"'Up to de house, mos' likely,' says the nigger. 'You'd better save
yo' shoe leather, boss. She ain' gwine to sell dat colt no matter what
happens.'
"I beats it up to the big house, but when I gets there I see nobody's
livin' in it. The windows has boards across 'em. I looks in between
the cracks 'n' sees a whale of a room. Hangin' from the ceilin' is two
things fur lights all covered with glass dingles. They ain't nothin'
else in the room but a tall mirror, made of gold, that goes clear to
the ceilin'. I walks clean around the house, but it's sure empty, so I
oozes back to the barns 'n' collars the sales clerk.
"'I'm a-lookin' fur Miss Goodloe,' I tells him. 'A nigger says she's
at the house, but I've just been up there 'n' they ain't even furniture
in it.'
"'No,' says the clerk; 'the furniture was sold to a New York collector
two weeks ago. Miss Goodloe is livin' in the head trainer's house
across the road yonder. She won't have that long, I don't reckon,
though I did hear she's fixin' to buy it when the farm sells, with some
money ole Mrs. Goodloe left her.'
"I goes over to the little house the clerk points out, 'n' knocks. A
right fat nigger woman, with her sleeves rolled up, comes to the door.
"'What you want?' she says.
"'I want to see Miss Goodloe,' I says.
"'You cyant see her. She ain' seein' nobody,' says the nigger woman,
'n' starts to shut the door.
"'Wait a minute, aunty," I says. 'I got to see her--it's business,
sure-enough business.
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