cold weather. Gotta have this fur on me to keep the chill away."
The colored man had several chunks of firewood tucked under his arm and he moved slowly across the room and put the wood in a small old-fashioned furnace that had a crooked handmade outlet going up through the ceiling. For some moments the colored man was busy with the furnace and then he closed the lid and walked to the three-legged stool and sat down. He had his back to Whitey and all he did was sit there, not moving, not saying anything.
It went on like that for the better part of a minute. There was a certain deliberateness in the way the colored man sat there motionless with his back to the man in the cot. It was as though the colored man were experimenting with the man in the cot, waiting to see what the man would do while he had his back turned.
Whitey caught the drift of it. "You don't hafta test me," he said. "I'm straight."
"Yiz?" the colored man said. He still had his back turned. "How do I know?"
"You musta thought so, or you wouldn't have brought me in here."
"I brought you in cause you were out there freezing. You were half froze when I dragged you in. Just as stiff as a carrot in an icebox."
Whitey didn't say anything. He was thinking about the colored man's accent. There was some South in it, but not much. It was mostly New England. Some of the words were clipped and the edges polished and it was like the highly cultured voice of someone on a lecture platform. Other words were spoken in the nasal twang of a Vermont farm hand. Then at longer spaced intervals there'd be a word or two from way down deep in Mississippi. It was as though the colored man weren't quite sure where he'd come from. Or maybe he was continually reminding himself of all the places he'd seen, all the accents he'd heard. Whitey had the feeling that the colored man was very old and had been to a lot of places.
"I hadda go out to use the toilet," the colored man said. "I saw you out there flat on the ground and I didn't like that, I didn't like that at all."
"Did it scare you?" Whitey said.
"No," the colored man said. "I never get scared." He was quiet for a long moment. And then, very slowly, "But sometimes I get curious."
Whitey waited for the colored man to turn on the stool and face him. The colored man didn't move from his position facing the table.
"You wanna leave now?" the colored man said.
"I'd like to stay here for a while. That is, if you'll let me."
"I'm thinking about it," the colored man said. There was another long pause. And then, again very slowly, "You wanna help me decide?"
"If I can."
"I guess you can." The colored man turned on the stool and looked at Whitey and said, "All you gotta do is tell me the truth."
"All right '
"You sure it's all right? You sure it won't hurt you to tell the truth?"
"It might," Whitey said.
"But you're willing to take a chance!"
Whitey shrugged. "I got no choice."
"That ain't the way I see it. I'm prone to think you might try to bluff me."
"No, I wouldn't do that."
"You mean you couldn't do that." The colored man took off his rimless spectacles and leaned forward just a little, his eyes glinting bright yellow, like topaz. There was a certain see-all, know-all power coming from the topaz eyes and shooting into Whitey's head. And the colored man said, "I want you to know it in front. No use trying to bluff me. Ain't a living ass in this world can bluff Jones Jarvis."
Whitey nodded in agreement. It was a slow nod and he meant it. He had the feeling that the colored man was not bragging or exaggerating, but merely stating a fact.
"Jones Jarvis," the colored man said. "Once when I had a phone they'd get it wrong in the book and list me under Jones. Did that year after year and finally I got tired telling them to change it. Got rid of the phone. Man has a right to have his name printed correct. It's Jones first and then Jarvis. The name is Jones Jarvis."
"Jones Jarvis," Whitey said.
"That's right. That's absolutely correct. I like
The colored man had several chunks of firewood tucked under his arm and he moved slowly across the room and put the wood in a small old-fashioned furnace that had a crooked handmade outlet going up through the ceiling. For some moments the colored man was busy with the furnace and then he closed the lid and walked to the three-legged stool and sat down. He had his back to Whitey and all he did was sit there, not moving, not saying anything.
It went on like that for the better part of a minute. There was a certain deliberateness in the way the colored man sat there motionless with his back to the man in the cot. It was as though the colored man were experimenting with the man in the cot, waiting to see what the man would do while he had his back turned.
Whitey caught the drift of it. "You don't hafta test me," he said. "I'm straight."
"Yiz?" the colored man said. He still had his back turned. "How do I know?"
"You musta thought so, or you wouldn't have brought me in here."
"I brought you in cause you were out there freezing. You were half froze when I dragged you in. Just as stiff as a carrot in an icebox."
Whitey didn't say anything. He was thinking about the colored man's accent. There was some South in it, but not much. It was mostly New England. Some of the words were clipped and the edges polished and it was like the highly cultured voice of someone on a lecture platform. Other words were spoken in the nasal twang of a Vermont farm hand. Then at longer spaced intervals there'd be a word or two from way down deep in Mississippi. It was as though the colored man weren't quite sure where he'd come from. Or maybe he was continually reminding himself of all the places he'd seen, all the accents he'd heard. Whitey had the feeling that the colored man was very old and had been to a lot of places.
"I hadda go out to use the toilet," the colored man said. "I saw you out there flat on the ground and I didn't like that, I didn't like that at all."
"Did it scare you?" Whitey said.
"No," the colored man said. "I never get scared." He was quiet for a long moment. And then, very slowly, "But sometimes I get curious."
Whitey waited for the colored man to turn on the stool and face him. The colored man didn't move from his position facing the table.
"You wanna leave now?" the colored man said.
"I'd like to stay here for a while. That is, if you'll let me."
"I'm thinking about it," the colored man said. There was another long pause. And then, again very slowly, "You wanna help me decide?"
"If I can."
"I guess you can." The colored man turned on the stool and looked at Whitey and said, "All you gotta do is tell me the truth."
"All right '
"You sure it's all right? You sure it won't hurt you to tell the truth?"
"It might," Whitey said.
"But you're willing to take a chance!"
Whitey shrugged. "I got no choice."
"That ain't the way I see it. I'm prone to think you might try to bluff me."
"No, I wouldn't do that."
"You mean you couldn't do that." The colored man took off his rimless spectacles and leaned forward just a little, his eyes glinting bright yellow, like topaz. There was a certain see-all, know-all power coming from the topaz eyes and shooting into Whitey's head. And the colored man said, "I want you to know it in front. No use trying to bluff me. Ain't a living ass in this world can bluff Jones Jarvis."
Whitey nodded in agreement. It was a slow nod and he meant it. He had the feeling that the colored man was not bragging or exaggerating, but merely stating a fact.
"Jones Jarvis," the colored man said. "Once when I had a phone they'd get it wrong in the book and list me under Jones. Did that year after year and finally I got tired telling them to change it. Got rid of the phone. Man has a right to have his name printed correct. It's Jones first and then Jarvis. The name is Jones Jarvis."
"Jones Jarvis," Whitey said.
"That's right. That's absolutely correct. I like
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