“Mascottin’,” answered the old man gravely. “Ah be’n mascottin’ fo’ er prize fighteh. Terry, de Cricket, is whut he called himse’f, en Ah won a fight fo’ him in Denvah, en another in Kansas City; but in New Yawk Terry, de Cricket, done ’spected me tuh do all de wo’k, en he went down wif er chirp, en dey counted ten on him. Ah couldn’t help dat, but Terry he ’low Ah was losin’ mah mascottin’ ability, en he turned me loose. Topsy done got er job in er house in Hempstead, en Ah picked up dis place at de Country Club. But Ah doan’ like hit, marse. Ah’s er ole man, en hit’s backachin’ wo’k. Yo’ needs er mascot bad, en now’s de time tuh take me on.”
Uncle Tom was a humorous old rascal, and professed to believe that he possessed mystical powers as a luck bringer. He declared that he had helped Matt, and Matt humored him by letting him think so, giving him a few dollars now and then to help him keep body and soul together.
“I’m not in shape just now, Uncle Tom,” said Matt, “to hire a private mascot of your abilities. You see, I’m mixed up in a bit of trouble that I’ve got to work through alone.”
“Bymby, Marse Matt, mebby yo’ all can make er place fo’ Uncle Tom?” pleaded the negro. “Jess remembah whut Ah’s done fo’ yo’ in de past. Ah nevah mascotted fo’ anybody dat Ah liked so well as yo’se’f. Dat’s right. Has yo’ got a dollah yo’ can let go of wifout material damage to yo’ own welfare?”
Matt extracted a five-dollar bill from his pocket and pushed it into the negro’s yellow palm. Uncle Tom’s gratitude was so intense it was almost morbid.
“Yo’s de fines’ fellah dat evah was,” he declared, grabbing Matt’s hand and hanging to it. “Dat’s de trufe. Ah’d raddah wo’k fo’ you fo’ nuffin dan fo’ some odders fo’ er millyun dollahs er day. Dat’s right. Yo’s de same ole Marse Matt, en yo’——”
“I haven’t much time to talk, Uncle Tom,” interrupted Matt. “When I left the clubhouse I had to drop from a second-story window. I made it all right, but I left a friend behind. My friend’s name is Joe McGlory. Do you think you could get word to him?”
“Shuah Ah can!” replied the old negro promptly. “What kin’ ob a lookin’ fellah is dat ’ar Joe McGlory?”
Matt described his chum’s appearance, and the darky listened closely.
“Find out,” Matt finished, “whether McGlory is still upstairs in the clubhouse. If he is I don’t suppose you can communicate with him, for you will have to do it privately. Providing you can get word to him, tell him to meet me in the grove at the roadside, a quarter of a mile north of the clubhouse. Got that?”