“Prices change, Mr. Rountree. If it were up to me …”

Rountree slipped a manila envelope from among the papers he had taken out of the drawer. He unwound the twine and opened it, then counted out fifteen hundred-dollar bills into the agent’s hand. “Take the loss,” he advised quietly.

The agent’s eyes brightened. “Oh, I see. Well, we didn’t expect cash.”

Rountree shrugged. “No sense in extra paper. How about the other items?”

“All in stock—just a matter of sending them down from the factory in Connecticut.”

“Thirteen dollars apiece.”

The agent consulted his papers. “Right. Times two hundred and fifty.”

“Exactly.”

“Three thousand two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“C.O.D.”

“Of course.” The agent fidgeted. “May I ask, why do you need so many?”

“No, you may not ask. When can we expect delivery on the main item?”

“Four to five weeks. It will have to be assembled. May I ask, is there someone here who is trained, that is, who knows how, who can handle …?”

Rountree glared at him.

“Of course. The rest you can have anytime,” the agent said.

“Fine. L. B. Sasser will take delivery at his drugstore.”

“Yes, sir.”

The agent was still fingering his hat, looking whipped, so Rountree clapped him on the shoulder and said, “I’ve got an edge on today—don’t pay it any mind. Tell your daddy I was asking for him, hear?” Rountree shook his hand heartily.

“Yes, sir, thank you.” The agent let out his breath, stuck his straw hat on crooked, and left quickly.

When the agent had gone, Rountree telephoned his wife, Meta, then telephoned Hugh MacRae to tell him the good news. But MacRae was at a luncheon appointment with his Yankee cousin. What the hell was he inviting down Yankee cousins for?

For what was coming up, the fewer damnyankees around, the better.

Chapter Three

Don’t get mad at all the white people because of the few who have forgotten…. In the first place, we ask in all seriousness who is there among the whole number that would make of himself a murderer for the sake of carrying an election, which, if it goes either way, must give white men office?

Daily Record

C H A P T E R   T H R E E

Monday, August 15

GRAY ELLEN JENKS WALKED from the Orton Hotel, where she and Sam had temporary lodgings, to the brownstone Hemenway School on Fifth near Chestnut. She had an appointment with superintendent Noble and a letter of introduction from Hugh MacRae. Sam had asked for it.

She also had a manila folder full of references from principals and senior teachers. She’d been the darling of Northside School in Chicago—until Sam had fouled things up.