to work. … And me: just you stand on that corner yonder a year from two days ago, and see.”
“I hope so. You deserve it, Deacon. And while I think about it—” I took the letter from my pocket. “Take this around to my room tomorrow and give it to Shreve. He’ll have something for you. But not till tomorrow, mind.”
He took the letter and examined it. “It’s sealed up.”
“Yes. And it’s written inside, Not good until tomorrow.”
“H’m,” he said. He looked at the envelope, his mouth pursed. “Something for me, you say?”
“Yes. A present I’m making you.”
He was looking at me now, the envelope white in his black hand, in the sun. His eyes were soft and irisless and brown, and suddenly I saw Roskus watching me from behind all his white-folks’ claptrap of uniforms and politics and Harvard manner, diffident, secret, inarticulate and sad. “You aint playing a joke on the old nigger, is you?”