“Then the charge is fifty cents, I suppose?” said I inexorably.
His former expression, a mingling of cupidity and hostility, returned, remained ten seconds, and vanished.
“Boss,” he said, “fifty cents is right; but I needs two dollars, suh; I’m obleeged to have two dollars. I ain’t demandin’ it now, suh; after I knows whar you’s from; I’m jus’ sayin’ that I has to have two dollars to-night, and business is mighty po’.”
Peace and confidence settled upon his heavy features. He had been luckier than he had hoped. Instead of having picked up a greenhorn, ignorant of rates, he had come upon an inheritance.
“You confounded old rascal,” I said, reaching down to my pocket, “you ought to be turned over to the police.”
For the first time I saw him smile. He knew; he knew; HE KNEW.
I gave him two one-dollar bills. As I handed them over I noticed that one of them had seen parlous times. Its upper right-hand corner was missing, and it had been torn through in the middle, but joined again. A strip of blue tissue paper, pasted over the split, preserved its negotiability.
Enough of the African bandit for the present: I left him happy, lifted the rope and opened the creaky gate.
The house, as I said, was a shell. A paint brush had not touched it in twenty years. I could not see why a
