“Yere dey is, Cunnel.” Simon said, and without pausing he mounted the steps and turned about, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind as to which side he considered himself aligned with. The deputation halted and milled a little, solemnly decorous.
“What’s this?” Miss Jenny asked. “That you, Uncle Bird?”
“Yessum, Miss Jenny.” One of the committee uncovered his grizzled wool and bowed. “How you gittin’ on?” The others shuffled their feet, and one by one they removed their hats. The leader clasped his across his chest like a Congressman being photographed.
“Here, Simon,” old Bayard demanded, “what’s this? What did you bring these niggers around here for?”
“Dey come fer dey money,” Simon explained.
“What?”
“Money?” Miss Jenny repeated with interest. “What money, Simon?”
“Dey come fer dat money you promised ’um,” Simon shouted.
“I told you I wasn’t going to pay that money,” old Bayard said. “Did Simon tell you I was going to pay it?” he demanded of the deputation.
“What money?” Miss Jenny repeated. “What are you talking about, Simon?” The leader of the committee was shaping his face for words, but Simon forestalled him.
“Why, Cunnel, you tole me yo’self to tell dem niggers you wuz gwine pay ’um.”
“I didn’t do any such thing,” old Bayard answered violently. “I told you that if they wanted to put you in jail, to go ahead and do it. That’s what I told you.”
“Why, Cunnel. You said it jes’ ez plain. You jes’ fergot erbout it. I kin prove it by Miss Jenny you tole me—”
“Not by me,” Miss Jenny interrupted. “This is the first I heard about it. Whose money is it, Simon?”
Simon gave her a pained, reproachful look. “He tole me to tell ’um he wuz gwine pay it.”
“I’m damned if I did,” old Bayard shouted. “I told you I wouldn’t pay a damn cent of it. And I told you that if you let ’em worry me about it, I’d skin you alive, sir.”
“I ain’t gwine let ’um worry you,” Simon answered, soothingly. “Dat’s whut I’m fixin’ now. You jes’ give ’um dey money, en me en you kin fix it up later.”
“I’ll be eternally damned if I will; if I let a lazy nigger that ain’t worth his keep—”
“But somebody got to pay ’um,” Simon pointed out patiently. “Ain’t dat right, Miss Jenny?”
“That’s right,” Miss Jenny agreed. “But I ain’t the one.”
“Yessuh, dey ain’t no argument dat somebody got to pay ’um. Ef somebody don’t quiet ’um down, dey’ll put me in de jail. And den whut’ll y’all do, widout nobody to keep dem hosses fed en clean, en to clean de house en wait on de table?
Co’se I don’t mine gwine to jail, even ef dem stone flo’s ain’t gwine do my mis’ry no good.” And he drew a long and affecting picture, of high, grail-like principles and of patient abnegation. Old Bayard slammed his feet to the floor.
“How much is it?”
The leader swelled within his Prince Albert. “Brudder Mo’,” he said, “will you read out de total emoluments owed to de pupposed Secon’ Baptis’ Church by de late Deacon Strother in his capacity ez treasurer of de church boa’d?”
Brother Moore created a mild disturbance in the rear of the group, emerging presently by the agency of sundry willing hands—a small, reluctant ebony negro in somber, overlarge black—where the parson majestically made room for him, contriving by some means to focus attention on him. He laid his hat on the ground at his feet and from the right-hand pocket of his coat he produced in order a red bandana handkerchief, a shoe-horn, a plug of chewing tobacco, and holding these in his free hand he delved again, with an expression of mildly conscientious alarm.
Then he replaced the objects, and from his left pocket he produced a pocket knife, a stick on which was wound a length of soiled twine, a short piece of leather strap attached to a rusty and apparently idle buckle, and lastly a greasy, dog-eared notebook. He crammed the other things back into his pocket, dropping the strap, which he stooped and recovered; then he and the parson held a brief whispered conversation. He opened the notebook and fumbled at the leaves, fumbled at them until the parson leaned over his shoulder and found the proper page and laid his finger on it.
“How much is it, reverend?” old Bayard asked impatiently.
“Brudder Mo’ will now read out de amount,” the parson intoned. Brother Moore looked at the page with his tranced gaze and mumbled something in a practically indistinguishable voice.
“What?” old Bayard demanded, cupping his ear.
“Make ’im talk out,” Simon said. “Can’t nobody tell whut he sayin’.”
“Louder,” the parson rumbled, with just a trace of impatience.
“Sixty-sevum dollars en fawty cents,” Brother Moore enunciated at last. Old Bayard slammed back in his chair and swore for a long minute while Simon watched him with covert anxiety. Then he rose and tramped up the veranda and into the house, still swearing. Simon sighed and relaxed. The deputation milled again, and Brother Moore faded briskly into the rear of it. The parson, however, still retained his former attitude of fateful and impressive profundity.
“What became of that money, Simon?” Miss Jenny asked curiously. “You had it, didn’t you?”
“Dat’s whut dey claims,” Simon answered.
“What did you do with it?”
“Hit’s all right,” Simon assured her. “I jes’ put it out, sort of.”
“I bet you did,” she agreed drily. “I bet it never even got cool while you had it. They deserve to lose it forever giving it to you in the first place. Who did you put it out to?”
“Oh, me en Cunnel done fix dat up,” Simon said easily, “long time ago.” Old Bayard tramped in the hall again and emerged, flapping a check in his hand.
“Here,” he commanded, and the parson approached the railing and took it and folded it away in his pocket. “And if you folks are fools enough to turn any more money over to him, don’t come to me for it, you hear?” He glared at the deputation a moment; then he glared at Simon. “And the next time you steal money and come to me to pay it back, I’m going to have you arrested and prosecute you myself. Get those niggers out of here.”
The deputation had already stirred with a concerted movement, but the parson halted them with a commanding hand. He faced Simon again. “Deacon Strother,” he said, “ez awdained minister of de late Fust Baptis’ Church, en recalled minister of de pupposed Secon’ Baptis’ Church, en chairman of dis committee, I hereby reinfests you wid yo’ fawmer capacities of deacon in de said pupposed Secon’ Baptis’ Church. Amen. Cunnel Sartoris and ma’am, good day.” Then he turned and herded his committee from the scene.
“Thank de Lawd, we got dat offen our mind,” Simon said, and he came and lowered himself to the top step, groaning pleasurably.
“And you remember what I said,” old Bayard warned him. “One more time, now—”
But Simon was craning his head in the direction the church board had taken. “Dar, now,” he said, “whut you reckon dey wants now?” For the committee had returned and it now peered diffidently around the corner of the house.
“Well?” old Bayard demanded. “What is it now?”
They were trying to thrust Brother Moore forward again, but he won, this time. At last the parson spoke.
“You fergot de fawty cents, white folks.”
“What?”
“He says, you lef’ out de ex try fawty cents,” Simon shouted. Old Bayard exploded; Miss Jenny clapped her hands to her ears and the committee rolled its eyes in fearsome admiration while he soared to magnificent heights, alighting finally on Simon.
“You give him that forty cents, and get ’em out of here,” old Bayard stormed. “And if you ever let ’em come back here again, I’ll take a horsewhip to the whole passel of you!”
“Lawd, Cunnel, I ain’t got no fawty cents, en you knows it. Can’t dey do widour dat, after gittin’ de balance of it?”
“Yes, you have, Simon,” Miss Jenny said. “You had a half a dollar left after I ordered those shoes for you last night.” Again Simon looked at her with pained astonishment.
“Give it to ’em,” old Bayard commanded. Slowly Simon reached into his pocket and produced a half dollar and turned it slowly in his palm.
“I mought need dis money, Cunnel,” he protested. “Seems like dey mought leave me dis.”
“Give ’em that money!” old Bayard thundered. “I reckon you can pay forty cents of it, at least.” Simon rose reluctantly, and the parson approached.
“Whar’s my dime change?” Simon demanded, nor would he surrender the coin until two nickels were in his hand. Then the committee departed.
“Now,” old Bayard said, “I want to know what you did with that money.”
“Well, suh,” Simon began readily, “it wuz like dis. I put dat money out.” Miss Jenny rose.
“My Lord, are you all going over that again?” And she left them. In her room, where she sat in a sunny window, she could still hear them—old Bayard’s stormy rage and Simon’s bland and plausible evasion, rising and falling on the drowsy Sabbath air.
There was a rose, a single remaining rose. Through the sad, dead days of late summer it had continued to bloom, and now though persimmons had long swung their miniature suns among the caterpillar-festooned branches, and gum and maple and hickory had flaunted two gold and scarlet weeks, and the grass, where grandfathers of grasshoppers squatted sluggishly like sullen octogenarians, had been penciled twice delicately with frost, and the sunny noons were scented with sassafras, it still bloomed-overripe now, and a little gallantly blowsy, like a fading burlesque star. Miss Jenny worked
