"Heah, nigger, whut you gwine do?" A moment later he repeated to his
friend's back: "Look heah, nigger, I 'vise you ag'inst anything you's
gwine do, less'n you's ready to pass in you' checks!" As Peter strode on
he lifted his voice still higher: "Peter! Hey, Peter, I sho' 'vise you
'g'inst anything you's 'gwine do!"

A pulse throbbed in Siner's temples. The wrath of the cozened heated his
body. His clothes felt hot. As he strode up the trash-piled street, the
white merchants lolling in their doors began smiling. Presently a laugh
broke out at one end of the street and was caught up here and there. It
was the undying minstrel jest, the comedy of a black face. Dawson Bobbs
leaned against the wide brick entrance of the livery-stable, his red
face balled into shining convexities by a quizzical smile.

"Hey, Peter," he drawled, winking at old Mr. Tomwit, "been investin' in
real estate?" and broke into Homeric laughter.

As Peter passed on, the constable dropped casually in behind the brown
man and followed him up to the bank.

To Peter Siner the walk up to the bank was an emotional confusion. He
has a dim consciousness that voices said things to him along the way and
that there was laughter. All this was drowned by desperate thoughts and
futile plans to regain his lost money, flashing through his head. The
cashier would exchange the money for the deed; he would enter suit and
carry it to the Supreme Court; he would show the money had not been his,
he had had no right to buy; he would beg the cashier. His head seemed to
spin around and around.

He climbed the steps into the Planter's Bank and opened the screen-door.