‚ÄúSykes‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJim Sykes‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs me.‚Äù
‚ÄúYes, I‚Äôve heard of you, Mr. ¬ÝSykes; you live over south of the swamp.‚Äù
“Yes, ma’am, that’s me; and I’se got a little shack dar and a bit of land what I’se trying to buy.”
“Of Colonel Cresswell?”
“Yas’m, of de Cunnel.”
“And how long have you been buying it?”
“Going on ten year now; and dat’s what I comes to ask you about.”
“Goodness me! And how much have you paid a year?”
“I gen’rally pays ’bout three bales of cotton a year.”
“Does he furnish you rations?”
“Only sugar and coffee and a little meat now and then.”
“What does it amount to a year?”
‚ÄúI doesn‚Äôt rightly know‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I‚Äôse got some papers here.‚Äù
Miss Smith looked them over and sighed. It was the same old tale of blind receipts for money ‚Äúon account‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîno items, no balancing. By his help she made out that last year his total bill at Cresswell‚Äôs store was perhaps forty dollars.
“An’ last year’s bill was bigger’n common ’cause I hurt my leg working at the gin and had to have some medicine.”