face stood looking at Peter with rather a questioning but pleasant expression.
“Why, certainly, certainly.” He turned back to the swivel-chair at his desk, seated himself, and twisted about on Peter as he entered. Mr. Killibrew did not offer Peter a seat,—that would have been an infraction of Hooker's Bend custom,—but he sat leaning back, evidently making up his mind to refuse Peter credit, which he fancied the mulatto would ask for and yet do it pleasantly.
“I was wondering, Mr. Killibrew,” began Peter feeling his way along, “I was wondering if you would mind talking over a little matter with me. It's considered a delicate subject, I believe, but I thought a frank talk would help.”
During the natural pauses of Peter's explanation Mr. Killibrew kept up a genial series of nods and ejaculations.
“Certainly, Peter. I don't see why, Peter. I'm sure it will help, Peter.”
“I'd like to talk frankly about the relations of our two races in the South, in Hooker's Bend.”
The grocer stopped his running accompaniment of affirmations and looked steadfastly at Peter. Presently he seemed to solve some question and broke into a pleasant laugh.
“Now, Peter, if this is some political shenanigan, I must tell you I'm a Democrat. Besides that, I don't care a straw about politics. I vote, and that's all.”
