“Thank ’e, suh,” Hitch murmured gratefully, removing the gold band and fitting it carefully upon his little finger where he admired it as a maiden admires her engagement ring. “I’s powerful sorry dar ain’t no lady folks in dis car to see me smoke dis. I ain’t never feel like I had enough money to ack liberal an’ buy real smokes.” “Ain’t you spek dat you got a wad to tote home from de city wid you?” Gaze inquired carelessly, as he tore a page from a newspaper and began idly to roll it tightly. “Shore!” Hitch chuckled. “I totes it in my behime hip-pocket next to my heart, whar unpious niggers totes dey gun. But most of dat is jes’ show money--’tain’t much, an’ I got it wropped up in a roll to make it look like a plenty. Fawty dollars is all whut is lef’ of my trip to de city--excusin’ de mem’ry of a dam’ good time, an’ dese clothes!” “Whar you gwine now?” Dinner asked as he fumbled with his paper. “I’s gittin’ off at Sawtown,” Hitch replied. “I been livin’ aroun’ in dis part of de worl’ all my life, an’ I ain’t never seed dat big saw-mill town yit. ’Tain’t been but ’bout fo’ year ago dat Sawtown started off--when dey sot dat big mill dar in de woods.” “I’s proud I met up wid you, Revun,” Dinner Gaze said. “I lives in Sawtown, an’ I’ll show you all de good p’ints in de place.” Hitch opened his mouth to deny that he was a preacher, but the negro’s natural love of the game of make-believe prevented him. His slow mind evolved the humor of the situation, and he bestowed a pious smile upon the man beside him. “Thank ’e, suh. I ain’t gwine let nothin’ git past me. I’s gwine to all de shows, an’ drink all de ice-water I kin git, an’ chaw peanuts, an’ git right in de middle of de cullud high life.” “Dat picayune way of seein’ Sawtown won’t git you nothin’,” Dinner Gaze grunted disgustedly. “Bust her wide open, Revun!” “How is dat did?” Hitch wanted to know. “I’ll show you!” Gaze told him. “Whut job does you wuck at in Sawtown?” Hitch asked. “I’m gittin’ ready to sot up a little nigger gamblin’-house in Sawtown now,” Dinner replied cautiously, after a moment’s hesitation. “Befo’ dat, I managed a string of nigger prize-fighters in N’Awleens.” Hitch raised his battered head like an old, scarred war-horse when he hears the bugle-call for charge. Then he remembered that Gaze thought he was talking to a clergyman. “Dat shore sounds familious to me,” Hitch laughed. “I used to be a prize-fighter my own se’f!” “Hear dat, now!” Dinner Gaze exclaimed. “I knowed you an’ me wus kinnery when I fust cotch you wid my eye. How come you left de great perfesh?” “A nigger put a chunk of lead in his glove an’ battered me clean acrost a wharf-boat,” Hitch narrated, drawing upon his imagination, and recalling an incident in the career of his friend, the Reverend Vinegar Atts. “Atter dat I felt a call to preach.” “Mebbe you could come back,” Gaze suggested.