PART III

Halliday was not a man to be discouraged easily, and for the next few

weeks he kept up an unflagging search for work. He found that there

were more Feathertons and Stockards than he had ever looked to find.

Everywhere that he turned his face, anything but the most menial work

was denied him. He thought once of going away from Broughton, but

would he find it any better anywhere else, he asked himself? He

determined to stay and fight it out there for two reasons. First,

because he held that it would be cowardice to run away, and secondly,

because he felt that he was not fighting a local disease, but was

bringing the force of his life to bear upon a national evil. Broughton

was as good a place to begin curative measures as elsewhere.

There was one refuge which was open to him, and which he fought

against with all his might. For years now, from as far back as he

could remember, the colored graduates had "gone South to teach." This

course was now recommended to him. Indeed, his own family quite

approved of it, and when he still stood out against the scheme, people

began to say that Bertram Halliday did not want work; he wanted to be

a gentleman.

But Halliday knew that the South had plenty of material, and year by

year was raising and training her own teachers. He knew that the time

would come, if it were not present when it would be impossible to go

South to teach, and he felt it to be essential that the North should

be trained in a manner looking to the employment of her own negroes.

So he stayed. But he was only human, and when the tide of talk anent

his indolence began to ebb and flow about him, he availed himself of

the only expedient that could arrest it.

When he went back to the great factory where he had seen and talked

with Mr. Stockard, he went around to another door and this time asked

for the head janitor. This individual, a genial Irishman, took stock

of Halliday at a glance.

"But what do ye want to be doin' sich wurruk for, whin ye've been

through school?" he asked.

"I am doing the only thing I can get to do," was the answer.

"Well," said the Irishman, "ye've got sinse, anyhow."

Bert found himself employed as an under janitor at the factory at a

wage of nine dollars a week. At this, he could pay his share to keep

the house going, and save a little for the period of study he still

looked forward to. The people who had accused him of laziness now made

a martyr of him, and said what a pity it was for a man with such an

education and with so much talent to be so employed menially.

He did not neglect his studies, but read at night, whenever the day's

work had not made both brain and body too weary for the task.

In this way his life went along for over a year when one morning a

note from Mr. Featherton summoned him to that gentleman's office. It

is true that Halliday read the note with some trepidation. His bitter

experience had not yet taught him how not to dream. He was not yet old

enough for that. "Maybe," he thought, "Mr. Featherton has relented,

and is going to give me a chance anyway. Or perhaps he wanted me to

prove my metal before he consented to take me up. Well, I've tried to

do it, and if that's what he wanted, I hope he's satisfied." The note

which seemed written all over with joyful tidings shook in his hand.

The genial manner with which Mr. Featherton met him reaffirmed in his

mind the belief that at last the lawyer had determined to give him a

chance. He was almost deferential as he asked Bert into his private

office, and shoved a chair forward for him.

"Well, you've been getting on, I see," he began.

"Oh, yes," replied Bert, "I have been getting on by hook and crook."

"Hum, done any studying lately?"

"Yes, but not as much as I wish to. Coke and Wharton aren't any

clearer to a head grown dizzy with bending over mops, brooms and

heavy trucks all day."

"No, I should think not. Ah--oh--well, Bert, how should you like to

come into my office and help around, do such errands as I need and

help copy my papers?"

"I should be delighted."

"It would only pay you five dollars a week, less than what you are

getting now, I suppose, but it will be more genteel."

"Oh, now, that I have had to do it, I don't care so much about the

lack of gentility of my present work, but I prefer what you offer

because I shall have a greater chance to study."

"Well, then, you may as well come in on Monday. The office will be

often in your charge, as I am going to be away a great deal in the

next few months. You know I am going to make the fight for nomination

to the seat on the bench which is vacant this fall."

"Indeed. I have not so far taken much interest in politics, but I will

do all in my power to help you with both nomination and election."

"Thank you," said Mr. Featherton, "I am sure you can be of great

service to me as the vote of your people is pretty heavy in Broughton.

I have always been a friend to them, and I believe I can depend upon

their support. I shall be glad of any good you can do me with them."

Bert laughed when he was out on the street again. "For value

received," he said. He thought less of Mr. Featherton's generosity

since he saw it was actuated by self-interest alone, but that in no

wise destroyed the real worth of the opportunity that was now given

into his hands. Featherton, he believed, would make an excellent

judge, and he was glad that in working for his nomination his

convictions so aptly fell in with his inclinations.

His work at the factory had put him in touch with a larger number of

his people than he could have possibly met had he gone into the office

at once. Over them, his naturally bright mind exerted some influence.

As a simple laborer he had fellowshipped with them but they

acknowledged and availed themselves of his leadership, because they

felt instinctively in him a power which they did not have. Among them

now he worked sedulously. He held that the greater part of the battle

would be in the primaries, and on the night when they convened, he had

his friends out in force in every ward which went to make up the

third judicial district. Men who had never seen the inside of a

primary meeting before were there actively engaged in this.

The _Diurnal_ said next morning that the active interest of the

hard-working, church-going colored voters, who wanted to see a

Christian judge on the bench had had much to do with the nomination of

Mr. Featherton.

The success at the primaries did not tempt Halliday to relinquish his

efforts on his employer's behalf. He was indefatigable in his cause.

On the west side where the colored population had largely colonized,

he made speeches and held meetings clear up to election day. The fight

had been between two factions of the party and after the nomination it

was feared that the defection of the part defeated in the primaries

might prevent the ratification of the nominee at the polls. But before

the contest was half over all fears for him were laid. What he had

lost in the districts where the skulking faction was strong, he made

up in the wards where the colored vote was large. He was

overwhelmingly elected.

Halliday smiled as he sat in the office and heard the congratulations

poured in upon Judge Featherton.

"Well, it's wonderful," said one of his visitors, "how the colored

boys stood by you."

"Yes, I have been a friend to the colored people, and they know it,"

said Featherton.

It would be some months before His Honor would take his seat on the

bench, and during that time, Halliday hoped to finish his office

course.

He was surprised when Featherton came to him a couple of weeks after

the election and said, "Well, Bert, I guess I can get along now. I'll

be shutting up this office pretty soon. Here are your wages and here

is a little gift I wish to add out of respect to you for your kindness

during my run for office."

Bert took the wages, but the added ten dollar note he waved aside.

"No, I thank you, Mr. Featherton," he said, "what I did, I did from a

belief in your fitness for the place, and out of loyalty to my

employer. I don't want any money for it."

"Then let us say that I have raised your wages to this amount."

"No, that would only be evasion. I want no more than you promised to

give me."

"Very well, then accept my thanks, anyway."

What things he had at the office Halliday took away that night. A

couple of days later he remembered a book which he had failed to get

and returned for it. The office was as usual. Mr. Featherton was a

little embarrassed and nervous. At Halliday's desk sat a young white

man about his own age. He was copying a deed for Mr. Featherton.

PARY IV

Bertram Halliday went home, burning with indignation at the treatment

he had received at the hands of the Christian judge.

"He has used me as a housemaid would use a lemon," he said, "squeezed

all out of me he could get, and then flung me into the street. Well,

Webb was nearer right than I thought."

He was now out of everything. His place at the factory had been

filled, and no new door opened to him. He knew what reward a search

for work brought a man of his color in Broughton so he did not bestir

himself to go over the old track again. He thanked his stars that he,

at least, had money enough to carry him away from the place and he

determined to go. His spirit was quelled, but not broken.

Just before leaving, he wrote to Davis.

"My dear Webb!" the letter ran, "you, after all, were right. We have

little or no show in the fight for life among these people. I have

struggled for two years here at Broughton, and now find myself back

where I was when I first stepped out of school with a foolish faith in

being equipped for something. One thing, my eyes have been opened

anyway, and I no longer judge so harshly the shiftless and unambitious

among my people. I hardly see how a people, who have so much to

contend with and so little to hope for, can go on striving and

aspiring. But the very fact that they do, breeds in me a respect for

them. I now see why so many promising young men, class orators,

valedictorians and the like fall by the wayside and are never heard

from after commencement day. I now see why the sleeping and dining-car

companies are supplied by men with better educations than half the

passengers whom they serve. They get tired of swimming always against

the tide, as who would not? and are content to drift.

"I know that a good many of my friends would say that I am whining.

Well, suppose I am, that's the business of a whipped cur. The dog on

top can bark, but the under dog must howl.

"Nothing so breaks a man's spirit as defeat, constant, unaltering,

hopeless defeat. That's what I've experienced. I am still studying law

in a half-hearted way for I don't know what I am going to do with it

when I have been admitted. Diplomas don't draw clients. We have been

taught that merit wins. But I have learned that the adages, as well as

the books and the formulas were made by and for others than us of the

black race.

"They say, too, that our brother Americans sympathize with us, and

will help us when we help ourselves. Bah! The only sympathy that I

have ever seen on the part of the white man was not for the negro

himself, but for some portion of white blood that the colored man had

got tangled up in his veins.

"But there, perhaps my disappointment has made me sour, so think no

more of what I have said. I am going now to do what I abhor. Going

South to try to find a school. It's awful. But I don't want any one to

pity me. There are several thousands of us in the same position.

"I am glad you are prospering. You were better equipped than I was

with a deal of materialism and a dearth of ideals. Give us a line when

you are in good heart.

"Yours, HALLIDAY.

"P.S.--Just as I finished writing I had a note from Judge Featherton

offering me the court messengership at five dollars a week. I am

twenty-five. The place was held before by a white boy of fifteen. I

declined. 'Southward Ho!'"

Davis was not without sympathy as he read his friend's letter in a

city some distance away. He had worked in a hotel, saved money enough

to start a barber-shop and was prospering. His white customers joked

with him and patted him on the back, and he was already known to have

political influence. Yes, he sympathized with Bert, but he laughed

over the letter and jingled the coins in his pockets.

"Thank heaven," he said, "that I have no ideals to be knocked into a

cocked hat. A colored man has no business with ideals--not in _this_

nineteenth century!"

JIM'S PROBATION

For so long a time had Jim been known as the hardest sinner on the

plantation that no one had tried to reach the heart under his outward

shell even in camp-meeting and revival times. Even good old Brother

Parker, who was ever looking after the lost and straying sheep, gave

him up as beyond recall.

"Dat Jim," he said, "Oomph, de debbil done got his stamp on dat boy,

an' dey ain' no use in tryin' to scratch hit off."

"But Parker," said his master, "that's the very sort of man you want

to save. Don't you know it's your business as a man of the gospel to

call sinners to repentance?"

"Lawd, Mas' Mordaunt," exclaimed the old man, "my v'ice done got

hoa'se callin' Jim, too long ergo to talk erbout. You jes' got to let

him go 'long, maybe some o' dese days he gwine slip up on de gospel

an' fall plum' inter salvation."

Even Mandy, Jim's wife, had attempted to urge the old man to some more

active efforts in her husband's behalf. She was a pillar of the

church herself, and was woefully disturbed about the condition of

Jim's soul. Indeed, it was said that half of the time it was Mandy's

prayers and exhortations that drove Jim into the woods with his dog

and his axe, or an old gun that he had come into possession of from

one of the younger Mordaunts.

Jim was unregenerate. He was a fighter, a hard drinker, fiddled on

Sunday, and had been known to go out hunting on that sacred day. So it

startled the whole place when Mandy announced one day to a few of her

intimate friends that she believed "Jim was under conviction." He had

stolen out hunting one Sunday night and in passing through the swamp

had gotten himself thoroughly wet and chilled, and this had brought on

an attack of acute rheumatism, which Mandy had pointed out to him as a

direct judgment of heaven. Jim scoffed at first, but Mandy grew more

and more earnest, and finally, with the racking of the pain, he waxed

serious and determined to look to the state of his soul as a means to

the good of his body.

"Hit do seem," Mandy said, "dat Jim feel de weight o' his sins mos'

powahful."

"I reckon hit's de rheumatics," said Dinah.

[Illustration: JIM.]

"Don' mek no diffunce what de inst'ument is," Mandy replied, "hit's de

'sult, hit's de 'sult."

When the news reached Stuart Mordaunt's ears he became intensely

interested. Anything that would convert Jim, and make a model

Christian of him would be providential on that plantation. It would

save the overseers many an hour's worry; his horses, many a secret

ride; and the other servants, many a broken head. So he again went

down to labor with Parker in the interest of the sinner.

"Is he mou'nin' yit?" said Parker.

"No, not yet, but I think now is a good time to sow the seeds in his

mind."

"Oomph," said the old man, "reckon you bettah let Jim alone twell dem

sins o' his'n git him to tossin' an' cryin' an' a mou'nin'. Den'll be

time enough to strive wid him. I's allus willin' to do my pa't, Mas'

Stuart, but w'en hit comes to ol' time sinnahs lak Jim, I believe in

layin' off, an' lettin' de sperit do de strivin'."

"But Parker," said his master, "you yourself know that the Bible says

that the spirit will not always strive."

"Well, la den, mas', you don' spec' I gwine outdo de sperit."

But Stuart Mordaunt was particularly anxious that Jim's steps might be

turned in the right direction. He knew just what a strong hold over

their minds the Negroes' own emotional religion had, and he felt that

could he once get Jim inside the pale of the church, and put him on

guard of his salvation, it would mean the loss of fewer of his shoats

and pullets. So he approached the old preacher, and said in a

confidential tone.

"Now look here, Parker, I've got a fine lot of that good old tobacco

you like so up to the big house, and I'll tell you what I'll do. If

you'll just try to work on Jim, and get his feet in the right path,

you can come up and take all you want."

"Oom-oomph," said the old man, "dat sho' is monst'ous fine terbaccer,

Mas' Stua't."

"Yes, it is, and you shall have all you want of it."

"Well, I'll have a little wisit wid Jim, an' des' see how much he

'fected, an' if dey any stroke to be put in fu' de gospel ahmy, you

des' count on me ez a mighty strong wa'ior. Dat boy been layin' heavy

on my mind fu' lo, dese many days."

As a result of this agreement, the old man went down to Jim's cabin on

a night when that interesting sinner was suffering particularly from

his rheumatic pains.

"Well, Jim," the preacher said, "how you come on?"

"Po'ly, po'ly," said Jim, "I des' plum' racked an' 'stracted f'om haid

to foot."

"Uh, huh, hit do seem lak to me de Bible don' tell nuffin' else but de

trufe."

"What de Bible been sayin' now?" asked Jim suspiciously.

"Des' what it been sayin' all de res' o' de time. 'Yo' sins will fin'

you out'"

Jim groaned and turned uneasily in his chair. The old man saw that he

had made a point and pursued it.

"Don' you reckon now, Jim, ef you was a bettah man dat you wouldn'

suffah so?"

"I do' know, I do' know nuffin' 'bout hit."

"Now des' look at me. I ben a-trompin' erlong in dis low groun' o'

sorrer fu' mo' den seventy yeahs, an' I hain't got a ache ner a pain.

Nevah had no rheumatics in my life, an' yere you is, a young man, in a

mannah o' speakin', all twinged up wid rheumatics. Now what dat p'int

to? Hit mean de Lawd tek keer o' dem dat's his'n. Now Jim, you bettah

come ovah on de Lawd's side, an' git erway f'om yo' ebil doin's."

Jim groaned again, and lifted his swollen leg with an effort just as

Brother Parker said, "Let us pray."

The prayer itself was less effective than the request was just at that

time for Jim was so stiff that it made him fairly howl with pain to

get down on his knees. The old man's supplication was loud, deep, and

diplomatic, and when they arose from their knees there were tears in

Jim's eyes, but whether from cramp or contrition it is not safe to

say. But a day or two after, the visit bore fruit in the appearance of

Jim at meeting where he sat on one of the very last benches, his

shoulders hunched, and his head bowed, unmistakable signs of the

convicted sinner.

The usual term of mourning passed, and Jim was converted, much to

Mandy's joy, and Brother Parker's delight. The old man called early on

his master after the meeting, and announced the success of his labors.

Stuart Mordaunt himself was no less pleased than the preacher. He

shook Parker warmly by the hand, patted him on the shoulder, and

called him a "sly old fox." And then he took him to the cupboard, and

gave him of his store of good tobacco, enough to last him for months.

Something else, too, he must have given him, for the old man came away

from the cupboard grinning broadly, and ostentatiously wiping his

mouth with the back of his hand.

"Great work you've done, Parker, a great work."

"Yes, yes, Mas'," grinned the old man, "now ef Jim can des' stan' out

his p'obation, hit'll be montrous fine."

"His probation!" exclaimed the master.

"Oh yes suh, yes suh, we has all de young convu'ts stan' a p'obation

o' six months, fo' we teks 'em reg'lar inter de chu'ch. Now ef Jim

will des' stan' strong in de faif--"

"Parker," said Mordaunt, "you're an old wretch, and I've got a mind to

take every bit of that tobacco away from you. No. I'll tell you what

I'll do."

He went back to the cupboard and got as much again as he had given

Parker, and handed it to him saying,

"I think it will be better for all concerned if Jim's probation only

lasts two months. Get him into the fold, Parker, get him into the

fold!" And he shoved the ancient exhorter out of the door.

It grieved Jim that he could not go 'possum hunting on Sundays any

more, but shortly after he got religion, his rheumatism seemed to take

a turn for the better and he felt that the result was worth the

sacrifice. But as the pain decreased in his legs and arms, the longing

for his old wicked pleasures became stronger and stronger upon him

though Mandy thought that he was living out the period of his

probation in the most exemplary manner, and inwardly rejoiced.

It was two weeks before he was to be regularly admitted to church

fellowship. His industrious spouse had decked him out in a bleached

cotton shirt in which to attend divine service. In the morning Jim was

there. The sermon which Brother Parker preached was powerful, but

somehow it failed to reach this new convert. His gaze roved out of the

window toward the dark line of the woods beyond, where the frost still

glistened on the trees and where he knew the persimmons were hanging

ripe. Jim was present at the afternoon service also, for it was a

great day; and again, he was preoccupied. He started and clasped his

hands together until the bones cracked, when a dog barked somewhere

out on the hill. The sun was going down over the tops of the woodland

trees, throwing the forest into gloom, as they came out of the log

meeting-house. Jim paused and looked lovingly at the scene, and sighed

as he turned his steps back toward the cabin.

That night Mandy went to church alone. Jim had disappeared. Nowhere

around was his axe, and Spot, his dog, was gone. Mandy looked over

toward the woods whose tops were feathered against the frosty sky, and

away off, she heard a dog bark.

Brother Parker was feeling his way home from meeting late that night,

when all of a sudden, he came upon a man creeping toward the quarters.

The man had an axe and a dog, and over his shoulders hung a bag in

which the outlines of a 'possum could be seen.

"Hi, oh, Brothah Jim, at it agin?"

Jim did not reply. "Well, des' heish up an' go 'long. We got to mek

some 'lowances fu' you young convu'ts. Wen you gwine cook dat 'possum,

Brothah Jim?"

"I do' know, Brothah Pahkah. He so po', I 'low I haveter keep him and

fatten him fu' awhile."

"Uh, huh! well, so long, Jim."

"So long, Brothah Pahkah." Jim chuckled as he went away. "I 'low I

fool dat ol' fox. Wanter come down an' eat up my one little 'possum,

do he? huh, uh!"

So that very night Jim scraped his possum, and hung it out-of-doors,

and the next day, brown as the forest whence it came, it lay on a

great platter on Jim's table. It was a fat possum too. Jim had just

whetted his knife, and Mandy had just finished the blessing when the

latch was lifted and Brother Parker stepped in.

"Hi, oh, Brothah Jim, I's des' in time."

Jim sat with his mouth open. "Draw up a cheer, Brothah Pahkah," said

Mandy. Her husband rose, and put his hand over the possum.

"Wha--wha'd you come hyeah fu'?" he asked.

"I thought I'd des' come in an' tek a bite wid you."

"Ain' gwine tek no bite wid me," said Jim.

"Heish," said Mandy, "wha' kin' o' way is dat to talk to de preachah?"

"Preachah er no preachah, you hyeah what I say," and he took the

possum, and put it on the highest shelf.

"Wha's de mattah wid you, Jim; dat's one o' de' 'quiahments o' de

chu'ch."

The angry man turned to the preacher.

"Is it one o' de 'quiahments o' de chu'ch dat you eat hyeah

ter-night?"

"Hit sholy am usual fu' de shepherd to sup wherevah he stop," said

Parker suavely.

"Ve'y well, ve'y well," said Jim, "I wants you to know dat I 'specs to

stay out o' yo' chu'ch. I's got two weeks mo' p'obation. You tek hit

back, an' gin hit to de nex' niggah you ketches wid a 'possum."

Mandy was horrified. The preacher looked longingly at the possum, and

took up his hat to go.

There were two disappointed men on the plantation when he told his

master the next day the outcome of Jim's probation.

UNCLE SIMON'S SUNDAYS OUT

Mr. Marston sat upon his wide veranda in the cool of the summer

Sabbath morning. His hat was off, the soft breeze was playing with his

brown hair, and a fragrant cigar was rolled lazily between his lips.

He was taking his ease after the fashion of a true gentleman. But his

eyes roamed widely, and his glance rested now on the blue-green sweep

of the great lawn, again on the bright blades of the growing corn, and

anon on the waving fields of tobacco, and he sighed a sigh of

ineffable content. The breath had hardly died on his lips when the

figure of an old man appeared before him, and, hat in hand, shuffled

up the wide steps of the porch.

It was a funny old figure, stooped and so one-sided that the tail of

the long and shabby coat he wore dragged on the ground. The face was

black and shrewd, and little patches of snow-white hair fringed the

shiny pate.

"Good-morning, Uncle Simon," said Mr. Marston, heartily.

"Mornin' Mas' Gawge. How you come on?"

"I'm first-rate. How are you? How are your rheumatics coming on?"

"Oh, my, dey's mos' nigh well. Dey don' trouble me no mo'!"

"Most nigh well, don't trouble you any more?"

"Dat is none to speak of."

"Why, Uncle Simon, who ever heard tell of a man being cured of his

aches and pains at your age?"

"I ain' so powahful ol', Mas', I ain' so powahful ol'."

"You're not so powerful old! Why, Uncle Simon, what's taken hold of

you? You're eighty if a day."

"Sh--sh, talk dat kin' o' low, Mastah, don' 'spress yo'se'f so loud!"

and the old man looked fearfully around as if he feared some one might

hear the words.

The master fell back in his seat in utter surprise.

"And, why, I should like to know, may I not speak of your age aloud?"

Uncle Simon showed his two or three remaining teeth in a broad grin as

he answered:

"Well, Mastah, I's 'fraid ol' man Time mought hyeah you an' t'ink he

done let me run too long." He chuckled, and his master joined him with

a merry peal of laughter.

"All right, then, Simon," he said, "I'll try not to give away any of

your secrets to old man Time. But isn't your age written down

somewhere?"

"I reckon it's in dat ol' Bible yo' pa gin me."

"Oh, let it alone then, even Time won't find it there."

The old man shifted the weight of his body from one leg to the other

and stood embarrassedly twirling his ancient hat in his hands. There

was evidently something more that he wanted to say. He had not come to

exchange commonplaces with his master about age or its ailments.

"Well, what is it now, Uncle Simon?" the master asked, heeding the

servant's embarrassment, "I know you've come up to ask or tell me

something. Have any of your converts been backsliding, or has Buck

been misbehaving again?"

"No, suh, de converts all seem to be stan'in' strong in de faif, and

Buck, he actin' right good now."

"Doesn't Lize bring your meals regular, and cook them good?"

"Oh, yes, suh, Lize ain' done nuffin'. Dey ain' nuffin' de mattah at

de quahtahs, nuffin' 't'al."

"Well, what on earth then--"

"Hol' on, Mas', hol' on! I done tol' you dey ain' nuffin' de mattah

'mong de people, an' I ain' come to 'plain 'bout nuffin'; but--but--I

wants to speak to you 'bout somefin' mighty partic'ler."

"Well, go on, because it will soon be time for you to be getting down

to the meeting-house to exhort the hands."

"Dat's jes' what I want to speak 'bout, dat 'zortin'."

"Well, you've been doing it for a good many years now."

"Dat's de very idee, dat's in my haid now. Mas' Gawge, huccume you

read me so nigh right?"

"Oh, that's not reading anything, that's just truth. But what do you

mean, Uncle Simon, you don't mean to say that you want to resign. Why

what would your old wife think if she was living?"

"No, no, Mas' Gawge, I don't ezzactly want to 'sign, but I'd jes' lak

to have a few Sundays off."

"A few Sundays off! Well, now, I do believe that you are crazy. What

on earth put that into your head?"

"Nuffin', Mas' Gawge, I wants to be away f'om my Sabbaf labohs fu' a

little while, dat's all."

"Why, what are the hands going to do for some one to exhort them on

Sunday. You know they've got to shout or burst, and it used to be your

delight to get them stirred up until all the back field was ringing."

"I do' say dat I ain' gwine try an' do dat some mo', Mastah, min' I

do' say dat. But in de mean time I's got somebody else to tek my

place, one dat I trained up in de wo'k right undah my own han'. Mebbe

he ain' endowed wif de sperrit as I is, all men cain't be gifted de

same way, but dey ain't no sputin' he is powahful. Why, he can handle

de Scriptures wif bof han's, an' you kin hyeah him prayin' fu' two

miles."

"And you want to put this wonder in your place?"

"Yes, suh, fu' a while, anyhow."

"Uncle Simon, aren't you losing your religion?"

"Losin' my u'ligion? Who, me losin' my u'ligion! No, suh."

"Well, aren't you afraid you'll lose it on the Sundays that you spend

out of your meeting-house?"

"Now, Mas' Gawge, you a white man, an' you my mastah, an' you got

larnin'. But what kin' o' argyment is dat? Is dat good jedgment?"

"Well, now if it isn't, you show me why, you're a logician." There was

a twinkle in the eye of George Marston as he spoke.

"No, I ain' no 'gician, Mastah," the old man contended. "But what kin'

o' u'ligion you spec' I got anyhow? Hyeah me been sto'in' it up fu'

lo, dese many yeahs an' ain' got enough to las' ovah a few Sundays.

What kin' o' u'ligion is dat?"

The master laughed, "I believe you've got me there, Uncle Simon; well

go along, but see that your flock is well tended."

"Thanky, Mas' Gawge, thanky. I'll put a shepherd in my place dat'll

put de food down so low dat de littles' lambs kin enjoy it, but'll mek

it strong enough fu' de oldes' ewes." And with a profound bow the old

man went down the steps and hobbled away.

As soon as Uncle Simon was out of sight, George Marston threw back his

head and gave a long shout of laughter.

"I wonder," he mused, "what crotchet that old darkey has got into his

head now. He comes with all the air of a white divine to ask for a

vacation. Well, I reckon he deserves it. He had me on the religious

argument, too. He's got his grace stored." And another peal of her

husband's laughter brought Mrs. Marston from the house.

"George, George, what is the matter. What amuses you so that you

forget that this is the Sabbath day?"

"Oh, don't talk to me about Sunday any more, when it comes to the pass

that the Reverend Simon Marston wants a vacation. It seems that the

cares of his parish have been too pressing upon him and he wishes to

be away for some time. He does not say whether he will visit Europe or

the Holy Land, however, we shall expect him to come back with much new

and interesting material for the edification of his numerous

congregation."

"I wish you would tell me what you mean by all this."

Thus adjured, George Marston curbed his amusement long enough to

recount to his wife the particulars of his interview with Uncle Simon.

"Well, well, and you carry on so, only because one of the servants

wishes his Sundays to himself for awhile? Shame on you!"

"Mrs. Marston," said her husband, solemnly, "you are

hopeless--positively, undeniably, hopeless. I do not object to your

failing to see the humor in the situation, for you are a woman; but

that you should not be curious as to the motives which actuate Uncle

Simon, that you should be unmoved by a burning desire to know why this

staunch old servant who has for so many years pictured hell each

Sunday to his fellow-servants should wish a vacation--that I can

neither understand nor forgive."

"Oh, I can see why easily enough, and so could you, if you were not so

intent on laughing at everything. The poor old man is tired and wants

rest, that's all." And Mrs. Marston turned into the house with a

stately step, for she was a proud and dignified lady.

"And that reason satisfies you? Ah, Mrs. Marston, Mrs. Marston, you

discredit your sex!" her husband sighed, mockingly after her.

There was perhaps some ground for George Marston's perplexity as to

Uncle Simon's intentions. His request for "Sundays off" was so

entirely out of the usual order of things. The old man, with the other

servants on the plantation had been bequeathed to Marston by his

father. Even then, Uncle Simon was an old man, and for many years in

the elder Marston's time had been the plantation exhorter. In this

position he continued, and as his age increased, did little of

anything else. He had a little log house built in a stretch of woods

convenient to the quarters, where Sunday after Sunday he held forth to

as many of the hands as could be encouraged to attend.

With time, the importance of his situation grew upon him. He would

have thought as soon of giving up his life as his pulpit to any one

else. He was never absent a single meeting day in all that time.

Sunday after Sunday he was in his place expounding his doctrine. He

had grown officious, too, and if any of his congregation were away

from service, Monday morning found him early at their cabins to find

out the reason why.

After a life, then, of such punctilious rigidity, it is no wonder that

his master could not accept Mrs. Marston's simple excuse for Uncle

Simon's dereliction, "that the old man needed rest." For the time

being, the good lady might have her way, as all good ladies should,

but as for him, he chose to watch and wait and speculate.

Mrs. Marston, however, as well as her husband, was destined to hear

more that day of Uncle Simon's strange move, for there was one other

person on the place who was not satisfied with Uncle Simon's

explanation of his conduct, and yet could not as easily as the

mistress formulate an opinion of her own. This was Lize, who did about

the quarters and cooked the meals of the older servants who were no

longer in active service.

It was just at the dinner hour that she came hurrying up to the "big

house," and with the freedom of an old and privileged retainer went

directly to the dining-room.

"Look hyeah, Mis' M'ree," she exclaimed, without the formality of

prefacing her remarks, "I wants to know whut's de mattah wif Brothah

Simon--what mek him ac' de way he do?"

"Why, I do not know, Eliza, what has Uncle Simon been doing?"

"Why, some o' you all mus' know, lessn' he couldn' 'a' done hit. Ain'

he ax you nuffin', Marse Gawge?"

"Yes, he did have some talk with me."

"Some talk! I reckon he did have some talk wif somebody!"

"Tell us, Lize," Mr. Marston said, "what has Uncle Simon done?"

"He done brung somebody else, dat young Merrit darky, to oc'py his

pu'pit. He in'juce him, an' 'en he say dat he gwine be absent a few

Sundays, an' 'en he tek hissef off, outen de chu'ch, widout even

waitin' fu' de sehmont."

"Well, didn't you have a good sermon?"

"It mought 'a' been a good sehmont, but dat ain' whut I ax you. I want

to know whut de mattah wif Brothah Simon."

"Why, he told me that the man he put over you was one of the most

powerful kind, warranted to make you shout until the last bench was

turned over."

"Oh, some o' dem, dey shouted enough, dey shouted dey fill. But dat

ain' whut I's drivin' at yit. Whut I wan' 'o know, whut mek Brothah

Simon do dat?"

"Well, I'll tell you, Lize," Marston began, but his wife cut him off.

"Now, George," she said, "you shall not trifle with Eliza in that

manner." Then turning to the old servant, she said: "Eliza, it means

nothing. Do not trouble yourself about it. You know Uncle Simon is

old; he has been exhorting for you now for many years, and he needs a

little rest these Sundays. It is getting toward midsummer, and it is

warm and wearing work to preach as Uncle Simon does."

Lize stood still, with an incredulous and unsatisfied look on her

face. After a while she said, dubiously shaking her head:

"Huh uh! Miss M'ree, dat may 'splain t'ings to you, but hit ain' mek

'em light to me yit."

"Now, Mrs. Marston"--began her husband, chuckling.

"Hush, I tell you, George. It's really just as I tell you, Eliza, the

old man is tired and needs rest!"

Again the old woman shook her head, "Huh uh," she said, "ef you'd' a'

seen him gwine lickety split outen de meetin'-house you wouldn' a

thought he was so tiahed."

Marston laughed loud and long at this. "Well, Mrs. Marston," he

bantered, "even Lize is showing a keener perception of the fitness of

things than you."

"There are some things I can afford to be excelled in by my husband

and my servants. For my part, I have no suspicion of Uncle Simon, and

no concern about him either one way or the other."

"'Scuse me, Miss M'ree," said Lize, "I didn' mean no ha'm to you, but

I ain' a trustin' ol' Brothah Simon, I tell you."

"I'm not blaming you, Eliza; you are sensible as far as you know."

"Ahem," said Mr. Marston.

Eliza went out mumbling to herself, and Mr. Marston confined his

attentions to his dinner; he chuckled just once, but Mrs. Marston met

his levity with something like a sniff.

On the first two Sundays that Uncle Simon was away from his

congregation nothing was known about his whereabouts. On the third

Sunday he was reported to have been seen making his way toward the

west plantation. Now what did this old man want there? The west

plantation, so called, was a part of the Marston domain, but the land

there was worked by a number of slaves which Mrs. Marston had brought

with her from Louisiana, where she had given up her father's gorgeous

home on the Bayou Lafourche, together with her proud name of Marie

St. Pierre for George Marston's love. There had been so many

bickerings between the Marston servants and the contingent from

Louisiana that the two sets had been separated, the old remaining on

the east side and the new ones going to the west. So, to those who had

been born on the soil the name of the west plantation became a

reproach. It was a synonym for all that was worldly, wicked and

unregenerate. The east plantation did not visit with the west. The

east gave a dance, the west did not attend. The Marstons and St.

Pierres in black did not intermarry. If a Marston died, a St. Pierre

did not sit up with him. And so the division had kept up for years.

It was hardly to be believed then that Uncle Simon Marston, the very

patriarch of the Marston flock, was visiting over the border. But on

another Sunday he was seen to go straight to the west plantation.

At her first opportunity Lize accosted him:--

"Look a-hyeah, Brothah Simon, whut's dis I been hyeahin' 'bout you,

huh?"

"Well, sis' Lize, I reckon you'll have to tell me dat yo' se'f, 'case

I do' know. Whut you been hyeahin'?"

"Brothah Simon, you's a ol' man, you's ol'."

"Well, sis' Lize, dah was Methusalem."

"I ain' jokin', Brothah Simon, I ain' jokin', I's a talkin' right

straightfo'wa'd. Yo' conduc' don' look right. Hit ain' becomin' to you

as de shepherd of a flock."

"But whut I been doin', sistah, whut I been doin'?"

"You know."

"I reckon I do, but I wan' see whethah you does er not."

"You been gwine ovah to de wes' plantation, dat's whut you been doin'.

You can' 'ny dat, you's been seed!"

"I do' wan' 'ny it. Is dat all?"

"Is dat all!" Lize stood aghast. Then she said slowly and wonderingly,

"Brothah Simon, is you losin' yo' senses er yo' grace?"

"I ain' losin' one ner 'tothah, but I do' see no ha'm in gwine ovah to

de wes' plantation."

"You do' see no ha'm in gwine ovah to de wes' plantation! You stan'

hyeah in sight o' Gawd an' say dat?"

"Don't git so 'cited, sis' Lize, you mus' membah dat dey's souls on de

wes' plantation, jes' same as dey is on de eas'."

"Yes, an' dey's souls in hell, too," the old woman fired back.

"Cose dey is, but dey's already damned; but dey's souls on de wes'

plantation to be saved."

"Oomph, uh, uh, uh!" grunted Lize.

"You done called me de shepherd, ain't you, sistah? Well, sayin' I is,

when dey's little lambs out in de col' an' dey ain' got sense 'nough

to come in, er dey do' know de way, whut do de shepherd do? Why, he go

out, an' he hunt up de po' shiverin', bleatin' lambs and brings 'em

into de fol'. Don't you bothah 'bout de wes' plantation, sis' Lize."

And Uncle Simon hobbled off down the road with surprising alacrity,

leaving his interlocutor standing with mouth and eyes wide open.

"Well, I nevah!" she exclaimed when she could get her lips together,

"I do believe de day of jedgmen' is at han'."

Of course this conversation was duly reported to the master and

mistress, and called forth some strictures from Mrs. Marston on Lize's

attempted interference with the old man's good work.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Eliza, that you ought. After the

estrangement of all this time if Uncle Simon can effect a

reconciliation between the west and the east plantations, you ought

not to lay a straw in his way. I am sure there is more of a real

Christian spirit in that than in shouting and singing for hours, and

then coming out with your heart full of malice. You need not laugh,

Mr. Marston, you need not laugh at all. I am very much in earnest, and

I do hope that Uncle Simon will continue his ministrations on the

other side. If he wants to, he can have a room built in which to lead

their worship."

"But you do' want him to leave us altogethah?"

"If you do not care to share your meeting-house with them, they can

have one of their own."

"But, look hyeah, Missy, dem Lousiany people, dey bad--an' dey hoodoo

folks, an' dey Cath'lics--"

"Eliza!"

"'Scuse me, Missy, chile, bless yo' hea't, you know I do' mean no ha'm

to you. But somehow I do' feel right in my hea't 'bout Brothah Simon."

"Never mind, Eliza, it is only evil that needs to be watched, the good

will take care of itself."

It was not one, nor two, nor three Sundays that Brother Simon was away

from his congregation, but six passed before he was there again. He

was seen to be very busy tinkering around during the week, and then

one Sunday he appeared suddenly in his pulpit. The church nodded and

smiled a welcome to him. There was no change in him. If anything he

was more fiery than ever. But, there was a change. Lize, who was

news-gatherer and carrier extraordinary, bore the tidings to her

owners. She burst into the big house with the cry of "Whut I tell you!

Whut I tell you!"

"Well, what now," exclaimed both Mr. and Mrs. Marston.

"Didn' I tell you ol' Simon was up to some'p'n?"

"Out with it," exclaimed her master, "out with it, I knew he was up to

something, too."

"George, try to remember who you are."

"Brothah Simon come in chu'ch dis mo'nin' an' he 'scended up de

pulpit--"

"Well, what of that, are you not glad he is back?"

"Hol' on, lemme tell you--he 'scended up de pu'pit, an' 'menced his

disco'se. Well, he hadn't no sooner got sta'ted when in walked one o'

dem brazen Lousiany wenches--"

"Eliza!"

"Hol' on, Miss M'ree, she walked in lak she owned de place, an'

flopped huhse'f down on de front seat."

"Well, what if she did," burst in Mrs. Marston, "she had a right. I

want you to understand, you and the rest of your kind, that that

meeting-house is for any of the hands that care to attend it. The

woman did right. I hope she'll come again."

"I hadn' got done yit, Missy. Jes' ez soon ez de sehmont was ovah,

whut mus' Brothah Simon, de 'zortah, min' you, whut mus' he do but

come hoppin' down f'om de pu'pit, an' beau dat wench home! 'Scorted

huh clah 'crost de plantation befo' evahbody's face. Now whut you call

dat?"

"I call it politeness, that is what I call it. What are you laughing

at, Mr. Marston? I have no doubt that the old man was merely trying to

set an example of courtesy to some of the younger men, or to protect

the woman from the insults that the other members of the congregation

would heap upon her. Mr. Marston, I do wish you would keep your face

serious. There is nothing to laugh at in this matter. A worthy old man

tries to do a worthy work, his fellow-servants cavil at him, and his

master, who should encourage him, laughs at him for his pains."

"I assure you, my dear, I'm not laughing at Uncle Simon."

"Then at me, perhaps; that is infinitely better."

"And not at you, either; I'm amused at the situation."

"Well, Manette ca'ied him off dis mo'nin'," resumed Eliza.

"Manette!" exclaimed Mrs. Marston.

"It was Manette he was a beauin'. Evahbody say he likin' huh moughty

well, an' dat he look at huh all th'oo preachin'."

"Oh my! Manette's one of the nicest girls I brought from St. Pierre. I

hope--oh, but then she is a young woman, she would not think of being

foolish over an old man."

"I do' know, Miss M'ree. De ol' men is de wuss kin'. De young oomans

knows how to tek de young mans, 'case dey de same age, an' dey been

lu'nin' dey tricks right along wif dem'; but de ol' men, dey got sich

a long sta't ahaid, dey been lu'nin' so long. Ef I had a darter, I

wouldn' be afeard to let huh tek keer o' huhse'f wif a young man, but

ef a ol' man come a cou'tin' huh, I'd keep my own two eyes open."

"Eliza, you're a philosopher," said Mr. Marston. "You're one of the

few reasoners of your sex."

"It is all nonsense," said his wife. "Why Uncle Simon is old enough to

be Manette's grandfather."

"Love laughs at years."

"And you laugh at everything."

"That's the difference between love and me, my dear Mrs. Marston."

"Do not pay any attention to your master, Eliza, and do not be so

suspicious of every one. It is all right. Uncle Simon had Manette

over, because he thought the service would do her good."

"Yes'm, I 'low she's one o' de young lambs dat he gone out in de col'

to fotch in. Well, he tek'n' moughty good keer o' dat lamb."

Mrs. Marston was compelled to laugh in spite of herself. But when

Eliza was gone, she turned to her husband, and said:

"George, dear, do you really think there is anything in it?"

"I thoroughly agree with you, Mrs. Marston, in the opinion that Uncle

Simon needed rest, and I may add on my own behalf, recreation."

"Pshaw! I do not believe it."

All doubts, however, were soon dispelled. The afternoon sun drove Mr.

Marston to the back veranda where he was sitting when Uncle Simon

again approached and greeted him.

"Well, Uncle Simon, I hear that you're back in your pulpit again?"

"Yes, suh, I's done 'sumed my labohs in de Mastah's vineya'd."'

"Have you had a good rest of it?"

"Well, I ain' ezzackly been restin'," said the aged man, scratching

his head. "I's been pu'su'in' othah 'ployments."

"Oh, yes, but change of work is rest. And how's the rheumatism, now,

any better?"

"Bettah? Why, Mawse Gawge, I ain' got a smidgeon of hit. I's jes'

limpin' a leetle bit on 'count o' habit."

"Well, it's good if one can get well, even if his days are nearly

spent."

"Heish, Mas' Gawge. I ain' t'inkin' 'bout dyin'."

"Aren't you ready yet, in all these years?"

"I hope I's ready, but I hope to be spaihed a good many yeahs yit."

"To do good, I suppose?"

"Yes, suh; yes, suh. Fac' is, Mawse Gawge, I jes' hop up to ax you

some'p'n."

"Well, here I am."

"I want to ax you--I want to ax you--er--er--I want--"

"Oh, speak out. I haven't time to be bothering here all day."

"Well, you know, Mawse Gawge, some o' us ain' nigh ez ol' ez dey

looks."

"That's true. A person, now, would take you for ninety, and to my

positive knowledge, you're not more than eighty-five."

"Oh, Lawd. Mastah, do heish."

"I'm not flattering you, that's the truth."

"Well, now, Mawse Gawge, couldn' you mek me' look lak eighty-fo', an'

be a little youngah?"

"Why, what do you want to be younger for?"

"You see, hit's jes' lak dis, Mawse Gawge. I come up hyeah to ax

you--I want--dat is--me an' Manette, we wants to git ma'ied."

"Get married!" thundered Marston. "What you, you old scarecrow, with

one foot in the grave!"

"Heish, Mastah, 'buse me kin' o' low. Don't th'ow yo' words 'roun' so

keerless."

"This is what you wanted your Sundays off for, to go sparking

around--you an exhorter, too."

"But I's been missin' my po' ol' wife so much hyeah lately."

"You've been missing her, oh, yes, and so you want to get a woman

young enough to be your granddaughter to fill her place."

"Well, Mas' Gawge, you know, ef I is ol' an' feeble, ez you say, I

need a strong young han' to he'p me down de hill, an' ef Manette don'

min' spa'in' a few mont's er yeahs--"

"That'll do, I'll see what your mistress says. Come back in an hour."

A little touched, and a good deal amused, Marston went to see his

wife. He kept his face straight as he addressed her. "Mrs. Marston,

Manette's hand has been proposed for."

"George!"

"The Rev. Simon Marston has this moment come and solemnly laid his

heart at my feet as proxy for Manette."

"He shall not have her, he shall not have her!" exclaimed the lady,

rising angrily.

"But remember, Mrs. Marston, it will keep her coming to meeting."

"I do not care; he is an old hypocrite, that is what he is."

"Think, too, of what a noble work he is doing. It brings about a

reconciliation between the east and west plantations, for which we

have been hoping for years. You really oughtn't to lay a straw in his

way."

"He's a sneaking, insidious, old scoundrel."

"Such poor encouragement from his mistress for a worthy old man, who

only needs rest!"

"George!" cried Mrs. Marston, and she sank down in tears, which turned

to convulsive laughter as her husband put his arm about her and

whispered, "He is showing the true Christian spirit. Don't you think

we'd better call Manette and see if she consents? She is one of his

lambs, you know."

"Oh, George, George, do as you please. If the horrid girl consents, I

wash my hands of the whole affair."

"You know these old men have been learning such a long while."

By this time Mrs. Marston was as much amused as her husband. Manette

was accordingly called and questioned. The information was elicited

from her that she loved "Brothah Simon" and wished to marry him.

"'Love laughs at age,'" quoted Mr. Marston again when the girl had

been dismissed. Mrs. Marston was laughingly angry, but speechless for

a moment. Finally she said: "Well, Manette seems willing, so there is

nothing for us to do but to consent, although, mind you, I do not

approve of this foolish marriage, do you hear?"

After a while the old man returned for his verdict. He took it calmly.

He had expected it. The disparity in the years of him and his

betrothed did not seem to strike his consciousness at all. He only

grinned.

"Now look here, Uncle Simon," said his master, "I want you to tell me

how you, an old, bad-looking, half-dead darky won that likely young

girl."

The old man closed one eye and smiled.

"Mastah, I don' b'lieve you looks erroun' you," he said. "Now, 'mongst

white folks, you knows a preachah 'mongst de ladies is mos' nigh

i'sistible, but 'mongst col'ed dey ain't no pos'ble way to git erroun'

de gospel man w'en he go ahuntin' fu' anything."

MR. CORNELIUS JOHNSON, OFFICE-SEEKER

It was a beautiful day in balmy May and the sun shone pleasantly on

Mr. Cornelius Johnson's very spruce Prince Albert suit of grey as he

alighted from the train in Washington. He cast his eyes about him, and

then gave a sigh of relief and satisfaction as he took his bag from

the porter and started for the gate. As he went along, he looked with

splendid complacency upon the less fortunate mortals who were

streaming out of the day coaches. It was a Pullman sleeper on which he

had come in. Out on the pavement he hailed a cab, and giving the

driver the address of a hotel, stepped in and was rolled away. Be it

said that he had cautiously inquired about the hotel first and found

that he could be accommodated there.

As he leaned back in the vehicle and allowed his eyes to roam over the

streets, there was an air of distinct prosperity about him. It was in

evidence from the tips of his ample patent-leather shoes to the crown

of the soft felt hat that sat rakishly upon his head. His entrance

into Washington had been long premeditated, and he had got himself up

accordingly.

It was not such an imposing structure as he had fondly imagined,

before which the cab stopped and set Mr. Johnson down. But then he

reflected that it was about the only house where he could find

accommodation at all, and he was content. In Alabama one learns to be

philosophical. It is good to be philosophical in a place where the

proprietor of a cafe fumbles vaguely around in the region of his hip

pocket and insinuates that he doesn't want one's custom. But the

visitor's ardor was not cooled for all that. He signed the register

with a flourish, and bestowed a liberal fee upon the shabby boy who

carried his bag to his room.

"Look here, boy," he said, "I am expecting some callers soon. If they

come, just send them right up to my room. You take good care of me and

look sharp when I ring and you'll not lose anything."

Mr. Cornelius Johnson always spoke in a large and important tone. He

said the simplest thing with an air so impressive as to give it the

character of a pronouncement. Indeed, his voice naturally was round,

mellifluous and persuasive. He carried himself always as if he were

passing under his own triumphal arch. Perhaps, more than anything

else, it was these qualities of speech and bearing that had made him

invaluable on the stump in the recent campaign in Alabama. Whatever it

was that held the secret of his power, the man and principles for

which he had labored triumphed, and he had come to Washington to reap

his reward. He had been assured that his services would not be

forgotten, and it was no intention of his that they should be.

After a while he left his room and went out, returning later with

several gentlemen from the South and a Washington man. There is some

freemasonry among these office-seekers in Washington that throws them

inevitably together. The men with whom he returned were such

characters as the press would designate as "old wheel-horses" or

"pillars of the party." They all adjourned to the bar, where they had

something at their host's expense. Then they repaired to his room,

whence for the ensuing two hours the bell and the bell-boy were kept

briskly going.

The gentleman from Alabama was in his glory. His gestures as he held

forth were those of a gracious and condescending prince. It was his

first visit to the city, and he said to the Washington man: "I tell

you, sir, you've got a mighty fine town here. Of course, there's no

opportunity for anything like local pride, because it's the outsiders,

or the whole country, rather, that makes it what it is, but that's

nothing. It's a fine town, and I'm right sorry that I can't stay

longer."

"How long do you expect to be with us, Professor?" inquired Col.

Mason, the horse who had bent his force to the party wheel in the

Georgia ruts.

"Oh, about ten days, I reckon, at the furthest. I want to spend some

time sight-seeing. I'll drop in on the Congressman from my district

to-morrow, and call a little later on the President."

"Uh, huh!" said Col. Mason. He had been in the city for some time.

"Yes, sir, I want to get through with my little matter and get back

home. I'm not asking for much, and I don't anticipate any trouble in

securing what I desire. You see, it's just like this, there's no way

for them to refuse us. And if any one deserves the good things at the

hands of the administration, who more than we old campaigners, who

have been helping the party through its fights from the time that we

had our first votes?"

"Who, indeed?" said the Washington man.

"I tell you, gentlemen, the administration is no fool. It knows that

we hold the colored vote down there in our vest pockets and it ain't

going to turn us down."

"No, of course not, but sometimes there are delays--"

"Delays, to be sure, where a man doesn't know how to go about the

matter. The thing to do, is to go right to the centre of authority at

once. Don't you see?"

"Certainly, certainly," chorused the other gentlemen.

Before going, the Washington man suggested that the newcomer join them

that evening and see something of society at the capital. "You know,"

he said, "that outside of New Orleans, Washington is the only town in

the country that has any colored society to speak of, and I feel that

you distinguished men from different sections of the country owe it to

our people that they should be allowed to see you. It would be an

inspiration to them."

So the matter was settled, and promptly at 8:30 o'clock Mr. Cornelius

Johnson joined his friends at the door of his hotel. The grey Prince

Albert was scrupulously buttoned about his form, and a shiny top hat

replaced the felt of the afternoon. Thus clad, he went forth into

society, where he need be followed only long enough to note the

magnificence of his manners and the enthusiasm of his reception when

he was introduced as Prof. Cornelius Johnson, of Alabama, in a tone

which insinuated that he was the only really great man his state had

produced.

It might also be stated as an effect of this excursion into Vanity

Fair, that when he woke the next morning he was in some doubt as to

whether he should visit his Congressman or send for that individual to

call upon him. He had felt the subtle flattery of attention from that

section of colored society which imitates--only imitates, it is true,

but better than any other, copies--the kindnesses and cruelties, the

niceties and deceits, of its white prototype. And for the time, like a

man in a fog, he had lost his sense of proportion and perspective. But

habit finally triumphed, and he called upon the Congressman, only to

be met by an under-secretary who told him that his superior was too

busy to see him that morning.

"But--"

"Too busy," repeated the secretary.

Mr. Johnson drew himself up and said: "Tell Congressman Barker that

Mr. Johnson, Mr. Cornelius Johnson, of Alabama, desires to see him. I

think he will see me."

"Well, I can take your message," said the clerk, doggedly, "but I tell

you now it won't do you any good. He won't see any one."

But, in a few moments an inner door opened, and the young man came out

followed by the desired one. Mr. Johnson couldn't resist the

temptation to let his eyes rest on the underling in a momentary glance

of triumph as Congressman Barker hurried up to him, saying: "Why, why,

Cornelius, how'do? how'do? Ah, you came about that little matter,

didn't you? Well, well, I haven't forgotten you; I haven't forgotten

you."

The colored man opened his mouth to speak, but the other checked him

and went on: "I'm sorry, but I'm in a great hurry now. I'm compelled

to leave town to-day, much against my will, but I shall be back in a

week; come around and see me then. Always glad to see you, you know.

Sorry I'm so busy now; good-morning, good-morning."

Mr. Johnson allowed himself to be guided politely, but decidedly, to

the door. The triumph died out of his face as the reluctant

good-morning fell from his lips. As he walked away, he tried to look

upon the matter philosophically. He tried to reason with himself--to

prove to his own consciousness that the Congressman was very busy and

could not give the time that morning. He wanted to make himself

believe that he had not been slighted or treated with scant ceremony.

But, try as he would, he continued to feel an obstinate, nasty sting

that would not let him rest, nor forget his reception. His pride was

hurt. The thought came to him to go at once to the President, but he

had experience enough to know that such a visit would be vain until he

had seen the dispenser of patronage for his district. Thus, there was

nothing for him to do but to wait the necessary week. A whole week!

His brow knitted as he thought of it.

In the course of these cogitations, his walk brought him to his hotel,

where he found his friends of the night before awaiting him. He tried

to put on a cheerful face. But his disappointment and humiliation

showed through his smile, as the hollows and bones through the skin of

a cadaver.

"Well, what luck?" asked Col. Mason, cheerfully.

"Are we to congratulate you?" put in Mr. Perry.

"Not yet, not yet, gentlemen. I have not seen the President yet. The

fact is--ahem--my Congressman is out of town."

He was not used to evasions of this kind, and he stammered slightly

and his yellow face turned brick-red with shame.

"It is most annoying," he went on, "most annoying. Mr. Barker won't be

back for a week, and I don't want to call on the President until I

have had a talk with him."

"Certainly not," said Col. Mason, blandly. "There will be delays."

This was not his first pilgrimage to Mecca.

Mr. Johnson looked at him gratefully. "Oh, yes; of course, delays," he

assented; "most natural. Have something."

At the end of the appointed time, the office-seeker went again to see

the Congressman. This time he was admitted without question, and got

the chance to state his wants. But somehow, there seemed to be

innumerable obstacles in the way. There were certain other men whose

wishes had to be consulted; the leader of one of the party factions,

who, for the sake of harmony, had to be appeased. Of course, Mr.

Johnson's worth was fully recognized, and he would be rewarded

according to his deserts. His interests would be looked after. He

should drop in again in a day or two. It took time, of course, it took

time.

Mr. Johnson left the office unnerved by his disappointment. He had

thought it would be easy to come up to Washington, claim and get what

he wanted, and, after a glance at the town, hurry back to his home and

his honors. It had all seemed so easy--before election; but now--

A vague doubt began to creep into his mind that turned him sick at

heart. He knew how they had treated Davis, of Louisiana. He had heard

how they had once kept Brotherton, of Texas--a man who had spent all

his life in the service of his party--waiting clear through a whole

administration, at the end of which the opposite party had come into

power. All the stories of disappointment and disaster that he had ever

heard came back to him, and he began to wonder if some one of these

things was going to happen to him.

Every other day for the next two weeks, he called upon Barker, but

always with the same result. Nothing was clear yet, until one day the

bland legislator told him that considerations of expediency had

compelled them to give the place he was asking for to another man.

"But what am I to do?" asked the helpless man.

"Oh, you just bide your time. I'll look out for you. Never fear."

Until now, Johnson had ignored the gentle hints of his friend, Col.

Mason, about a boarding-house being more convenient than a hotel. Now,

he asked him if there was a room vacant where he was staying, and

finding that there was, he had his things moved thither at once. He

felt the change keenly, and although no one really paid any attention

to it, he believed that all Washington must have seen it, and hailed

it as the first step in his degradation.

For a while the two together made occasional excursions to a

glittering palace down the street, but when the money had grown lower

and lower Col. Mason had the knack of bringing "a little something" to

their rooms without a loss of dignity. In fact, it was in these hours

with the old man, over a pipe and a bit of something, that Johnson was

most nearly cheerful. Hitch after hitch had occurred in his plans, and

day after day he had come home unsuccessful and discouraged. The

crowning disappointment, though, came when, after a long session that

lasted even up into the hot days of summer, Congress adjourned and his

one hope went away. Johnson saw him just before his departure, and

listened ruefully as he said: "I tell you, Cornelius, now, you'd

better go on home, get back to your business and come again next year.

The clouds of battle will be somewhat dispelled by then and we can see

clearer what to do. It was too early this year. We were too near the

fight still, and there were party wounds to be bound up and little

factional sores that had to be healed. But next year, Cornelius, next

year we'll see what we can do for you."

His constituent did not tell him that even if his pride would let him

go back home a disappointed applicant, he had not the means wherewith

to go. He did not tell him that he was trying to keep up appearances

and hide the truth from his wife, who, with their two children, waited

and hoped for him at home.

When he went home that night, Col. Mason saw instantly that things had

gone wrong with him. But here the tact and delicacy of the old

politician came uppermost and, without trying to draw his story from

him--for he already divined the situation too well--he sat for a long

time telling the younger man stories of the ups and downs of men whom

he had known in his long and active life.

They were stories of hardship, deprivation and discouragement. But the

old man told them ever with the touch of cheeriness and the note of

humor that took away the ghastly hopelessness of some of the pictures.

He told them with such feeling and sympathy that Johnson was moved to

frankness and told him his own pitiful tale.

Now that he had some one to whom he could open his heart, Johnson

himself was no less willing to look the matter in the face, and even

during the long summer days, when he had begun to live upon his

wardrobe, piece by piece, he still kept up; although some of his

pomposity went, along with the Prince Albert coat and the shiny hat.

He now wore a shiny coat, and less showy head-gear. For a couple of

weeks, too, he disappeared, and as he returned with some money, it was

fair to presume that he had been at work somewhere, but he could not

stay away from the city long.

It was nearing the middle of autumn when Col. Mason came home to their

rooms one day to find his colleague more disheartened and depressed

than he had ever seen him before. He was lying with his head upon his

folded arm, and when he looked up there were traces of tears upon his

face.

"Why, why, what's the matter now?" asked the old man. "No bad news, I

hope."

"Nothing worse than I should have expected," was the choking answer.

"It's a letter from my wife. She's sick and one of the babies is down,

but"--his voice broke--"she tells me to stay and fight it out. My God,

Mason, I could stand it if she whined or accused me or begged me to

come home, but her patient, long-suffering bravery breaks me all up."

Col. Mason stood up and folded his arms across his big chest. "She's a

brave little woman," he said, gravely. "I wish her husband was as

brave a man." Johnson raised his head and arms from the table where

they were sprawled, as the old man went on: "The hard conditions of

life in our race have taught our women a patience and fortitude which

the women of no other race have ever displayed. They have taught the

men less, and I am sorry, very sorry. The thing, that as much as

anything else, made the blacks such excellent soldiers in the civil

war was their patient endurance of hardship. The softer education of

more prosperous days seems to have weakened this quality. The man who

quails or weakens in this fight of ours against adverse circumstances

would have quailed before--no, he would have run from an enemy on the

field."

"Why, Mason, your mood inspires me. I feel as if I could go forth to

battle cheerfully." For the moment, Johnson's old pomposity had

returned to him, but in the next, a wave of despondency bore it down.

"But that's just it; a body feels as if he could fight if he only had

something to fight. But here you strike out and hit--nothing. It's

only a contest with time. It's waiting--waiting--waiting!"

"In this case, waiting is fighting."

"Well, even that granted, it matters not how grand his cause, the

soldier needs his rations."

"Forage," shot forth the answer like a command.

"Ah, Mason, that's well enough in good country; but the army of

office-seekers has devastated Washington. It has left a track as bare

as lay behind Sherman's troopers." Johnson rose more cheerfully. "I'm

going to the telegraph office," he said as he went out.

A few days after this, he was again in the best of spirits, for there

was money in his pocket.

"What have you been doing?" asked Mr. Toliver.

His friend laughed like a boy. "Something very imprudent, I'm sure you

will say. I've mortgaged my little place down home. It did not bring

much, but I had to have money for the wife and the children, and to

keep me until Congress assembles; then I believe that everything will

be all right."

Col. Mason's brow clouded and he sighed.

On the reassembling of the two Houses, Congressman Barker was one of

the first men in his seat. Mr. Cornelius Johnson went to see him soon.

"What, you here already, Cornelius?" asked the legislator.

"I haven't been away," was the answer.

"Well, you've got the hang-on, and that's what an officer-seeker

needs. Well, I'll attend to your matter among the very first. I'll

visit the President in a day or two."

The listener's heart throbbed hard. After all his waiting, triumph was

his at last.

He went home walking on air, and Col. Mason rejoiced with him. In a

few days came word from Barker: "Your appointment was sent in to-day.

I'll rush it through on the other side. Come up to-morrow afternoon."

Cornelius and Mr. Toliver hugged each other.

"It came just in time," said the younger man; "the last of my money

was about gone, and I should have had to begin paying off that

mortgage with no prospect of ever doing it."

The two had suffered together, and it was fitting that they should be

together to receive the news of the long-desired happiness; so arm in

arm they sauntered down to the Congressman's office about five

o'clock the next afternoon. In honor of the occasion, Mr. Johnson had

spent his last dollar in redeeming the grey Prince Albert and the

shiny hat. A smile flashed across Barker's face as he noted the

change.

"Well, Cornelius," he said, "I'm glad to see you still

prosperous-looking, for there were some alleged irregularities in your

methods down in Alabama, and the Senate has refused to confirm you. I

did all I could for you, but--"

The rest of the sentence was lost, as Col. Mason's arms received his

friend's fainting form.

"Poor devil!" said the Congressman. "I should have broken it more

gently."

Somehow Col. Mason got him home and to bed, where for nine weeks he

lay wasting under a complete nervous give-down. The little wife and

the children came up to nurse him, and the woman's ready industry

helped him to such creature comforts as his sickness demanded. Never

once did she murmur; never once did her faith in him waver. And when

he was well enough to be moved back, it was money that she had earned,

increased by what Col. Mason, in his generosity of spirit, took from

his own narrow means, that paid their second-class fare back to the

South.

During the fever-fits of his illness, the wasted politician first

begged piteously that they would not send him home unplaced, and then

he would break out in the most extravagant and pompous boasts about

his position, his Congressman and his influence. When he came to

himself, he was silent, morose, and bitter. Only once did he melt. It

was when he held Col. Mason's hand and bade him good-bye. Then the

tears came into his eyes, and what he would have said was lost among

his broken words.

As he stood upon the platform of the car as it moved out, and gazed at

the white dome and feathery spires of the city, growing into grey

indefiniteness, he ground his teeth, and raising his spent hand, shook

it at the receding view. "Damn you! damn you!" he cried. "Damn your

deceit, your fair cruelties; damn you, you hard, white liar!"

AN OLD-TIME CHRISTMAS

When the holidays came round the thoughts of 'Liza Ann Lewis always

turned to the good times that she used to have at home when, following

the precedent of anti-bellum days, Christmas lasted all the week and

good cheer held sway. She remembered with regret the gifts that were

given, the songs that were sung to the tinkling of the banjo and the

dances with which they beguiled the night hours. And the eating! Could

she forget it? The great turkey, with the fat literally bursting from

him; the yellow yam melting into deliciousness in the mouth; or in

some more fortunate season, even the juicy 'possum grinning in brown

and greasy death from the great platter.

In the ten years she had lived in New York, she had known no such

feast-day. Food was strangely dear in the Metropolis, and then there

was always the weekly rental of the poor room to be paid. But she had

kept the memory of the old times green in her heart, and ever turned

to it with the fondness of one for something irretrievably lost.

That is how Jimmy came to know about it. Jimmy was thirteen and small

for his age, and he could not remember any such times as his mother

told him about. Although he said with great pride to his partner and

rival, Blinky Scott, "Chee, Blink, you ought to hear my ol' lady talk

about de times dey have down w'ere we come from at Christmas; N'Yoick

ain't in it wid dem, you kin jist bet." And Blinky, who was a New

Yorker clear through with a New Yorker's contempt for anything outside

of the city, had promptly replied with a downward spreading of his

right hand, "Aw fu'git it!"

Jimmy felt a little crest-fallen for a minute, but he lifted himself

in his own estimation by threatening to "do" Blinky and the cloud

rolled by.

'Liza Ann knew that Jimmy couldn't ever understand what she meant by

an old-time Christmas unless she could show him by some faint approach

to its merrymaking, and it had been the dream of her life to do this.

But every year she had failed, until now she was a little ahead.

Her plan was too good to keep, and when Jimmy went out that Christmas

eve morning to sell his papers, she had disclosed it to him and bade

him hurry home as soon as he was done, for they were to have a real

old-time Christmas.

Jimmy exhibited as much pleasure as he deemed consistent with his

dignity and promised to be back early to add his earnings to the fund

for celebration.

When he was gone, 'Liza Ann counted over her savings lovingly and

dreamed of what she would buy her boy, and what she would have for

dinner on the next day. Then a voice, a colored man's voice, she knew,

floated up to her. Some one in the alley below her window was singing

"The Old Folks at Home."

"All up an' down the whole creation,

Sadly I roam,

Still longing for the old plantation,

An' for the old folks at home."

She leaned out of the window and listened and when the song had ceased

and she drew her head in again, there were tears in her eyes--the

tears of memory and longing. But she crushed them away, and laughed

tremulously to herself as she said, "What a reg'lar ol' fool I'm

a-gittin' to be." Then she went out into the cold, snow-covered

streets, for she had work to do that day that would add a mite to her

little Christmas store.

Down in the street, Jimmy was calling out the morning papers and

racing with Blinky Scott for prospective customers; these were only

transients, of course, for each had his regular buyers whose

preferences were scrupulously respected by both in agreement with a

strange silent compact.

The electric cars went clanging to and fro, the streets were full of

shoppers with bundles and bunches of holly, and all the sights and

sounds were pregnant with the message of the joyous time. People were

full of the holiday spirit. The papers were going fast, and the little

colored boy's pockets were filling with the desired coins. It would

have been all right with Jimmy if the policeman hadn't come up on him

just as he was about to toss the "bones," and when Blinky Scott had

him "faded" to the amount of five hard-earned pennies.

Well, they were trying to suppress youthful gambling in New York, and

the officer had to do his duty. The others scuttled away, but Jimmy

was so absorbed in the game that he didn't see the "cop" until he was

right on him, so he was "pinched." He blubbered a little and wiped his

grimy face with his grimier sleeve until it was one long, brown smear.

You know this was Jimmy's first time.

The big blue-coat looked a little bit ashamed as he marched him down

the street, followed at a distance by a few hooting boys. Some of the

holiday shoppers turned to look at them as they passed and murmured,

"Poor little chap; I wonder what he's been up to now." Others said

sarcastically, "It seems strange that 'copper' didn't call for help."

A few of his brother officers grinned at him as he passed, and he

blushed, but the dignity of the law must be upheld and the crime of

gambling among the newsboys was a growing evil.

Yes, the dignity of the law must be upheld, and though Jimmy was only

a small boy, it would be well to make an example of him. So his name

and age were put down on the blotter, and over against them the

offence with which he was charged. Then he was locked up to await

trial the next morning.

"It's shameful," the bearded sergeant said, "how the kids are carryin'

on these days. People are feelin' pretty generous, an' they'll toss

'em a nickel er a dime fur their paper an' tell 'em to keep the change

fur Christmas, an' foist thing you know the little beggars are

shootin' craps er pitchin' pennies. We've got to make an example of

some of 'em."

'Liza Ann Lewis was tearing through her work that day to get home and

do her Christmas shopping, and she was singing as she worked some such

old song as she used to sing in the good old days back home. She

reached her room late and tired, but happy. Visions of a "wakening up"

time for her and Jimmy were in her mind. But Jimmy wasn't there.

"I wunner whah that little scamp is," she said, smiling; "I tol' him

to hu'y home, but I reckon he's stayin' out latah wid de evenin'

papahs so's to bring home mo' money."

Hour after hour passed and he did not come; then she grew alarmed. At

two o'clock in the morning she could stand it no longer and she went

over and awakened Blinky Scott, much to that young gentleman's

disgust, who couldn't see why any woman need make such a fuss about a

kid. He told her laconically that "Chimmie was pinched fur t'rowin' de

bones."

She heard with a sinking heart and went home to her own room to walk

the floor all night and sob.

In the morning, with all her Christmas savings tied up in a

handkerchief, she hurried down to Jefferson Market court room. There

was a full blotter that morning, and the Judge was rushing through

with it. He wanted to get home to his Christmas dinner. But he paused

long enough when he got to Jimmy's case to deliver a brief but stern

lecture upon the evil of child-gambling in New York. He said that as

it was Christmas Day he would like to release the prisoner with a

reprimand, but he thought that this had been done too often and that

it was high time to make an example of one of the offenders.

Well, it was fine or imprisonment. 'Liza Ann struggled up through the

crowd of spectators and her Christmas treasure added to what Jimmy

had, paid his fine and they went out of the court room together.

When they were in their room again she put the boy to bed, for there

was no fire and no coal to make one. Then she wrapped herself in a

shabby shawl and sat huddled up over the empty stove.

Down in the alley she heard the voice of the day before singing:

"Oh, darkies, how my heart grows weary,

Far from the old folks at home."

And she burst into tears.

A MESS OF POTTAGE

It was because the Democratic candidate for Governor was such an

energetic man that he had been able to stir Little Africa, which was a

Republican stronghold, from centre to circumference. He was a man who

believed in carrying the war into the enemy's country. Instead of

giving them a chance to attack him, he went directly into their camp,

leaving discontent and disaffection among their allies. He believed in

his principles. He had faith in his policy for the government of the

State, and, more than all, he had a convincing way of making others

see as he saw.

No other Democrat had ever thought it necessary to assail the

stronghold of Little Africa. He had merely put it into his forecast as

"solidly against," sent a little money to be distributed desultorily

in the district, and then left it to go its way, never doubting what

that way would be. The opposing candidates never felt that the place

was worthy of consideration, for as the Chairman of the Central

Committee said, holding up his hand with the fingers close together:

"What's the use of wasting any speakers down there? We've got 'em just

like that."

It was all very different with Mr. Lane.

"Gentlemen," he said to the campaign managers, "that black district

must not be ignored. Those people go one way because they are never

invited to go another."

"Oh, I tell you now, Lane," said his closest friend, "it'll be a waste

of material to send anybody down there. They simply go like a flock of

sheep, and nothing is going to turn them."

"What's the matter with the bellwether?" said Lane sententiously.

"That's just exactly what _is_ the matter. Their bellwether is an old

deacon named Isham Swift, and you couldn't turn him with a

forty-horsepower crank."

"There's nothing like trying."

"There are many things very similar to failing, but none so bad."

"I'm willing to take the risk."

"Well, all right; but whom will you send? We can't waste a good man."

"I'll go myself."

"What, you?"

"Yes, I."

"Why, you'd be the laughing-stock of the State."

"All right; put me down for that office if I never reach the

gubernatorial chair."

"Say, Lane, what was the name of that Spanish fellow who went out to

fight windmills, and all that sort of thing?"

"Never mind, Widner; you may be a good political hustler, but you're

dead bad on your classics," said Lane laughingly.

So they put him down for a speech in Little Africa, because he himself

desired it.

Widner had not lied to him about Deacon Swift, as he found when he

tried to get the old man to preside at the meeting. The Deacon refused

with indignation at the very idea. But others were more acquiescent,

and Mount Moriah church was hired at a rental that made the Rev.

Ebenezer Clay and all his Trustees rub their hands with glee and think

well of the candidate. Also they looked at their shiny coats and

thought of new suits.

There was much indignation expressed that Mount Moriah should have

lent herself to such a cause, and there were murmurs even among the

congregation where the Rev. Ebenezer Clay was usually an unquestioned

autocrat. But, because Eve was the mother of all of us and the thing

was so new, there was a great crowd on the night of the meeting. The

Rev. Ebenezer Clay presided. Lane had said, "If I can't get the

bellwether to jump the way I want, I'll transfer the bell." This he

had tried to do. The effort was very like him.

The Rev. Mr. Clay, looking down into more frowning faces than he cared

to see, spoke more boldly than he felt. He told his people that though

they had their own opinions and ideas, it was well to hear both sides.

He said, "The brothah," meaning the candidate, "had a few thoughts to

pussent," and he hoped they'd listen to him quietly. Then he added

subtly: "Of co'se Brothah Lane knows we colo'ed folks 're goin' to

think our own way, anyhow."

The people laughed and applauded, and Lane went to his work. They were

quiet and attentive. Every now and then some old brother grunted and

shook his head. But in the main they merely listened.

Lane was pleasing, plausible and convincing, and the brass band which

he had brought with him was especially effective. The audience left

the church shaking their heads with a different meaning, and all the

way home there were remarks such as, "He sholy tol' de truth," "Dat

man was right," "They ain't no way to 'ny a word he said."

Just at that particular moment it looked very dark for the other

candidate, especially as the brass band lingered around an hour or so

and discoursed sweet music in the streets where the negroes most did

congregate.

Twenty years ago such a thing could not have happened, but the ties

which had bound the older generation irrevocably to one party were

being loosed upon the younger men. The old men said "We know;" the

young ones said "We have heard," and so there was hardly anything of

the blind allegiance which had made even free thought seem treason to

their fathers.

Now all of this was the reason of the great indignation that was rife

in the breasts of other Little Africans and which culminated in a mass

meeting called by Deacon Isham Swift and held at Bethel Chapel a few

nights later. For two or three days before this congregation of the

opposing elements there were ominous mutterings. On the streets

little knots of negroes stood and told of the terrible thing that had

taken place at Mount Moriah. Shoulders were grasped, heads were wagged

and awful things prophesied as the result of this compromise with the

general enemy. No one was louder in his denunciation of the

treacherous course of the Rev. Ebenezer Clay than the Republican

bellwether, Deacon Swift. He saw in it signs of the break-up of racial

integrity and he bemoaned the tendency loud and long. His son Tom did

not tell him that he had gone to the meeting himself and had been one

of those to come out shaking his head in acquiescent doubt at the

truths he had heard. But he went, as in duty bound, to his father's

meeting.

The church was one thronging mass of colored citizens. On the

platform, from which the pulpit had been removed, sat Deacon Swift and

his followers. On each side of him were banners bearing glowing

inscriptions. One of the banners which the schoolmistress had prepared

read:

"His temples are our forts and towers which frown upon a tyrant

foe."

The schoolmistress taught in a mixed school. They had mixed it by

giving her a room in a white school where she had only colored pupils.

Therefore she was loyal to her party, and was known as a woman of

public spirit.

* * * * *

The meeting was an enthusiastic one, but no such demonstration was

shown through it all as when old Deacon Swift himself arose to address

the assembly. He put Moses Jackson in the chair, and then as he walked

forward to the front of the platform a great, white-haired, rugged,

black figure, he was heroic in his very crudeness. He wore a long, old

Prince Albert coat, which swept carelessly about his thin legs. His

turndown collar was disputing territory with his tie and his

waistcoat. His head was down, and he glanced out of the lower part of

his eyes over the congregation, while his hands fumbled at the sides

of his trousers in an embarrassment which may have been pretended or

otherwise.

"Mistah Cheerman," he said, "fu' myse'f, I ain't no speakah. I ain't

nevah been riz up dat way. I has plowed an' I has sowed, an' latah on

I has laid cyahpets, an' I has whitewashed. But, ladies an' gent'men,

I is a man, an' as a man I want to speak to you ter-night. We is lak a

flock o' sheep, an' in de las' week de wolf has come among ouah

midst. On evah side we has hyeahd de shephe'd dogs a-ba'kin' a-wa'nin'

unto us. But, my f'en's, de cotton o' p'ospe'ity has been stuck in

ouah eahs. Fu' thirty yeahs er mo', ef I do not disremember, we has

walked de streets an' de by-ways o' dis country an' called ouahse'ves

f'eemen. Away back yander, in de days of old, lak de chillen of Is'ul

in Egypt, a deliv'ah came unto us, an Ab'aham Lincoln a-lifted de yoke

f'om ouah shouldahs." The audience waked up and began swaying, and

there was moaning heard from both Amen corners.

"But, my f'en's, I want to ax you, who was behind Ab'aham Lincoln? Who

was it helt up dat man's han's when dey sent bayonets an' buttons to

enfo'ce his word--umph? I want to--to know who was behin' him? Wasn'

it de 'Publican pa'ty?" There were cries of "Yes, yes! dat's so!" One

old sister rose and waved her sunbonnet.

"An' now I want to know in dis hyeah day o' comin' up ef we a-gwineter

'sert de ol' flag which waved ovah Lincoln, waved ovah Gin'r'l Butler,

an' led us up straight to f'eedom? Ladies an' gent'men, an' my f'en's,

I know dar have been suttain meetin's held lately in dis pa't o' de

town. I know dar have been suttain cannerdates which have come down

hyeah an' brung us de mixed wine o' Babylon. I know dar have been dem

o' ouah own people who have drunk an' become drunk--ah! But I want to

know, an' I want to ax you ter-night as my f'en's an' my brothahs, is

we all a-gwineter do it--huh? Is we all a-gwineter drink o' dat wine?

Is we all a-gwineter reel down de perlitical street, a-staggerin' to

an' fro?--hum!"

Cries of "No! No! No!" shook the whole church.

"Gent'men an' ladies," said the old man, lowering his voice, "de

pa'able has been 'peated, an' some o' us--I ain't mentionin' no names,

an' I ain't a-blamin' no chu'ch--but I say dar is some o' us dat has

sol' dere buthrights fu' a pot o' cabbage."

What more Deacon Swift said is hardly worth the telling, for the whole

church was in confusion and little more was heard. But he carried

everything with him, and Lane's work seemed all undone. On a back seat

of the church Tom Swift, the son of the presiding officer, sat and

smiled at his father unmoved, because he had gone as far as the sixth

grade in school, and thought he knew more.

As the reporters say, the meeting came to a close amid great

enthusiasm.

The day of election came and Little Africa gathered as usual about the

polls in the precinct. The Republicans followed their plan of not

bothering about the district. They had heard of the Deacon's meeting,

and chuckled to themselves in their committee-room. Little Africa was

all solid, as usual, but Lane was not done yet. His emissaries were

about, as thick as insurance agents, and they, as well as the

Republican workers, had money to spare and to spend. Some votes, which

counted only for numbers, were fifty cents apiece, but when Tom Swift

came down they knew who he was and what his influence could do. They

gave him five dollars, and Lane had one more vote and a deal of

prestige. The young man thought he was voting for his convictions.

He had just cast his ballot, and the crowd was murmuring around him

still at the wonder of it--for the Australian ballot has tongues as

well as ears--when his father came up, with two or three of his old

friends, each with the old ticket in his hands. He heard the rumor

and laughed. Then he came up to Tom.

"Huh," he said, "dey been sayin' 'roun' hyeah you voted de Democratic

ticket. Go mek 'em out a lie."

"I did vote the Democratic ticket," said Tom steadily.

The old man fell back a step and gasped, as if he had been struck.

"You did?" he cried. "You did?"

"Yes," said Tom, visibly shaken; "every man has a right--"

"Evah man has a right to what?" cried the old man.

"To vote as he thinks he ought to," was his son's reply.

Deacon Swift's eyes were bulging and reddening.

"You--you tell me dat?" His slender form towered above his son's, and

his knotted, toil-hardened hands opened and closed.

"You tell me dat? You with yo' bringin' up vote de way you think

you're right? You lie! Tell me what dey paid you, or, befo' de Lawd,

I'll taih you to pieces right hyeah!"

Tom wavered. He was weaker than his father. He had not gone through

the same things, and was not made of the same stuff.

"They--they give me five dollahs," he said; "but it wa'n't fu'

votin'."

"Fi' dollahs! fi' dollahs! My son sell hisse'f fu' fi' dollahs! an'

forty yeahs ago I brung fifteen hun'erd, an' dat was only my body, but

you sell body an' soul fu' fi' dollahs!"

Horror and scorn and grief and anger were in the old man's tone. Tears

trickled down his wrinkled face, but there was no weakness in the grip

with which he took hold of his son's arms.

"Tek it back to 'em!" he said. "Tek it back to 'em."

"But, pap--"

"Tek it back to 'em, I say, or yo' blood be on yo' own haid!"

And then, shamefaced before the crowd, driven by his father's anger,

he went back to the man who had paid him and yielded up the precious

bank-note. Then they turned, the one head-hung, the other proud in his

very indignation, and made their way homeward.

There was prayer-meeting the next Wednesday night at Bethel Chapel. It

was nearly over and the minister was about to announce the Doxology,

when old Deacon Swift arose.

"Des' a minute, brothahs," he said. "I want to mek a 'fession. I was

too ha'd an' too brash in my talk de othah night, an' de Lawd visited

my sins upon my haid. He struck me in de bosom o' my own fambly. My

own son went wrong. Pray fu' me!"