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Old Mr. Tomwit moved his quid in surprise.

“The hell he did!”

“That at least shows he doesn't think a negro school would ruin the value of his land. He owns farms all around the Dillihay place.”

Old Mr. Tomwit turned his quid over twice and spat thoughtfully.

“That your deed in your pocket?” With the air of a man certain of being obeyed he held out his hand for the blue manuscript cover protruding from the mulatto's pocket. Peter handed it over. The old gentleman unfolded the deed, then moved it carefully to and from his eyes until the typewriting was adjusted to his focus. He read it slowly, with a movement of his lips and a drooling of tobacco-juice. Finally he finished, remarked, “I be damned!” in a deliberate ​voice, returned the deed, and proceeded across the street to the livery-stable, which was fronted by an old mulberry-tree, with several chairs under it. In one of these chairs he would sit for the remainder of the day, making an occasional loud remark about the weather or the crops, and watching the horses pass in and out of the stable.