"Why, he didn't talk that way to me!"

"Natchelly, natchelly," agreed the old cavalryman, dryly.--"Henry has a
different way to talk to ever' man, Peter."

"In fact," proceeded Peter, "Mr. Hooker sold me the old Dillihay place
in lieu of the deal I missed with you."

Old Mr. Tomwit moved his quid in surprise.

"The hell he did!"

"That at least shows he doesn't think a negro school would ruin the
value of his land. He owns farms all around the Dillihay place."

Old Mr. Tomwit turned his quid over twice and spat thoughtfully.

"That your deed in your pocket?" With the air of a man certain of being
obeyed he held out his hand for the blue manuscript cover protruding
from the mulatto's pocket. Peter handed it over. The old gentleman
unfolded the deed, then moved it carefully to and from his eyes until
the typewriting was adjusted to his focus. He read it slowly, with a
movement of his lips and a drooling of tobacco-juice. Finally he
finished, remarked, "I be damned!" in a deliberate voice, returned the
deed, and proceeded across the street to the livery-stable, which was
fronted by an old mulberry-tree, with several chairs under it. In one of
these chairs he would sit for the remainder of the day, making an
occasional loud remark about the weather or the crops, and watching the
horses pass in and out of the stable.