Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [341]
“Yassuh! Sho’ did, Massa!”
“An’ you commence hackfightin’ an’ I give you money to bet, an’ you win your ass off!”
“Sho’ did, suh, de truth! De truth!”
“Boy, we was a team, we was!”
Chicken George caught himself almost starting to share a thrilling in the reminiscings; he also felt a little giddy from the whiskey. He reminded himself of his objective. Reaching across the table, taking up the liquor jug, he poured into his glass about an inch, closing a fist quickly around the glass to mask the small amount as extending the bottle across the table, he poured for Massa Lea about three quarters of a glassful. Raising his glass within his fist, appearing to lurch, his voice sounded slurring, “Drink to gooda massa as is anywhere! Like dem Englishmans says, ’Down de hawtch!’”
Sipping of his, he watched Massa Lea quaff, “Boy, it do me good you feel thataway—”
“’Nother toas’!” The two glasses elevated. “Fines’ nigger I ever had!” They drained their glasses.
Wiping his mouth with the back of a veiny hand, coughing from the whiskey’s impact, Massa Lea also slurred, “You ain’t tol’ me nothin’ ’bout that Englishman, boy—what’s his name?”
“Lawd Russell, Massa. He got mo’ money’n he can count. Got mo’n fo’ hunnud bloodline roosters to pick from to fight wid—” Then after a purposeful pause, “But ain’t nowhere de gamecocker you is, Massa.”
“You mean that, boy?”
“Ain’t as smart, one thing. An’ ain’t de man you is! He jes’ rich an’ lucky. Ain’t yo’ quality o’ white folks, Massa!” Chicken George thought of having overheard Sir C. Eric Russell say to friends, “George’s mawster’s a glorified hackfighter.”
Massa Lea’s head lolled, he jerked it back upward, his eyes trying to focus on Chicken George. Where would he keep his strongbox? Chicken George thought how the rest of his life’s condition would hang upon his obtaining the vividly remembered square sheet of paper containing maybe three times more writing than a traveling pass, over the signature.
“Massa, could I have l’il mo’ yo’ liquor?”
“You know better’n ask, boy... all you wan’—”
“I tol’ amany dem English folks bes’ massa in de worl’s what I got... ain’t nobody never hear me talkin’ ’bout stayin’ over dere ... hey, yo’ glass gittin’ low, Massa—”
“... Jes’ l’il be ’nough.... naw, you ain’t that kin’, boy... never give no real trouble...”
“Nawsuh... well, drinkin’ to you ’gin, suh—” They did, some of the massa’s liquor wetting his chin. Chicken George, feeling more of the whiskey’s effect, suddenly sat up straighter, seeing the massa’s head lowering toward the tabletop... “Y’always good to y’other niggers, too, Massa... ”
The head wavered, stayed down. “Tried to, boy... tried to—” It was muffled.
B’leeve he good’n drunk now. “Yessuh, you’n missis bofe—”
“Good woman... lotta ways—”
The massa’s chest now also met the table. Lifting his chair with minimal sound, Chicken George waited a suspenseful moment. Moving to the entrance, he halted, then not overloudly, “Massa!... Massa!”
Suddenly turning, catlike, within seconds he was searching every drawer within any front-room furniture. Halting, hearing only his breathing, he hastened up the steps, cursing their creaking.
The impact of entering a white man’s bedroom hit him. He stopped... involuntarily stepping backward, he glimpsed the conglomerate mess. Sobering rapidly, he went back inside, assaulted by the mingled strong odors of stale whiskey, urine, sweat, and unwashed clothes among the emptied bottles. Then as if possessed, he was pulling open, flinging aside things, searching futilely. Maybe under the bed. Frantically dropping onto his knees, peering, he saw the strongbox.
Seizing it, in a trice he was back downstairs, tripping in the hallway. Seeing the massa still slumped over on the table, turning, he hastened through the front door. Around at the side of the house, with his hands he wrested to open the locked, metal box. Git on de hoss an go—bus’ it open