was seated and his eyes half closed, uplifted toward the ceiling, he wasn't so formidable. He rather liked him sitting down.
The ushers poured the money on the table and counted it. Sam had not seen so much money together since he piled his five hundred dollars in gold in a stack and looked at it. He watched the count with fascination. There must be a thousand at least.
He was shocked when the head usher leaned over the edge of the platform, and whispered to Smith the total.
"Eighty-five dollars."
Sam glanced sadly at the two rows of negroes in front. There wouldn't be much for each. He took courage in the thought, however, that some of them were well-to-do and wouldn't ask their share. He was sure of this because he had seen three or four put something in the baskets.
Gerrit Smith announced the amount of the collection with some embarrassment and heartily added:
"My check for a hundred and fifteen dollars makes the sum an even two hundred."
That was something worth while. Smith and Brown held a conference about the announcement of another meeting as Sam whispered to the head usher:
"Could ye des gimme mine now an' lemme go?"
"Yours?"