"I found a knife this mornin' in th' road," drawled Si, "an' I thought
maybe it was yourn."
Improved in mind by this divergence from the direct line of attack,
Alek stepped up easily to look at the knife. "No, seh," he said,
scanning it as it lay in Si's palm, while the cold steel-blue eyes of
the white man looked down into his stomach, "'tain't no knife er
mine." But he knew the knife. He knew it as if it had been his mother.
And at the same moment a spark flashed through his head and made wise
his understanding. He knew everything. "'Tain't much of er knife,
Mist' Bryant," he said, deprecatingly.
"'Tain't much of a knife, I know that," cried Si, in sudden heat, "but
I found it this mornin' in my watermelon-patch--hear?"
"Watahmellum-paitch?" yelled Alek, not astounded.
"Yes, in my watermelon-patch," sneered Si, "an' I think you know
something about it, too!"
"Me?" cried Alek. "Me?"
"Yes--you!" said Si, with icy ferocity. "Yes--you!" He had become
convinced that Alek was not in any way guilty, but he was certain that
the old man knew the owner of the knife, and so he pressed him at
first on criminal lines. "Alek, you might as well own up now. You've
been meddlin' with my watermelons!"
"Me?" cried Alek again. "Yah's _ma_ knife. I done cah'e it foh yeahs."
Bryant changed his ways. "Look here, Alek," he said, confidentially:
"I know you and you know me, and there ain't no use in any more
skirmishin'. _I_ know that _you_ know whose knife that is. Now whose
is it?"
This challenge was so formidable in character that Alek temporarily
quailed and began to stammer. "Er--now--Mist' Bryant--you--you--frien'
er mine--"
"I know I'm a friend of yours, but," said Bryant, inexorably, "who
owns this knife?"
Alek gathered unto himself some remnants of dignity and spoke with
reproach: "Mist' Bryant, dish yer knife ain' mine."
"No," said Bryant, "it ain't. But you know who it belongs to, an' I
want you to tell me--quick."
"Well, Mist' Bryant," answered Alek, scratching his wool, "I won't say
's I _do_ know who b'longs ter dish yer knife, an' I won't say 's I
_don't_."
Bryant again laughed his Yankee laugh, but this time there was little
humor in it. It was dangerous.
Alek, seeing that he had gotten himself into hot water by the fine
diplomacy of his last sentence, immediately began to flounder and
totally submerge himself. "No, Mist' Bryant," he repeated, "I won't
say 's I _do_ know who b'longs ter dish yer knife, an' I won't say 's
I _don't_." And he began to parrot this fatal sentence again and
again. It seemed wound about his tongue. He could not rid himself of
it. Its very power to make trouble for him seemed to originate the
mysterious Afric reason for its repetition.
"Is he a very close friend of yourn?" said Bryant, softly.
"F-frien'?" stuttered Alek. He appeared to weigh this question with
much care. "Well, seems like he _was_ er frien', an' then agin, it
seems like he--"
"It seems like he _wasn't_?" asked Bryant.
"Yes, seh, jest so, jest so," cried Alek. "Sometimes it seems like he
_wasn't_. Then agin--" He stopped for profound meditation.
The patience of the white man seemed inexhaustible. At length his low
and oily voice broke the stillness. "Oh, well, of course if he's a
friend of yourn, Alek! You know I wouldn't want to make no trouble for
a friend of yourn."
"Yes, seh," cried the negro at once. "He's er frien' er mine. He is
dat."
"Well, then, it seems as if about the only thing to do is for you to
tell me his name so's I can send him his knife, and that's all there
is to it."
Alek took off his hat, and in perplexity ran his hand over his wool.
He studied the ground. But several times he raised his eyes to take a
sly peep at the imperturbable visage of the white man. "Y--y--yes,
Mist' Bryant. ...I raikon dat's erbout all what kin be done. I gwine
tell you who b'longs ter dish yer knife."
"Of course," said the smooth Bryant, "it ain't a very nice thing to
have to do, but--"
"No, seh," cried Alek, brightly; "I'm gwine tell you, Mist' Bryant. I
gwine tell you erbout dat knife. Mist' Bryant," he asked, solemnly,
"does you know who b'longs ter dat knife?"
"No, I--"
"Well, I gwine tell. I gwine tell who, Mr Bryant--" The old man drew
himself to a stately pose and held forth his arm. "I gwine tell
who. Mist' Bryant, _dish yer knife b'longs ter Sam Jackson_!"
[Illustration: "THE OLD MAN DREW HIMSELF TO A STATELY POSE"]
Bryant was startled into indignation. "Who in hell is Sam Jackson?" he
growled.
"He's a nigger," said Alek, impressively, "and he wuks in er
lumber-yawd up yere in Hoswego."