Life, 1916-07-20 · page 31 of 44
Life — July 20, 1916 — page 31: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This story satirizes racial exploitation and financial deception in the Jim Crow South. Sin-Killer, an elderly Black man, believes he's dying and tells his caregiver Myra that he's left her $1,000 through "the Company"—apparently his employer, a banker named Mr. Stringer. The twist: Sin-Killer isn't actually dying. Once Myra leaves, he gets up and eats a meager meal, complaining that Mr. Stringer (the white banker) serves poor food despite his wealth. The final irony—"What if dat gal had asked me de name of dat Comp'ny?"—suggests the money may not actually exist or be properly documented. The two illustrations show a woman shocked by a segregation notice at a restaurant, then a man removing his coat, likely depicting racial discrimination and social restrictions of the era. The satire targets both the exploitation of Black workers and the precariousness of their economic survival under white control.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
SEECSCSSSS: AN i i ha DD a The White Folk’s Table By Lawrence Mills LD Sin-Killer was dying again. In his one-room hut a buxom young negress leaned solicitously over the old darky and felt his pulse. “How you feel, Sin-Killer?” The old man stirred feebly and then opened his eyes. “Dat you, Myra? I been a-waiting fo’ you. Jus’ put de vittles on de table. I throwed de others out. De flies is so bad. I ain’t long for dis worl’, Myra. Not more'n a week at de outside. De chariot’s a-swingin’ low. But I'm ready, I’m ready.” In the half light the old man’s face was a black shadow on the pillow. “But don't you worry, gal. I’s pr’vided fo’ you.” “How much is it for, Sin-Killer?” “A thousand dollars, gal, a thousand dollars. No use rummagin’ under mah pillo’. It ain't dere. I lef’ it wid de Comp'ny.” “ Are you shore you changed it, Sin-Killer?” “Course I'm shore I changed it. Dat other girl warn’t nothin’, She wouldn't wait on me, nor fetch me no vittles, nor nothin’, You know I was gwyin’ to take her name out of it.” “How did you have it made,out, Sin-Killer?” “T jus’ tole ’em to make it out so dat Myra Potts got de thousand dollars when ole Sin-Killer died, which won't be long now. Dat’s yo’ name, ain't it? My min’ ain't right, no more, seems like.” “Yes, that’s right. How do you feel? Worse than you did the other times, when you got well?” “I'm porely, Myra, mighty porely. I can’t eat nothin’ hardly, ‘cept it's awful good. Dis is de wu’st I ever was took. It might be to-night, and it might be to-morro’ night. But I’m ready, I'm ready. De Lord giveth an’ de Lord taketh away. Blessed be de name ob de Lord.” “Let me rub your head, Sin-Killer. Now you go to sleep. I'll set here wid you till I has to go. I can’ stay too late, I'm afraid to go home by myself. I'll be back in the morning early and bring you something nice. Maybe I can find you some whiskey. But Mr. Stringer keeps it locked up pretty close.” Night settled over the lonely cabin, The woman arose and softly laid her hand on the old man’s pulse. “What's dat? What's dat?” “T's got to go now, Sin-Killer. Do you feel any worse?” “TI b'lieve 1 do, Myra. I b'lieve I do. I reckon I won't see no mornin’, ’cept de mornin’ of de Resurrection. Don't forgit de whiskey, Myra.” “T believe he’s gettin’ weaker,” the woman told her lover as they left the cabin. “But that ole man shore is what I call tenashus of lif When the footsteps had died away, Sin-Killer got up and lit the candle. Removing the napkin from the tray, he surveyed the contents critically, “TI don't like to talk about no white man,” he grumbled to himself, “ but dat Mr. Stringer shore do set a pore table fo’ a banker. Why don't he hab poke chops, stid of chicken, sometimes? I's gittin’ tired of chicken. A thousand dollars! What if dat gal had asked me de name of dat Comp'ny?” SHE IS SHOCKED AT THE SIGN UNTIL _ i Not ice | PLACES Paar COOLd + ES. THE MAN REMOVES HIS OVERCOAT FROM THE HOOK comicbooks.com