THE PAWN
Montague quit school in the sixth-grade to help her boil and
rinse in the big black sooty pot which stood three-legged on a knoll
of ashes in the back yard. He poked the steamy masses of sheets and
towels with the handle of an old broom. Chester took Willie's job,
moving monumental crates and boxes all day long. The world was
gray as priests and nuns. Montague spent days shivering, all his clothes
piled on his back, the agony intimate, in his marrow.
Finally Montague was able to take a job of his own, after Delia
had pleaded for him. He went to work for a grocery man. The
groceryman was aged without vigor. He had a belly like a big soft
melon, and he sat in a rocker philosophizing. The flies sat on his
cheeses and appJes, rubbing their little sticky feet together and preen–
ing wings, while he moaned about the temperatures and talked in a
monotone and wheeze about what he believed.
He gave Montague the job because he could work Montague
harder and pay
him
less than the white youngster he'd had in mind.
Montague worked
six
days a week for two dollars a week. Mr.
Sweeney assured
him
that this was A-1 experience.
He was a good man. Sometimes he talked about the filthy thiev–
ing Niggers, but he reassured Montague kindly that all Niggers
weren't alike. The only thing that really bothered him, he said, was
the smell. Niggers smelled bad to
him.
Of course they don't tub much,
he said with a dry laugh, but they've got that Mrican smell and no
amount of white soap and perfume would remove it. "No matter
how they scour they always smell sour," he chanted proudly.
"Can
you smell me?" said Montague nervously, his eyes big.
"Fee Fi Fo Fum, I smell Montague Wassamun," said Mr.
Sweeney. Then he put his newspaper up to cover
him
and shook with
laughter until his belly was sore.
But Mr. Sweeney was kind. He encouraged Montague in rascality
and exhibitionism and ruled
him
with gloved iron, he thought. He
seemed affable,
if
not affectionate. Montague grew poised and roguish
in his employment. He grew tall and slim, wore striped knitted sweat–
ers off white boys' backs, and greased
his
black krinkled hair care–
fully. Mr. Sweeney raised
him
three dallas a week to five dollars the
first year. In bad times three dollars is not meaningless, and then
Montague had acquired the habit of sneaking a dime or a nickel
whenever he could, or a can of tomatoes, a package of cheese crackers.
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