Mark Twain's Which Was the Dream by Mark Twain

Author:Mark Twain [Twain, Mark]
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER [XIV]

As the two benevolent conspirators stepped out into the black night and the driving snow and closed the door of the ice cream parlors behind them, a tall and stalwart man brushed by them with his slouch hat pulled down over his face. He stopped beyond the range of the show-window lights, the only ones now visible in the street, and waited until the pair had disappeared in the storm; then he returned, warily and with an eye out for passers-by, and knocked vigorously on the Templeton door—three sounding raps, and after a pause, two more—after which he slipped into the darkness again. There was no result for a minute or two, then one by one the parlor lights went out. All but one, which was behind the high screen which protected the delivery-wicket where the waiters did their traffic with the kitchen from public view. Being only a humble tallow candle its rays were effective in the sheltered corner only; they were not able to carry beyond the screen.

The skulker entered, now, and locked the door behind him. The darkness of the parlors did not trouble him; he went straight to the screen and behind it without colliding with the table. It could be guessed that he had made the trip before, in like circumstances. He found Templeton standing at ease behind the screen, but looking only indifferently glad, if even that much. The guest shook off a cloud of snow, tossed his hat on the floor, and seated himself. He proved to be a darkish mulatto.

“Whah’s yo’ servants?” he asked.

“Gone to bed.”

“How long?”

“Half an hour.”

“Well, den, set down.” Templeton did it. “I’ve come for de straight o’ de news de Fairfax niggers is talkin’ so much about. About Jawge Harrison a-comin’ into de property o’ dat ole uncle up to Memphis.” He got out a cob pipe, packed the remains of its charge home with his finger, and motioned for the candle; Templeton passed it to him, he got his light, and passed the candle back. The young white man looked humiliated, but made no comment. “Say—it’s so, ain’t it?”

“Yes, of course; there wasn’t any other heir, Jasper.”

“I hear say dey’s rafts o’ cash, besides de Ian’ en de niggers—mos’ fifty thousand. Is dat so, too?”

“Yes—forty-five.”

A gratified light flashed in the mulatto’s eye. Templeton noticed it, and said, with a timid attempt at his usual light manner—

“That seems to interest you. How?”

The light changed—changed to an unpleasant gleam; and a surly growl followed:

“I reckon it ain’t any o’ yo’ business.” After a cogitating silence of some moments, impressively broken by the booming of the storm-blast outside and the muffled slamming and banging of distant shutters, “Gimme a dram.”

Templeton provided rye whisky and a glass, and the guest tossed off four fingers neat. He smacked his lips and said—

“It’s warmin’ and good! Say—whah is she?”

“Up stairs—asleep.”

“Healthy? Sperits good?”

“Healthy?—yes. As to the rest, middling.”

Another pause. Then—

“You seen anybody dat’s been to de jail?”

“Yes, several.”

“How do ole marster take it?”

“Keeps his head up, they say.

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