Uggam leaned out of the room’s one window and spat maliciously into the dinginess of the airshaft. “Damn glad you got him,” he commented, as Gillis finished his story. “They’s a thousand shines in Harlem would change places with you in a minute jess f’ the honor of killin’ a cracker.”

“But I didn’t go to do it. ’Twas a accident.”

“That’s the only part to keep secret.”

“Know whut dey done? Dey killed five o’ Mose Joplin’s hawses ’fo he lef’. Put groun’ glass in de feed-trough. Sam Cheevers come up on three of ’em one night pizenin’ his well. Bleesom beat Crinshaw out o’ sixty acres o’ lan’ an’ a year’s crops. Dass jess how ’tis. Soon’s a nigger make a li’l sump’n he better git to leavin’. An’ ’fo long ev’ybody’s goin’ be lef’!”

“Hope to hell they don’t all come here.”

The doorbell of the apartment rang. A crescendo of footfalls in the hallway culminated in a sharp rap on Gillis’s door. Gillis jumped. Nobody but a policeman would rap like that. Maybe the landlady had been listening and had called in the law. It came again, loud, quick, angry. King Solomon prayed that the policeman would be a Negro.

Uggam stepped over and opened the door. King Solomon’s apprehensive eyes saw framed therein, instead of a gigantic officer, calling for him, a little blot of a creature, quite black against even the darkness of the hallway, except for a dirty, wide-striped silk shirt, collarless, with the sleeves rolled up.

“Ah hahve bill fo’ Mr. Gillis.” A high, strongly accented Jamaican voice, with its characteristic singsong intonation, interrupted King Solomon’s sigh of relief.

“Bill? Bill fo’ me? What kin’ o’ bill?”

“Wan bushel appels. T’ree seventy-fife.”

“Apples? I ain’ bought no apples.” He took the paper and read aloud, laboriously, “Antonio Gabrielli to K. S. Gillis, Debtor—”

“Mr. Gabrielli say, you not pays him, he send policemon.”

“What I had to do wid ’is apples?”

“You bumps into him yesterday, no? Scatter appels everywhere—on de sidewalk, in de gutter. Kids pick up an’ run away. Others all spoil. So you pays.”

Gillis appealed to Uggam. “How ’bout it, Mouse?”

“He’s a damn liar. Tony picked up most of ’em; I seen him. Lemme look at that bill—Tony never wrote this thing. This baby’s jess playin’ you for a sucker.”

“Ain’ had no apples, ain’ payin’ fo’ none,” announced King Solomon, thus prompted. “Didn’t have to come to Harlem to git cheated. Plenty o’ dat right wha’ I come fum.”

But the West Indian warmly insisted. “You cahn’t do daht, mon. Whaht you t’ink, ’ey? Dis mon loose ’is appels an’ ’is money too?”

“What diff’ence it make to you, nigger?”

“Who you call nigger, mon? Ah hahve you understahn’—”

“Oh, well, white folks, den. What all you got t’ do wid dis hyeh, anyhow?”

“Mr. Gabrielli send me to collect bill!”

“How I know dat?”

“Do Ah not bring bill? You t’ink Ah steal t’ree dollar, ’ey?”

“Three dollars an’ sebenty-fi’ cent,” corrected Gillis. “ ’Nuther thing: wha’ you ever see me befo’? How you know dis is me?”

“Ah see you, sure. Ah help Mr. Gabrielli in de store. When you knocks down de baskette appels, Ah see. Ah follow you. Ah know you comes in dis house.”

“Oh, you does? An’ how come you know my name an’ flat an’ room so good? How come dat?”

“Ah fin’ out. Sometime Ah brings up here vegetables from de store.”

“Humph! Mus’ be workin’ on shares.”

“You pays, ’ey? You pays me or de policemon?”

“Wait a minute,” broke in Uggam, who had been thoughtfully contemplating the bill. “Now listen, big shorty. You haul hips on back to Tony. We got your menu all right”—he waved the bill—“but we don’t eat your kind o’ cookin’, see?”

The West Indian flared. “Whaht it is to you, ’ey? You can not mind your own business? Ah hahve not spik to you!”

“No, brother. But this is my friend, an’ I’ll be john-browned if there’s a monkey-chaser in Harlem can gyp him if I know it, see? Bes’ thing f’ you to do is catch air, toot sweet.”

Sensing frustration, the little islander demanded the bill back. Uggam figured he could use the bill himself, maybe. The West Indian hotly persisted; he even menaced. Uggam pocketed the paper and invited him to take it. Wisely enough, the caller preferred to catch air.

When he had gone, King Solomon sought words of thanks.

“Bottle it,” said Uggam. “The point is this: I figger you got a job.”

“Job? No I ain’t! Wha’ at?”

“When you show Tony this bill, he’ll hit the roof and fire that monk.”

“What ef he do?”

“Then you up ’n ask f’ the job. He’ll be too grateful to refuse. I know Tony some, an’ I’ll be there to put in a good word. See?”

King Solomon considered this. “Sho’ needs a job, but ain’ after stealin’ none.”

“Stealin’? ’Twouldn’t be stealin’. Stealin’s what that damn monkey-chaser tried to do from you. This would be doin’ Tony a favor, an’ gettin’ y’self out o’ the barrel. What’s the hold-back?”

“What make you keep callin’ him monkey-chaser?”

“West Indian. That’s another thing. Any time y’ can knife a monk, do it. They’s too damn many of ’em here. They’re an achin’ pain.”

“Jess de way white folks feels ’bout niggers.”

“Damn that. How ’bout it? Y’ want the job?”

“Hm—well—I’d ruther be a policeman.”

“Policeman?” Uggam gasped.

“M-hm. Dass all I wants to be, a policeman, so I kin police all de white folks right plumb in jail!”

Uggam said seriously, “Well, y’ might work up to that. But it takes time. An’ y’ve got to eat while y’re waitin’.” He paused to let this penetrate. “Now, how ’bout this job at Tony’s in the meantime? I should think y’d jump at it.”

King Solomon was persuaded.

“Hm—well—reckon I does,” he said slowly.

“Now y’re tootin’!” Uggam’s two big front teeth popped out in a grin of genuine pleasure. “Come on. Let’s go.”