Turner Tanksley, a representative of the Workingmen’s Industrial Aid Insurance Company, called upon Edmund Grant, an elderly colored man, with a view to getting him to insure his life.
“Good morning, Uncle Ned,” said Mr. Tanksley.
“Mawnin’, Boss,” said the old man, raising his hat and making a low courtesy.
“Uncle Ned, do you carry any insurance?” inquired the solicitor.
“Does I car’y what?” asked Uncle Ned in great surprise.
“Do you carry any insurance? Is your life insured?” asked the solicitor by way of explanation.
“Bless Gawd! Yas, yas,” replied the colored man, “long ago—long ago.”
Then the solicitor asked: “In what company?”
Uncle Ned answered: “I’m a Baptis’, sah; I’m a Baptis’—a deep-watah Baptis’.”
Mr. Tanksley realized that the old man had not understood the question, but, anyhow, he asked:
“How long has it been since you joined?”
“Dat’s jes’ what My ’ligion Does,” said the Old Man.
“I j’ined,” replied Uncle Ned, “de same year dat de stars fell—I reckon you know how long dat’s been?”
“That’s a long while,” commented the insurance man; “quite a long while. Does your company pay any dividends?”
“Boss,” said Uncle Ned with a broad grin, “dat question is plumb out uv my reach. What is you tryin’ to git at?”
“Why, Uncle Ned,” said Mr. Tanksley, “a dividend is interest paid on your money; and if you have been paying your money into one company for more than thirty years surely you ought to have been receiving your dividends long before now, especially if it’s an old-line company.”
“Well,” said Uncle Ned, “hit sho is de ole-line comp’ny—hit sho is. De Lawd sot hit up Hisse’f ’way back yondah on Calvaree’s tree. But I ain’t nevah hyeahed tell uv no intrus’ nor no divverdens ner nothin’ uv dat sawt; an’ you ain’t hyeah me say nothin’ ’tall ’bout payin’ in no money fer thirty yeahs—you know you ain’t. Salvation’s free, white man; salvation’s free—you knows dat ez well ez I does.”
The way Uncle Ned laughed when he had delivered himself of this remarkable speech would have done your soul good.
“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Tanksley with much condescension, “I see that I’ve misunderstood you. You’re talking about your soul’s salvation.”
“Dat’s what I is,” chimed in Uncle Ned, “dat’s what I is.”
“I came,” resumed the solicitor, “to talk to you about insuring your body in case of accident, sickness or death.”
“Accerdents is fer us all,” said Uncle Ned, with a far-away expression on his face, “accerdents is fer us all, an’ dah ain’t no gittin’ ’roun’ death.”
“That’s true,” responded the patient solicitor, “that’s true; insurance companies can’t prevent sickness and accidents and death any more than you can, Uncle Ned, but insurance companies can and do help you to bear your burdens in the time of trouble.”
“Dat’s jes’ what my ’ligion does,” said the old man with supreme satisfaction, “dat’s jes’ what my ’ligion does.”
“But we do it in a different way,” persisted the solicitor.
“Well, how does y’all do?” asked Uncle Ned.
Then the solicitor went over the details of the Workingmen’s Industrial Aid Insurance Company with his accustomed rapidity, telling about the initiation fees, monthly premiums, accident benefits, sick benefits, etc., etc., laying much stress especially upon the “endowment fund” that would be paid upon the death of the insured. When he had finished the elaborate narrative Uncle Ned, who had given the most earnest attention to the speaker, inquired:
“Boss, who you say de money goes to w’en I dies?”
“To your wife,” answered the solicitor, “or your children, or anybody you might name.”
“Well, Boss,” said the old man, “lemme ax you one question: Don’t you think dat would he’p de uddah fellah mo’n hit would me?”
“What other fellow?” asked Mr. Tanksley.
“My ole ’oman’s secon’ husban’,” replied Ned; “you know des ez good ez I does dat ef I wuz to die an’ leave my ole ’oman two hundred or three hundred dollars, dah’d be some cullud gent’man done changed her name ’fo’ ole Ned got cole in de groun’.”
Uncle Ned’s originality made it very hard for Turner Tanksley to suppress a smile. Without giving the solicitor a chance to speak, Uncle Ned continued:
“An’ dah’s anuddah way to look at hit. Wimmins is mighty cu’ious. Yas, sah; wimmins is mighty cu’ious. Ef I wuz to go into dis thing you’s tellin’ me ’bout, I dasn’t let Dinah know hit. White man, you don’t know—no, sah, you don’t know. Ef dat ’oman knowed she’d git all dat money w’en I died, she would sho put a spidah in my dumplin’—she sho would, an’ fuss thing I know I’d wake up some mawnin’ an’ fine myse’f dead, an’ all on account uv dis thing dat you calls ’showance. No, sah, I don’t want nothin’ to do wid hit. De Baptis’ church is good ’nuff fer me.”
When the solicitor turned the corner he heard Uncle Ned singing some kind of religious song with the following refrain: