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"Don't worry, Miss Mary, I'll hold the nigger till the police get here," the guard said.
"No, Harry, let him up," Miss Mary said. "Mr. Tyler wants to see him."
"Mr. Tyler does?" the guard said, a vacant look crossing his face. He let go, and Sandy sprang up, shaking his arm. He leaned down and picked up his hat, brushed it off and, making sure that there was no further mistake and that all the pistols had been returned to their holsters, he strode past Miss Mary, took the steps two at a time and walked briskly down the hall to where Davis Tyler waited impatiently outside his office door. He shook Sandy's hand warmly and, clasping him about the far shoulder, directed him into his office and to the soft leather chair across from his desk. "I'll try to get back to you, Shipley," he told Pine just before he closed the door.
In all his short life Sandy had never had any real negotiations with white people. His neighborhood, his schools, and his outlook were all, necessarily, black. The reason that he was now sitting in the office of the most powerful banker in Baltimore was not, however, because Sandy perceived L. Davis Tyler to be some Great White Father he had to turn to. On the contrary, Sandy saw him only as an associate. Sandy Tatler was a very bright young man. It was just that never before had he been presented with a situation that so tested his intelligence.
Sandy had concluded that he had obtained the tickets only through some large error, and that the slightest miscalculation on his part would reveal that error to someone and result in his losing the tickets. By himself, he had no chance. But here young Roosevelt Tatler affirmed his untested intellectual mettle: nobody in Baltimore was going to take tickets away from L. Davis Tyler.
The reception that he received from Tyler was so extraordinary, however, that Sandy realized he had only dimly perceived the real power of his tickets. By the time the president had finished offering Sandy cigars, mints and ice water and showing him some of the more valuable mementos of his office, Sandy realized that he was holding all the cards. Davis Tyler was, it seemed, anxious to be his angel. So, drawing a deep breath, Sandy announced:
"Sir, now, Mr. Davis Tyler, sir, I have 10 Colt season tickets on the 50-yard line, Section 10." As soon as he said that, Sandy could see Tyler preparing to ask him where the hell he got these tickets, and since Sandy did not want to get into that, he handed over the ticket application acceptance form and kept talking as fast as he could. "Now, sir, Mr. Tyler, all I want for myself is two tickets. If you will pay for my two tickets, I will give you two tickets, and you can take the other six and sell them to the other workers in the bank."
Tyler turned the ticket confirmation over in his hands. "You're the R. Tatler listed at this address?"
"Yes, sir. That's me."
"All right," Tyler said. "It's a deal." Sandy couldn't believe it. "On one condition," Tyler added quickly.