are. We can't afford to send every nigger to the pen that breaks the law.” He stood studying Peter out of his close-set eyes. “Here's your deed, Peter.” He shoved it back under the grill. “And lemme give you a little friendly advice. I'd just run an ordinary nigger school if I was you. This higher education don't seem to make a nigger much smarter when he comes back than when he starts out.” A faint smile bracketed the thin nose.
Dawson Bobbs roared with sudden appreciation, took the bill from Peter's fingers, and pushed it back under the grill.
The cashier picked up the money, casually. He considered a moment, then reached for a long envelop. As he did so, the incident with Peter evidently passed from his mind, for his hatchet face lighted up as with some inward illumination.
“Bobbs,” he said warmly, “that was a great sermon Brother Blackwater preached. It made me want to help according as the Lord has blessed me. Couldn't you spare five dollars, Bobbs, to go along with this?”
The constable tried to laugh and wriggle away, but the cashier's gimlet eyes kept boring him, and eventually he fished out a five-dollar bill and handed it in. Mr. Hooker placed the two bills in the envelop, sealed it, and handed it to the constable.
“Jest drop that in the post-office as you go down the street, Bobbs,” he directed in his high voice.
