stared at him through yellow eyes.
“Nice doggie,” Uncle Bud said through the wire gate.
The dog didn’t blink.
A shabbily dressed, unshaven white man came from the office and led the dog away and chained it up. Then he returned and said, “All right, Uncle Bud, what you got there?”
Uncle Bud looked at the white man through the corners of his eyes. “A bale of cotton, Mr Goodman.”
Mr Goodman was startled. “A bale of cotton?”
“Yassuh,” Uncle Bud said proudly as he uncovered the bale. “Genuwine Mississippi cotton.”
Mr Goodman unlocked the gate and came outside to look at it. Most of the cotton was obscured by the burlap covering. But he pulled out a few shreds from the seams and smelled it. “How do you know it’s
Mississippi
cotton?”
“I’d know Mississippi cotton anywhere I seed it,” Uncle Bud stated flatly. “Much as I has picked.”
“Ain’t much of this to be seen,” Mr Goodman observed.
“I can smell it,” Uncle Bud said. “It smell like nigger-sweat.”
Mr Goodman sniffed at the cotton again. “Anything special about that?”
“Yassuh, makes it stronger.”
Two colored workmen in overalls came up. “Cotton!” one exclaimed. “Lord, lord.”
“Makes you homesick, don’t it?” the other one said.
“Homesick for your mama,” the first one said, looking at him sidewise.
“Watch out, man, I don’t play the dozzens,” the second one said.
Mr Goodman knew they were just kidding. “All right, get it onthe scales,” he ordered.
The bale weighed four hundred and eighty-seven pounds.
“I’ll give you five dollars for it,” Mr Goodman said.
“Five bones!” Uncle Bud exclaimed indignantly. “Why, dis cotton is worth thirty-nine cents a pound.”
“You’re thinking about the First World War,” Mr Goodman said. “Nowadays they’re giving cotton away.”
The two workmen exchanged glances silently.
“I ain’t giving dis away,” Uncle Bud said.
“Where can I sell a bale of cotton?” Mr Goodman said. “Who wants unprocessed cotton? Not even good for bullets no more. Nowadays they shoot atoms. It ain’t like as if it was drugstore cotton.”
Uncle Bud was silent.
“All right, ten dollars then,” Mr Goodman said.
“Fifty dollars,” Uncle Bud countered.
“
Mein Gott
, he wants fifty dollars yet!” Mr Goodman appealed to his colored workmen. “That’s more than I’d pay for brass.”
The colored workmen stood with their hands in their pockets, blank-faced and silent. Uncle Bud kept a stubborn silence. All three colored men were against Mr Goodman. He felt trapped and guilty, as though he’d been caught taking advantage of Uncle Bud.
“Since it’s you, I’ll give you fifteen dollars.”
“Forty,” Uncle Bud muttered.
Mr Goodman gestured eloquently. “What am I, your father, to give you money for nothing?” the three colored men stared at him accusingly. “You think I am Abraham Lincoln instead of Abraham Goodman?” The colored men didn’t think he was funny. “Twenty,” Mr Goodman said desperately and turned towards the office.
“Thirty,” Uncle Bud said.
The colored workmen shifted the bale of cotton as though asking whether to take it in or put it back.
“Twenty-five,” Mr Goodman said angrily. “And I should have my head examined.”
“Sold,” Uncle Bud said.
About that time the Colonel had finished his interview with Barry and was having his breakfast. It had been sent from a “home-cooking” restaurant down the street. The Colonel seemed to be demonstrating to the colored people outside, many of whom were now peeking through the cracks between the posters covering most of the window, what they could be eating for breakfast ifthey signed up with him and went back south.
He had a bowl of grits, swimming with butter; four fried eggs sunny side up; six fried home-made sausages; six down-home biscuits, each an inch thick, with big slabs of butter stuck between the halves; and a pitcher of sorghum molasses.
“Nice doggie,” Uncle Bud said through the wire gate.
The dog didn’t blink.
A shabbily dressed, unshaven white man came from the office and led the dog away and chained it up. Then he returned and said, “All right, Uncle Bud, what you got there?”
Uncle Bud looked at the white man through the corners of his eyes. “A bale of cotton, Mr Goodman.”
Mr Goodman was startled. “A bale of cotton?”
“Yassuh,” Uncle Bud said proudly as he uncovered the bale. “Genuwine Mississippi cotton.”
Mr Goodman unlocked the gate and came outside to look at it. Most of the cotton was obscured by the burlap covering. But he pulled out a few shreds from the seams and smelled it. “How do you know it’s
Mississippi
cotton?”
“I’d know Mississippi cotton anywhere I seed it,” Uncle Bud stated flatly. “Much as I has picked.”
“Ain’t much of this to be seen,” Mr Goodman observed.
“I can smell it,” Uncle Bud said. “It smell like nigger-sweat.”
Mr Goodman sniffed at the cotton again. “Anything special about that?”
“Yassuh, makes it stronger.”
Two colored workmen in overalls came up. “Cotton!” one exclaimed. “Lord, lord.”
“Makes you homesick, don’t it?” the other one said.
“Homesick for your mama,” the first one said, looking at him sidewise.
“Watch out, man, I don’t play the dozzens,” the second one said.
Mr Goodman knew they were just kidding. “All right, get it onthe scales,” he ordered.
The bale weighed four hundred and eighty-seven pounds.
“I’ll give you five dollars for it,” Mr Goodman said.
“Five bones!” Uncle Bud exclaimed indignantly. “Why, dis cotton is worth thirty-nine cents a pound.”
“You’re thinking about the First World War,” Mr Goodman said. “Nowadays they’re giving cotton away.”
The two workmen exchanged glances silently.
“I ain’t giving dis away,” Uncle Bud said.
“Where can I sell a bale of cotton?” Mr Goodman said. “Who wants unprocessed cotton? Not even good for bullets no more. Nowadays they shoot atoms. It ain’t like as if it was drugstore cotton.”
Uncle Bud was silent.
“All right, ten dollars then,” Mr Goodman said.
“Fifty dollars,” Uncle Bud countered.
“
Mein Gott
, he wants fifty dollars yet!” Mr Goodman appealed to his colored workmen. “That’s more than I’d pay for brass.”
The colored workmen stood with their hands in their pockets, blank-faced and silent. Uncle Bud kept a stubborn silence. All three colored men were against Mr Goodman. He felt trapped and guilty, as though he’d been caught taking advantage of Uncle Bud.
“Since it’s you, I’ll give you fifteen dollars.”
“Forty,” Uncle Bud muttered.
Mr Goodman gestured eloquently. “What am I, your father, to give you money for nothing?” the three colored men stared at him accusingly. “You think I am Abraham Lincoln instead of Abraham Goodman?” The colored men didn’t think he was funny. “Twenty,” Mr Goodman said desperately and turned towards the office.
“Thirty,” Uncle Bud said.
The colored workmen shifted the bale of cotton as though asking whether to take it in or put it back.
“Twenty-five,” Mr Goodman said angrily. “And I should have my head examined.”
“Sold,” Uncle Bud said.
About that time the Colonel had finished his interview with Barry and was having his breakfast. It had been sent from a “home-cooking” restaurant down the street. The Colonel seemed to be demonstrating to the colored people outside, many of whom were now peeking through the cracks between the posters covering most of the window, what they could be eating for breakfast ifthey signed up with him and went back south.
He had a bowl of grits, swimming with butter; four fried eggs sunny side up; six fried home-made sausages; six down-home biscuits, each an inch thick, with big slabs of butter stuck between the halves; and a pitcher of sorghum molasses.
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