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“I—I won't trade,” he jibbered. “It—it wasn't my money. Here's your deed!” Peter was moving away. He felt a terrific impulse to run, but he walked.

The banker straightened abruptly. “Stop there, Peter!” he screeched.

At that moment Dawson Bobbs lounged in at the door, with his perpetual grin balling up his broad red face. He had a toothpick, in his mouth.

“'S matter?” he asked casually.

“Peter there,” said the banker, with a pale, sharp face, “doesn't want to stick to his trade. He is just walking off with one of my hundred- dollar bills.”

“Sick o' yo' deal, Peter?” inquired Bobbs, smiling and shifting the toothpick. He bit down on it. “Well, whut-chu want done, Henry?”

“Oh,” hesitated the cashier in a quandary, “nothing, I suppose. Siner was excited; you know how niggers ​are. We can't afford to send every nigger to the pen that breaks the law.” He stood studying Peter out of his close-set eyes. “Here's your deed, Peter.” He shoved it back under the grill. “And lemme give you a little friendly advice. I'd just run an ordinary nigger school if I was you. This higher education don't seem to make a nigger much smarter when he comes back than when he starts out.” A faint smile bracketed the thin nose.