As to size—she is large, apparently solid, and would struggle severely with a 200 pound weight before she would acknowledge herself conquered. She was neatly attired, and, in fact, a most grateful air of cleanliness pervaded the entire establishment, and it was a refreshing contrast to most of the dens of the fairer-skinned witches heretofore encountered by the cash delegate.
The sable one entered into conversation, and a few minutes were passed in cheerful chat, in the course of which she thus referred to the scapegrace husband of one of her numerous daughters: “They think Anson is dead, but I can’t station him dead. I think he’s at sea somewhere, or in a foreign land, but I can’t station him dead. He might as well be under ground for all the good he is, for he is such a poor, mis’able, drinkin’ feller that he aint no use, but, after all, I can’t run him dead.”
At last, the object of the visit was mentioned, and, to the individual’s great surprise, Mrs. Grommer positively and peremptorily refused to give him the benefit of her prophetic powers.
She said: “It aint no use; I never does for gentlemen. I does sometimes for ladies, but I can’t do it for gentlemen.” Remonstrance and entreaty were alike useless; she was immovable. At last, she said she would call her “old man,” who could tell fortunes as well as she could, but she added, with a determined shake of the head: “He’ll do it, but he will charge you a dollar; and he wont do it under, neither.” When her hearer expressed his willingness to learn his future fate by the masculine medium, she addressed him thus: “You station there, in that chair, and I’ll send him.” The disappointed one “stationed” in the designated chair, and awaited the coming of the “old man.” He soon appeared and seated himself, ready to begin.
“Old Man” Grommer is a professor of the whitewashing branch of decorative art. He occasionally relaxes his noble mind from the arduous mental labor attendant upon the successful carrying on of his regular business, and condescends to earn an easy dollar by fortune-telling. He is a shrewd-looking old man, with a dash of white blood in his composition; his hair curls tightly all over his head, but is elaborated on each side of his face into a single hard-twisted ringlet; short crisped whiskers, streaked with grey, encircle his face, and an imperial completes his hirsute attractions; his cheeks and forehead are marked with the small-pox.
He was attired in a grey and striped dress, the peculiarity of which was that the coat and vest were bound with wide stripes of black velvet. He speaks with but little of the peculiar negro dialect, except when he forgets himself for an instant, and unguardedly relapses into the old habits, which he has evidently carefully endeavored to overcome. He looked at his visitor very sharply for a minute or two, while he pretended to be abstractedly shuffling the cards; and collecting his valuable thoughts, at last he remarked:
“I s’pose you want me to run the cards for you?” The reply was in the affirmative, and the colored prophet concentrated his mind and began. Slowly he dealt the cards, and spake as follows:
“You don’t believe in fortunes, my son—I see that. Must tell you what I see here—can’t help it—if I see it in the cards, must tell you. You’ve had great deal trouble, my son; more comin’. Can’t help it; mus’ tell you. I see trouble in de cards; I see razackly what it is.”
Here he suddenly stopped, and resuming his guarded manner, continued: “You’ve lost something, my son; something that you think a great deal of. Now I don’t like to tell about lost things; I’se ’fraid I’ll get myself into a snare; I’d rather not say nothing about it; fear I’ll get myself into trouble.” His auditor here gave him the most positive assurances that he should never be called into court to identify the thief of the missing article, and that he should be held free from all harm; whereupon he consented to impart the following information:
“Dis thing you lost is something that hangs up on a nail—something bright and round—you thinks a great deal of it, my son—when it went away it had on a bright guard—hasn’t got a bright guard on now; got a black guard—you see I knows all about de article, my son, and I can tell you razackly where de article is—but I’se rather not tell you ’bout it, my son; ’fraid I’ll run myself into a snare; dat’s the truth, my son, rather no say nothin’ ’bout de article.”