The Trustfulness Of Polly by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Story type: Literature

Polly Jackson was a model woman. She was practical and hard-working. She knew the value of a dollar, could make one and keep one, sometimes–fate permitting. Fate was usually Sam and Sam was Polly’s husband. Any morning at six o’clock she might be seen, basket on arm, wending her way to the homes of her wealthy patrons for the purpose of bringing in their washing, for by this means did she gain her livelihood. She had been a person of hard common sense, which suffered its greatest lapse when she allied herself with the man whose name she bore. After that the lapses were more frequent.

How she could ever have done so no one on earth could tell. Sam was her exact opposite. He was an easy-going, happy-go-lucky individual, who worked only when occasion demanded and inclination and the weather permitted. The weather was usually more acquiescent than inclination. He was sanguine of temperament, highly imaginative and a dreamer of dreams. Indeed, he just missed being a poet. A man who dreams takes either to poetry or policy. Not being able quite to reach the former, Sam had declined upon the latter, and, instead of meter, feet and rhyme, his mind was taken up with “hosses,” “gigs” and “straddles.”

He was always “jes’ behin’ dem policy sha’ks, an’ I’ll be boun’, Polly, but I gwine to ketch ’em dis time.”

Polly heard this and saw the same result so often that even her stalwart faith began to turn into doubt. But Sam continued to reassure her and promise that some day luck would change. “An’ when hit do change,” he would add, impressively, “it’s gwine change fu’ sho’, an’ we’ll have one wakenin’ up time. Den I bet you’ll git dat silk dress you been wantin’ so long.”

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Polly did have ambitions in the direction of some such finery, and this plea always melted her. Trust was restored again, and Hope resumed her accustomed place.

It was, however, not through the successful culmination of any of Sam’s policy manipulations that the opportunity at last came to Polly to realize her ambitions. A lady for whom she worked had a second-hand silk dress, which she was willing to sell cheap. Another woman had spoken for it, but if Polly could get the money in three weeks she would let her have it for seven dollars.

To say that the companion of Sam Jackson jumped at the offer hardly indicates the attitude of eagerness with which she received the proposition.

“Yas’m, I kin sholy git dat much money together in th’ee weeks de way I’s a-wo’kin’.”

“Well, now, Polly, be sure; for if you are not prompt I shall have to dispose of it where it was first promised,” was the admonition.

“Oh, you kin ‘pend on me, Mis’ Mo’ton; fu’ when I sets out to save money I kin save, I tell you.” Polly was not usually so sanguine, but what changes will not the notion of the possession of a brown silk dress trimmed with passementrie make in the disposition of a woman?

Polly let Sam into the secret, and, be it said to his credit, he entered into the plan with an enthusiasm no less intense than her own. He had always wanted to see her in a silk dress, he told her, and then in a quizzically injured tone of voice, “but you ought to waited tell I ketched dem policy sha’ks an’ I’d ‘a’ got you a new one.” He even went so far as to go to work for a week and bring Polly his earnings, of course, after certain “little debts” which he mentioned but did not specify, had been deducted.

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But in spite of all this, when washing isn’t bringing an especially good price; when one must eat and food is high; when a grasping landlord comes around once every week and exacts tribute for the privilege of breathing foul air from an alley in a room up four flights; when, I say, all this is true, and it generally is true in the New York tenderloin, seven whole dollars are not easily saved. There was much raking and scraping and pinching during each day that at night Polly might add a few nickels or pennies to the store that jingled in a blue jug in one corner of her closet. She called it her bank, and Sam had laughed at the conceit, telling her that that was one bank anyhow that couldn’t “bust.”

As the days went on how she counted her savings and exulted in their growth! She already saw herself decked out in her new gown, the envy and admiration of every woman in the neighborhood. She even began to wish that she had a full-length glass in order that she might get the complete effect of her own magnificence. So saving, hoping, dreaming, the time went on until a few days before the limit, and there was only about a dollar to be added to make the required amount. This she could do easily in the remaining time. So Polly was jubilant.

Now everything would have been all right and matters would have ended happily if Sam had only kept on at work. But, no. He must needs stop, and give his mind the chance to be employed with other things. And that is just what happened. For about this time, having nothing else to do, like that old king of Bible renown, he dreamed a dream. But unlike the royal dreamer, he asked no seer or prophet to interpret his dream to him. He merely drove his hand down into his inside pocket, and fished up an ancient dream-book, greasy and tattered with use. Over this he pored until his eyes bulged and his hands shook with excitement.

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“Got ’em at last!” he exclaimed. “Dey ain’t no way fu’ dem to git away f’om me. I’s behind ’em. I’s behind ’em I tell you,” and then his face fell and he sat for a long time with his chin in his hand thinking, thinking.

“Polly,” said he when his wife came in, “d’you know what I dremp ’bout las’ night?”

“La! Sam Jackson, you ain’t gone to dreamin’ agin. I thought you done quit all dat foolishness.”

“Now jes’ listen at you runnin’ on. You ain’t never axed me what I dremp ’bout yit.”

“Hit don’ make much diffunce to me, less ‘n you kin dream ’bout a dollah mo’ into my pocket.”

“Dey has been sich things did,” said Sam sententiously. He got up and went out. If there is one thing above another that your professional dreamer does demand, it is appreciation. Sam had failed to get it from Polly, but he found a balm for all his hurts when he met Bob Davis.

“What!” exclaimed Bob. “Dreamed of a nakid black man. Fu’ de Lawd sake, Sam, don’ let de chance pass. You got ’em dis time sho’. I’ll put somep’n’ on it myse’f. Wha’d you think ef we’d win de ‘capital’?”

That was enough. The two parted and Sam hurried home. He crept into the house. Polly was busy hanging clothes on the roof. Where now are the guardian spirits that look after the welfare of trusting women? Where now are the enchanted belongings that even in the hands of the thief cry out to their unsuspecting owners? Gone. All gone with the ages of faith that gave them birth. Without an outcry, without even so much as a warning jingle, the contents of the blue jug and the embodied hope of a woman’s heart were transferred to the gaping pocket of Sam Jackson. Polly went on hanging up clothes on the roof.

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Sam chuckled to himself: “She won’t never have a chanst to scol’ me. I’ll git de drawin’s early dis evenin’, an’ go ma’chin’ home wif a new silk fu’ huh, an’ money besides. I do’ want my wife waihin’ no white folks’ secon’-han’ clothes nohow. My, but won’t she be su’prised an’ tickled. I kin jes’ see huh now. Oh, mistah policy-sha’k, I got you now. I been layin’ fu’ you fu’ a long time, but you’s my meat at las’.”

He marched into the policy shop like a conqueror. To the amazement of the clerk, he turned out a pocketful of small coin on the table and played it all in “gigs,” “straddles and combinations.”

“I’ll call on you about ha’ pas’ fou’, Mr. McFadden,” he announced exultantly as he went out.

“Faith, sor,” said McFadden to his colleague, “if that nagur does ketch it he’ll break us, sure.”

Sam could hardly wait for half-past four. A minute before the time he burst in upon McFadden and demanded the drawings. They were handed to him. He held his breath as his eye went down the column of figures. Then he gasped and staggered weakly out of the room. The policy sharks had triumphed again.

Sam walked the streets until nine o’clock that night. He was afraid to go home to Polly. He knew that she had been to the jug and found–. He groaned, but at last his very helplessness drove him in. Polly, with swollen eyes, was sitting by the table, the empty jug lying on its side before her.

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“Sam,” she exclaimed, “whaih’s my money? Whaih’s my money I been wo’kin’ fu’ all dis time?”

“Why–Why, Polly–“

“Don’ go beatin’ ‘roun’ de bush. I want ‘o know whaih my money is; you tuck it.”

“Polly, I dremp–“

“I do’ keer what you dremp, I want my money fu’ my dress.”

His face was miserable.

“I thought sho’ dem numbers ‘u’d come out, an’–“

The woman flung herself upon the floor and burst into a storm of tears. Sam bent over her. “Nemmine, Polly,” he said. “Nemmine. I thought I’d su’prise you. Dey beat me dis time.” His teeth clenched. “But when I ketch dem policy sha’ks–“

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