Part 28 (1/2)

The shade of the lonely spreading oak before the front porch was attractive. He sat down upon some cus.h.i.+oning chigger-weed. The July afternoon wore on; he slept.

He woke at the sound of feet sending the gravel flying. A white man approached.

”Hey, n.i.g.g.e.r, what you doing there?”

He got to his feet, his hat off. ”Ah'm lookin' for Joneses' Hill, suh.

Done los' mah way.”

”I reckon you have! Jones' Hill is in West Adamsville, six miles from here. Live there?”

”Aimin' to.”

”Where do you live now?”

”Ah jus' come to town, suh. Ain't picked out mah house yit.”

Nathaniel Guild considered him. Looked like a respectable negro. ”You married?”

”Yes, suh. Me 'n' mah ole 'ooman got five chillun, fo' boys an' one girl.”

The white man looked abstractedly into his face. ”I'm looking for a tenant for this house--someone who can keep an eye on the place, and do a little day work now and then.”

There now! Tom had never doubted for a moment that the Lord would provide. His tone was persuasively eager. ”Lawdy, boss, Ah's jes' de man you's lookin' for! Ah does all kin's of wu'k, an' mah ole 'ooman is sho'

a powerful cook.”

”I'll tell you what I'll do. You can come in, for three dollars a month rent. The house can be fixed up, and I'll see that you get more than enough work to pay it off. We may have work for you every day soon. If your wife's a good cook, Tom, you send her over to that new house you see yonder, to Mr. Judson; say Mr. Guild sent you.” He walked back through the gate. ”There's an excellent spring just at the bottom here; and if you can find any garden truck behind the house, you're welcome to it. There are some tomatoes, I know, and some turnips. If you want some seeds, Mr. Judson will let you have them.... Oh, by the way, here's your key.”

When these suggestions had become realities, Stella was vehement in her praise of the Judson place. ”Dat Miss' Mary, now, she's a sho' 'nuff lady! She order me 'roun' jes' lak Miss' Land useter. Dis is one gran'

place, Tom.”

The children scattered over the mountain, like the hedge rabbits they soon became acquainted with, and grew st.u.r.dy and strong from the pioneering. Old Tom learned the countryside, and particularly the negro settlement two miles back through the trees. Lilydale had a thriving Baptist Church, the First Zion, which competed vigorously for converts with the Nebo Methodist congregation, two hilly blocks away. Tom soon became an elder, and on the loss of the pastor, who was indicted as a murder suspect, the Georgia preacher naturally succeeded to his place.

On weekdays Tom found himself in daily demand, as Hillcrest Subdivision expanded and developed. Even Ed, the oldest of his boys, found work for his strong sixteen-year muscles in the road-making. Jim and Will went to the city school, while Diana tended Babe, to let Stella cook for the Judsons.

Tom's keen instinct soon located the isolated hen roosts in the valley, and the more unprotected ones at the foot of the mountain. Surely the Lord's anointed deserved chicken.

With the knowledge that a chicken dinner awaited him on his return, his Sunday sermons gained unction and elegance. He was regarded as the most powerful disputer in this section of the valley, and his exhortations always secured a big turnout for the baptizing in Shadow Creek.

He felt welded to the mountain. He was caretaker of the whole estate, and lord of his half of it. He felt superior to the mere Lilydale negroes, even those who owned their own homes; it was more to be good enough to live near Mister Judson. As for the Adamsville negroes, his scorn for them boiled over weekly in his sermon. ”Them c.r.a.p-shootin', rum-soppin' Scratch-Ankle nigguhs----” The self-righteous congregation s.h.i.+vered delightedly as he pictured the sure h.e.l.l-fire for the modern ”Sodom-'n'-Gomorry.”

Life had evidently provided a firm and pleasant routine for this wandering apostle of the Lord.

XVI

Tom Cole s.h.i.+fted his left leg from its cramped under position, replacing it over the right. He was careful not to let his heel sc.r.a.pe the s.h.i.+ny painted floor of the outer office of the Snell-Judson Real Estate and Development Company; white folks were particular about scratches. He had been waiting since eight-thirty for Mr. Judson to come in from the mountain; it was now after ten. It wasn't his fault if Mr. Judson was late. He hadn't done anything to deserve what Mr. Judson had said a week ago come next Friday, that waiting was the best thing he did.

He considered a patch once neatly covering the left knee with owlish deliberation. ”My ole 'ooman's a powerful patcher,” he told Peter, the gap watchman, when the mend was new. ”Say she gonter patch mah britches wid shoe leather, she do.”

That was a long time ago; the patch had bulged out on one side, and torn loose. He picked carefully at the frayed gap, widening it. Maybe Mr.