“No, Ca'line Siner owes me a five-dollar doctor's bill already. Our county medical association made a rule that no niggers should—”
With a drying mouth, Peter Siner stared at the man of medicine.
“But, my God, Doctor,” gasped the son, “I'll pay you—”
“Have you got the money there in your pocket?” asked Jallup, impassively.
A sort of chill traveled deliberately over Peter's body and shook his voice.
“N-no, but I can get it—”
“Yes, you can all get it,” stated the physician in dull irritation. “I'm tired of you niggers running up doctors' bills nobody can collect. You never have more than the law allows; your wages never get big enough to garnishee.” His voice grew querulous as he related his wrongs. “No, I'm not going to see Ca'line Siner. If she wants me to visit her, let her send ten dollars to cover that and back debts, and I'll—” The end of his sentence was lost in the closing of his door. The light he carried declined from a beam to a twinkling here and there, and then vanished in blackness. Dr. Jallup's house became dead again. The little porch light in its glass box might have been a candle burning before a tomb.
Peter Siner stood at the fence, licking his dry lips, with nerves vibrating like a struck bell. He pushed himself slowly away from the top plank and found his
