Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [309]
Tom replied, “You does, anyway. I won’t make no money fo’ couple mo’ years, ’til I’se finished ’prenticin’ an’ goes to work for massa—dat is, if he gimme some de money, like he do o’ what you wins hackfightin’!”
“Sho’ he will!” said Chicken George. “Massa ain’t bad as yo’ mammy an’ gran’mammy an’ dem likes to claim. He got ’is ornery ways, sho’ is! You jes’ have to learn how to git to massa’s good side, like I does—keep ’im b’leevin’ you considers ’im one dem high-class massas what do good by dey niggers.” Chicken George paused. “Dat Massa Askew whose place you over dere workin’ on—you got any idea what ’mount o’ money he give dat Isaiah nigger fo’ his blacksmithin’?”
“I b’leeves dollar a week,” said Tom. “I’se heared Mr. Isaiah’s wife say dat’s what he give her every week to save, an’ she do, every penny.”
“Less’n a minute win mo’n dat fightin’ chickens!” Chicken George exclaimed, and then contained himself.
“Well, anyhow, you jes’ leave de money part to me when you comes back here to blacksmith fo’ massa. I talk to ’im good ’bout how cheap dat Massa Askew is wid ’is nigger.”
“Yassuh.”
Chicken George was experiencing a peculiar feeling that he really wished to insure having the alliance, even the approval of this particular one among his six sons—not that anything was wrong with the other five, and despite the fact that this one was by far the least likely ever to sport anything like a green scarf and black derby with a long feather in it; it was just that very clearly this Tom possessed qualities of responsibleness not encountered every day, as well as an unusual individual durability and strength.
They had walked on in silence for a while when Chicken George said abruptly, “You ever think ’bout blacksmithin’ fo’ yo’self, boy?”
“What you mean? How in de worl’ I gwine do dat, Pappy?”
“You ever think ’bout savin’ de money you gwine be makin’ an’ buyin’ yo’self free?”
Seeing Tom too thunderstruck to reply, Chicken George kept talking.
“Few years back, roun’ when L’il Kizzy born, one night me an’ yo’ mammy set down an figgered ’bout how much it cost to buy us whole family free, ’cordin’ to prices fo’ niggers dem days. Come to roun’ sixty-eight hunnud dollars—”
“Whew!” Tom was shaking his head.
“Hear me out!” George said. “Sho’ it’s a lot! But ever since den, I been hackfightin’ my butt off, wid yo’ mammy savin’ my share o’ de winnins. Ain’t winned as much as I’d figured when I started out, but all de same don’ nobody know but yo’ mammy an’ me—an’ now you—she got mo’n a thousan’ dollars buried in jars roun’ de backyard!” Chicken George looked at Tom. “Boy, I’se jes’ thinkin’ ... ”
“Me, too, Pappy!” A gleam was in Tom’s eyes.
“Lissen here, boy!” The urgency increased in Chicken George’s tone. “If ’n I keeps winnin’ ’bout de same as in de past few seasons, I oughta have three, fo’ hunnud mo’ stashed away time you starts blacksmithin’ fo’ massa.”
Tom was eagerly nodding his head. “An’, Pappy, wid bofe us makin’ money, mammy could bury maybe five, six hunnud a year!” he said excitedly.
“Yeah!” Chicken George exclaimed. “An’ dat rate, less’n nigger prices is riz a lot higher, we ought to have ’nough to buy us whole fam’ly free inside o’—lemme see now ... ”
They both figured, using their fingers. After a while, Tom exclaimed, “’Bout fifteen years!”
“Where you learn to count so fas’? What you think ’bout my idea, boy?”
“Pappy, gwine blacksmith my head off! I jes’ wish you’d o’ said somethin’ fo’ now.”
“Wid two us, I knows we can do it!” said George, beaming. “Make dis family ’mount to sump’n! Us all git up Nawth, raisin’ chilluns an’ gran’chilluns free, like folks was meant to! What you say, boy?”
Both deeply moved, Tom and Chicken George had impulsively grasped each other about the shoulders when just then they turned to see the stout, pudgy figure of L’il George approaching at a lumbering trot, shouting “Tom! Tom!” and wearing a grin seeming almost as wide as himself. Reaching them breathless, his chest heaving, he grabbed and pumped Tom’s hands,