Part 13 (1/2)

”Uh, huh,” replied the old man, settling himself back in his chair. ”I been preachin' dat t'ing wrong fu' mo' dan fo'ty yeahs. Dat's whut comes o' not bein' able to read de wo'd fu' yo'se'f.”

Buford had no sense of the pathetic or he could never have done what he did--sell to the old gentleman, on the strength of the knowledge he had imparted to him, a house and lot upon terms so easy that he might drowse along for a little time and then wake to find himself both homeless and penniless. This was the promoter's method, and for so long a time had it proved successful that he had now grown mildly affluent and had set up a buggy in which to drive about and see his numerous purchasers and tenants.

Buford was a suave little yellow fellow, with a manner that suggested the training of some old Southern butler father, or at least, an experience as a likely house-boy. He was polite, plausible, and more than all, resourceful. All of this he had been for years, but in all these years he had never so risen to the height of his own uniqueness as when he conceived and carried into execution the idea of the ”Buford Colonizing Company.”

Humanity has always been looking for an Eldorado, and, however mixed the metaphor may be, has been searching for a Moses to lead it thereto.

Behold, then, Jason Buford in the role of Moses. And equipped he was to carry off his part with the very best advantage, for though he might not bring water from the rock, he could come as near as any other man to getting blood from a turnip.

The beauty of the man's scheme was that no offering was too small to be accepted. Indeed, all was fish that came to his net.

Think of paying fifty cents down and knowing that some time in the dim future you would be the owner of property in the very heart of a great city where people would rush to buy. It was glowing enough to attract a people more worldly wise than were these late slaves. They simply fell into the scheme with all their souls; and off their half dollars, dollars, and larger sums, Mr. Buford waxed opulent. The land meanwhile did not materialise.

It was just at this time that Sister Jane Callender came upon the scene and made glad the heart of the new-fledged Moses. He had heard of Sister Jane before, and he had greeted her coming with a sparkling of eyes and a rubbing of hands that betokened a joy with a good financial basis.

The truth about the newcomer was that she had just about received her pension, or that due to her deceased husband, and she would therefore be rich, rich to the point where avarice would lie in wait for her.

Sis' Jane settled in Mr. Buford's bailiwick, joined the church he attended, and seemed only waiting with her dollars for the very call which he was destined to make. She was hardly settled in a little three-room cottage before he hastened to her side, kindly intent, or its counterfeit, beaming from his features. He found a weak-looking old lady propped in a great chair, while another stout and healthy-looking woman ministered to her wants or stewed about the house in order to be doing something.

”Ah, which--which is Sis' Jane Callender,” he asked, rubbing his hands for all the world like a clothing dealer over a good customer.

”Dat's Sis' Jane in de cheer,” said the animated one, pointing to her charge. ”She feelin' mighty po'ly dis evenin'. What might be yo' name?”

She was promptly told.

”Sis' Jane, hyeah one de good brothahs come to see you to offah his suvices if you need anything.”

”Thanky, brothah, charity,” said the weak voice, ”sit yo'se'f down. You set down, Aunt Dicey. Tain't no use a runnin' roun' waitin' on me. I ain't long fu' dis worl' nohow, mistah.”

”Buford is my name an' I came in to see if I could be of any a.s.sistance to you, a-fixin' up yo' mattahs er seein' to anything for you.”

”Hit's mighty kind o' you to come, dough I don' 'low I'll need much fixin' fu' now.”

”Oh, we hope you'll soon be better, Sistah Callender.”

”Nevah no mo', suh, 'til I reach the Kingdom.”

”Sis' Jane Callender, she have been mighty sick,” broke in Aunt Dicey Fairfax, ”but I reckon she gwine pull thoo', the Lawd willin'.”

”Amen,” said Mr. Buford.

”Huh, uh, children, I done hyeahd de was.h.i.+n' of de waters of Jerdon.”

”No, no, Sistah Callendah, we hope to see you well and happy in de injoyment of de pension dat I understan' de gov'ment is goin' to give you.”

”La, chile, I reckon de white folks gwine to git dat money. I ain't nevah gwine to live to 'ceive it. Des' aftah I been wo'kin' so long fu'

it, too.”

The small eyes of Mr. Buford glittered with anxiety and avarice. What, was this rich plum about to slip from his grasp, just as he was about to pluck it? It should not be. He leaned over the old lady with intense eagerness in his gaze.

”You must live to receive it,” he said, ”we need that money for the race. It must not go back to the white folks. Ain't you got n.o.body to leave it to?”