Chapter V: Part 5

The Negro who held Jason Andrews’ place as foreman of Shaft 11, the best yielding of all the mines, and the man who seemed to be the acknowledged leader of all the blacks, was known as big Sam Bowles. He was a great black fellow, with a hand like a sledge-hammer, but with an open, kindly face and a voice as musical as a lute.

On the first morning that they went in a body to work in the mines, they were assailed by the jeers and curses of the strikers, while now and then a rock from the hand of some ambushed foe fell among them. But they did not heed these things, for they were expected.

For several days nothing more serious than this happened, but ominous mutterings foretold the coming storm. So matters stood on the night that Jason Andrews left his cabin to find out what was “up.”

He went on down the road until he reached the outskirts of the crowd, which he saw to be gathered about a man who was haranguing them. The speaker proved to be “Red” Cleary, one of Daly’s first and most ardent converts. He had worked the men up to a high pitch of excitement, and there were cries of, “Go it, Red, you’re on the right track!” “What’s the matter with Cleary? He’s all right!” and, “Run the niggers out. That’s it!” On the edge of the throng, half in the shadow, Jason Andrews listened in silence, and his just anger grew.

The speaker was saying, “What are we white men goin’ to do? Set still an’ let niggers steal the bread out of our mouths? Ain’t it our duty to rise up like free Americans an’ drive ’em from the place? Who dares say no to that?” Cleary made the usual pause for dramatic effect and to let the incontrovertibility of his argument sink into the minds of his hearers. The pause was fatal. A voice broke the stillness that followed his question, “I do!” and Andrews pushed his way through the crowd to the front. “There ain’t anybody stealin’ the bread out of our mouths, niggers ner nobody else. If men throw away their bread, why, a dog has the right to pick it up.”

There were dissenting murmurs, and Cleary turned to his opponent with a sneer. “Humph, I’d be bound for you, Jason Andrews, first on the side of the bosses and then takin’ up for the niggers. Boys, I’ll bet he’s a Republican!” A laugh greeted this sally. The red mounted into the foreman’s face and made his tan seem darker.

“I’m as good a Democrat as any of you,” he said, looking around, “and you say that again, Red Cleary, and I’ll push the words down your throat with my fist.”

Cleary knew his man and turned the matter off. “We don’t care nothin’ about what party you vote with. We intend to stand up for our rights. Mebbe you’ve got something to say ag’in that.”

“I’ve got something to say, but not against any man’s rights. There’s men here that have known me and are honest, and they will say whether I’ve acted on the square or not since I’ve been among you. But there is right as well as rights. As for the niggers, I ain’t any friendlier to ’em than the rest of you. But I ain’t the man to throw up a job and then howl when somebody else gets it. If we don’t want our hoe-cake, there’s others that do.”

The plain sense of Andrews’ remarks calmed the men, and Cleary, seeing that his power was gone, moved away from the centre of the crowd, “I’ll settle with you later,” he muttered, as he passed Jason.

“There ain’t any better time than now,” replied the latter, seizing his arm and drawing him back.

“Here, here, don’t fight,” cried some one. “Go on, Cleary, there may be something better than a fellow-workman to try your muscle on before long.” The crowd came closer and pushed between the two men. With many signs of reluctance, but willingly withal, Cleary allowed himself to be hustled away. The crowd dispersed, but Jason Andrews knew that he had only temporarily quieted the turmoil in the breasts of the men. It would break out very soon again, he told himself. Musing thus, he took his homeward way. As he reached the open road on the rise that led to his cabin, he heard the report of a pistol, and a shot clipped a rock three or four paces in front of him.

“With the compliments of Red Cleary,” said Jason, with a hard laugh. “The coward!”

All next day, an ominous calm brooded over the little mining settlement. The black workmen went to their labours unmolested, and the hope that their hardships were over sprang up in the hearts of some. But there were two men who, without being informed, knew better. These were Jason Andrews and big Sam, and chance threw the two together. It was as the black was returning alone from the mine after the day’s work was over.

“The strikers didn’t bother you any to-day, I noticed,” said Andrews.

Sam Bowles looked at him with suspicion, and then, being reassured by the honest face and friendly manner, he replied: “No, not to-day, but there ain’t no tellin’ what they’ll do to-night. I don’t like no sich sudden change.”

“You think something is brewing, eh?”

“It looks mighty like it, I tell you.”

“Well, I believe that you’re right, and you’ll do well to keep a sharp lookout all night.”

“I, for one, won’t sleep,” said the Negro.

“Can you shoot?” asked Jason.

The Negro chuckled, and, taking a revolver from the bosom of his blouse, aimed at the top of a pine-tree which had been grazed by lightning, and showed white through the fading light nearly a hundred yards away. There was a crack, and the small white space no larger than a man’s hand was splintered by the bullet.

“Well, there ain’t no doubt that you can shoot, and you may have to bring that gun of yours into action before you expect. In a case like this it’s your enemy’s life against yours.”

Andrews kept on his way, and the Negro turned up to the large supper-room. Most of them were already there and at the meal.

“Well, boys,” began big Sam, “you’d just as well get it out of your heads that our trouble is over here. It’s jest like I told you. I’ve been talkin’ to the fellow that used to have my place,—he ain’t in with the rest of the strikers,—an’ he thinks that they’re goin’ to try an’ run us out to-night. I’d advise you, as soon as it gets dark-like, to take what things you want out o’ yore cabins an’ bring ’em up here. It won’t do no harm to be careful until we find out what kind of a move they’re goin’ to make.”

The men had stopped eating, and they stared at the speaker with open mouths. There were some incredulous eyes among the gazers, too.

“I don’t believe they’d dare come right out an’ do anything,” said one.

“Stay in yore cabin, then,” retorted the leader angrily.

There was no more demur, and as soon as night had fallen, the Negroes did as they were bidden, though the rude, ill-furnished huts contained little or nothing of value. Another precaution taken by the blacks was to leave short candles burning in their dwellings so as to give the impression of occupancy. If nothing occurred during the night, the lights would go out of themselves and the enemy would be none the wiser as to their vigilance.

In the large assembly room the men waited in silence, some drowsing and some smoking. Only one candle threw its dim circle of light in the centre of the room, throwing the remainder into denser shadow. The flame flickered and guttered. Its wavering faintness brought out the dark strained faces in fantastic relief, and gave a weirdness to the rolling white eyeballs and expanded eyes. Two hours passed. Suddenly, from the window where big Sam and a colleague were stationed, came a warning “S-sh!” Sam had heard stealthy steps in the direction of the nearest cabin. The night was so black that he could see nothing, but he felt that developments were about to begin. He could hear more steps. Then the men heard a cry of triumph as the strikers threw themselves against the cabin doors, which yielded easily. This was succeeded from all parts by exclamations of rage and disappointment. In the assembly room the Negroes were chuckling to themselves. Mr. “Red” Cleary had planned well, but so had Sam Bowles.

After the second cry there was a pause, as if the men had drawn together for consultation. Then some one approached the citadel a little way and said: “If you niggers’ll promise to leave here to-morrow morning at daylight, we’ll let you off this time. If you don’t, there won’t be any of you to leave to-morrow.”

Some of the blacks were for promising, but their leader turned on them like a tiger. “You would promise, would you, and then give them a chance to whip you out of the section! Go, all of you that want to; but as for me, I’ll stay here an’ fight it out with the blackguards.”

The man who had spoken from without had evidently waited for an answer. None coming, his footsteps were heard retreating, and then, without warning, there was a rattling fusillade. Some of the shots crashed through the thin pine boarding, and several men were grazed. One struck the man who stood at big Sam’s side at the window. The blood splashed into the black leader’s face, and his companion sunk to the floor with a groan. Sam Bowles moved from the window a moment and wiped the blood drops from his cheek. He looked down upon the dead man as if the deed had dazed him. Then, with a few sharp commands, he turned again to the window.

Some over-zealous fool among the strikers had fired one of the huts, and the growing flames discovered their foes to the little garrison.

“Put out that light,” ordered big Sam. “All of you that can, get to the two front windows—you, Toliver, an’ you, Moten, here with me. All the rest of you lay flat on the floor. Now, as soon as that light gets bright, pick out yore man,—don’t waste a shot, now—fire!” Six pistols spat fire out into the night. There were cries of pain and the noise of scurrying feet as the strikers fled pell-mell out of range.

“Now, down on the floor!” commanded Sam.

The order came not a moment too soon, for an answering volley of shots penetrated the walls and passed harmlessly over the heads of those within. Meanwhile, some one seeing the mistake of the burning cabin had ordered it extinguished; but this could not be done without the workmen being exposed to the fire from the blacks’ citadel. So there was nothing to do save to wait until the shanty had burned down. The dry pine was flaming brightly now, and lit up the scene with a crimson glare. The great rocks and the rugged mountain-side, with patches of light here and there contrasting with the deeper shadows, loomed up threatening and terrible, and the fact that behind those boulders lay armed men thirsty for blood made the scene no less horrible.

In his cabin, farther up the mountain side, Jason Andrews had heard the shouts and firing, seen the glare of the burning cabin through his window, and interpreted it aright. He rose and threw on his coat.

“Jason,” said his wife, “don’t go down there. It’s none of your business.”

“I’m not going down there, Kate,” he said; “but I know my duty and have got to do it.”

The nearest telegraph office was a mile away from his cabin. Thither Jason hurried. He entered, and, seizing a blank, began to write rapidly, when he was interrupted by the voice of the operator, “It’s no use, Andrews, the wires are cut.” The foreman stopped as if he had been struck; then, wheeling around, he started for the door just as Crofton came rushing in.

“Ah, Andrews, it’s you, is it?—and before me. Have you telegraphed for troops?”

“It’s no use, Mr. Crofton, the wires are cut.”

“My God!” exclaimed the young man, “what is to be done? I did not think they would go to this length.”

“We must reach the next station and wire from there.”

“But it’s fifteen miles away on a road where a man is liable to break his neck at any minute.”

“I’ll risk it, but I must have a horse.”

“Take mine. He’s at the door,—God speed you.” With the word, Jason was in the saddle and away like the wind.

“He can’t keep that pace on the bad ground,” said young Crofton, as he turned homeward.

At the centre of strife all was still quiet. The fire had burned low, and what remained of it cast only a dull light around. The assailants began to prepare again for action.

“Here, some one take my place at the window,” said Sam. He left his post, crept to the door and opened it stealthily, and, dropping on his hands and knees, crawled out into the darkness. In less than five minutes he was back and had resumed his station. His face was expressionless. No one knew what he had done until a new flame shot athwart the darkness, and at sight of it the strikers burst into a roar of rage. Another cabin was burning, and the space about for a hundred yards was as bright as day. In the added light, two or three bodies were distinguishable upon the ground, showing that the shots of the blacks had told. With deep chagrin the strikers saw that they could do nothing while the light lasted. It was now nearly midnight, and the men were tired and cramped in their places. They dared not move about much, for every appearance of an arm or a leg brought a shot from the besieged. Oh for the darkness, that they might advance and storm the stronghold! Then they could either overpower the blacks by force of numbers, or set fire to the place that held them and shoot them down as they tried to escape. Oh for darkness!

As if the Powers above were conspiring against the unfortunates, the clouds, which had been gathering dark and heavy, now loosed a downpour of rain which grew fiercer and fiercer as the thunder crashed down from the mountains echoing and re-echoing back and forth in the valley. The lightning tore vivid, zigzag gashes in the inky sky. The fury of the storm burst suddenly, and before the blacks could realise what was happening, the torrent had beaten the fire down, and the way between them and their enemies lay in darkness. The strikers gave a cheer that rose even over the thunder.

* * * * *

As the young manager had said, the road over which Jason had to travel was a terrible one. It was rough, uneven, and treacherous to the step even in the light of day. But the brave man urged his horse on at the best possible speed. When he was half-way to his destination, a sudden drop in the road threw the horse and he went over the animal’s head. He felt a sharp pain in his arm, and he turned sick and dizzy, but, scrambling to his feet, he mounted, seized the reins in one hand, and was away again. It was half-past twelve when he staggered into the telegraph office. “Wire—quick!” he gasped. The operator who had been awakened from a nap by the clatter of the horse’s hoofs, rubbed his eyes and seized a pencil and blank.

“Troops at once—for God’s sake—troops at once—Crofton’s mine riot—murder being done!” and then, his mission being over, nature refused longer to resist the strain and Jason Andrews swooned.

His telegram had been received at Wheeling, and another ordering the instant despatch of the nearest militia, who had been commanded to sleep in their armories in anticipation of some such trouble, before a physician had been secured for Andrews. His arm was set and he was put to bed. But, loaded on flat-cars and whatever else came handy, the troops were on their way to the scene of action.

While this was going on, the Negroes had grown disheartened. The light which had disclosed to them their enemy had been extinguished, and under cover of the darkness and storm they knew their assailants would again advance. Every flash of lightning showed them the men standing boldly out from their shelter.

Big Sam turned to his comrades. “Never say die, boys,” he said. “We’ve got jest one more chance to scatter ’em. If we can’t do it, it’s hand to hand with twice our number. Some of you lay down on the floor here with your faces jest as clost to the door as you can. Now some more of you kneel jest above. Now above them some of you bend, while the rest stand up. Pack that door full of gun muzzles while I watch things outside.” The men did as he directed, and he was silent for a while. Then he spoke again softly: “Now they’re comin’. When I say ‘Ready!’ open the door, and as soon as a flash of lightning shows you where they are, let them have it.”

They waited breathlessly.

“Now, ready!”

The door was opened, and a moment thereafter the glare of the lightning was followed by another flash from the doorway. Groans, shrieks, and curses rang out as the assailants scampered helter-skelter back to their friendly rocks, leaving more of their dead upon the ground behind them.

“That was it,” said Sam. “That will keep them in check for a while. If we can hold ’em off until daybreak, we are safe.”

The strikers were now angry and sore and wet through. Some of them were wounded. “Red” Cleary himself had a bullet through his shoulder. But his spirits were not daunted, although six of his men lay dead upon the ground. A long consultation followed the last unsuccessful assault. At last Cleary said: “Well, it won’t do any good to stand here talkin’. It’s gettin’ late, an’ if we don’t drive ’em out to-night, it’s all up with us an’ we’d jest as well be lookin’ out fur other diggin’s. We’ve got to crawl up as near as we can an’ then rush ’em. It’s the only way, an’ what we ought to done at first. Get down on your knees. Never mind the mud—better have it under you than over you.” The men sank down, and went creeping forward like a swarm of great ponderous vermin. They had not gone ten paces when some one said, “Tsch! what is that?” They stopped where they were. A sound came to their ears. It was the laboured puffing of a locomotive as it tugged up the incline that led to the settlement. Then it stopped. Within the room they had heard it, too, and there was as great suspense as without.

With his ear close to the ground, “Red” Cleary heard the tramp of marching men, and he shook with fear. His fright was communicated to the others, and with one accord they began creeping back to their hiding-places. Then, with a note that was like the voice of God to the besieged, through the thunder and rain, a fife took up the strains of “Yankee Doodle” accompanied by the tum-tum of a sodden drum. This time a cheer went up from within the room,—a cheer that directed the steps of the oncoming militia.

“It’s all up!” cried Cleary, and, emptying his pistol at the wood fort, he turned and fled. His comrades followed suit. A bullet pierced Sam Bowles’s wrist. But he did not mind it. He was delirious with joy. The militia advanced and the siege was lifted. Out into the storm rushed the happy blacks to welcome and help quarter their saviours. Some of the Negroes were wounded, and one dead, killed at the first fire. Tired as the men were, they could not sleep, and morning found them still about their fires talking over the night’s events. It found also many of the strikers missing besides those who lay stark on the hillside.

For the next few days the militia took charge of affairs. Some of the strikers availed themselves of the Croftons’ clemency, and went back to work along with the blacks; others moved away.

When Jason Andrews was well enough to be moved, he came back. The Croftons had already told of his heroism, and he was the admiration of white and black alike. He has general charge now of all the Crofton mines, and his assistant and stanch friend is big Sam.

THE DELIBERATION OF MR. DUNKIN

THE DELIBERATION OF MR. DUNKIN

Miltonville had just risen to the dignity of being a school town. Now, to the uninitiated and unconcerned reader this may appear to be the most unimportant statement in the world; but one who knows Miltonville, and realises all the facts in the case, will see that the simple remark is really fraught with mighty import.

When for two years a growing village has had to crush its municipal pride and send its knowledge-seeking youth to a rival town two miles away, when that rival has boasted and vaunted its superiority, when a listless school-board has been unsuccessfully prodded, month after month, then the final decision in favour of the institution and the renting of a room in which to establish it is no small matter. And now Fox Run, with its most plebeian name but arrogantly aristocratic community, could no longer look down upon Miltonville.

The coloured population of this town was sufficiently large and influential to merit their having a member on the school-board. But Mr. Dunkin, the incumbent, had found no employment for his energies until within the last two months, when he had suddenly entered the school fight with unwonted zest. Now it was an assured thing, and on Monday Miss Callena Johnson was to start the fountain of knowledge a-going. This in itself was enough to set the community in a commotion.

Much had been heard of Miss Callena before she had been selected as the guiding genius of the new venture. She had even visited Fox Run, which prided itself greatly on the event. Flattering rumours were afloat in regard to her beauty and brilliancy. She was from Lexington. What further recommendation as to her personal charms did she need? She was to come in on Saturday evening, and as the railroad had not deigned to come nearer to Miltonville than Fox Run station,—another thorn in the side of the Miltonvillians,—Mr. Dunkin, as the important official in the affair, was delegated to go and bring the fair one into her kingdom.

Now, Mr. Dunkin was a man of deliberation. He prided himself upon that. He did nothing in a hurry. Nothing came from him without due forethought. So, in this case, before going for Miss Callena, he visited Mr. Alonzo Taft. Who was Mr. Taft? Of course you have never been to Miltonville or you would never have asked that question. Mr. Alonzo Taft was valet to Major Richardson, who lived in the great house on the hill overlooking the town. He not only held this distinguished position in that aristocratic household, but he was the black beau ideal and social mentor for all the town.

Him, then, did Mr. Dunkin seek, and delivered himself as follows: “Mistah Tat’, you reco’nise de dooty dat is laid upon me by bein’ a membah of de school-boa’d. I has got to go to de depot aftah Miss Callena Johnson to-morrow aftahnoon. Now, Mistah Taf’, I is a delibut man myse’f. I is mighty keerful what I does an’ how I does it. As you know, I ain’t no man fu’ society, an’ conserkently I is not convusant wid some of de manipulations of comp’ny. So I t’ought I’d come an’ ax yo’ advice about sev’al t’ings,—what to waih, an’ which side o’ de wagon to have Miss Callena on, an’ how to he’p huh in, an’ so fofe.”

“Why, of co’se, Mr. Dunkin,” said the elegant Alonzo, “I shell be happy to administah any instructions to you dat lies within my powah.”

Mr. Taft was a perfect second edition of Major Richardson bound in black hide.

“But,” he went on in a tone of dignified banter, “we shell have to keep a eye on you prosp’ous bachelors. You may be castin’ sheep-eyes at Miss Callena.”

“Dat ’u’d be mo’ nachul an’ fittener in a young man lak you,” said Mr. Dunkin, deliberately.

“Oh, I has been located in my affections too long to lif’ anchor now.”

“You don’ say,” said the “prosp’ous bachelor,” casting a quick glance at the speaker.

“Yes, indeed, suh.”

So they chatted on, and in the course of time the deliberate Dunkin got such information as he wished, and departed in the happy consciousness that on the morrow he should do the proper and only the proper thing.

After he was gone, Alonzo Taft rubbed his chin and mused: “I wonder what ol’ man Dunkin’s got in his head. Dey say he’s too slow an’ thinks too long evah to git married. But you watch dem thinkin’ people when dey do make up deir minds.”

On the morrow, when Mr. Dunkin went forth, he outshone Solomon in all his glory. When he came back, the eyes of all the town saw Miss Callena Johnson, beribboned and smiling, sitting on his right and chatting away vivaciously. As to her looks, the half had not been told. As to her manners, those smiles and head-tossings gave promise of unheard-of graces, and the hearts of all Miltonville throbbed as one.

Alonzo Taft was lounging carelessly on the corner as the teacher and her escort passed along. He raised his hat to them with that sweeping, graceful gesture which was known to but two men in that vicinity, himself and Major Richardson. After some hesitation as to which hand should retain the reins, Mr. Dunkin returned the salute.

The next day being Sunday, and universal calling-day in Miltonville, Eli Thompson’s house, where Miss Callena had taken up her abode, was filled with guests. All the beaux in town were there, resplendent in their Sunday best. Many a damsel sat alone that afternoon whose front room no Sunday before had seen untenanted. Mr. Taft was there, and also one who came early and stayed late,—Mr. Dunkin. The younger men thought that he was rather overplaying his rôle of school trustee. He was entirely too conscientious as to his duty to Miss Callena. What the young beaux wanted to know was whether it was entirely in his official position that he sat so long with Miss Callena that first Sabbath.

On Monday morning the school opened with great _éclat_. There were exercises. The trustee was called upon to make a speech, and, as speech-making is the birthright of his race, acquitted himself with credit. The teacher was seen to smile at him as he sat down.

Now, under ordinary circumstances a smile is a small thing. It is given, taken, and forgotten all in a moment. At other times it is the keynote to the tragedy or comedy of a life. Miss Callena’s smile was like an electric spark setting fire to a whole train of combustibles. Those who saw it marvelled and told their neighbours, and their neighbours asked them what it meant. Before night, that smile and all the import it might carry was the town’s talk.

Alonzo Taft had seen it. Unlike the others, he said nothing to his neighbours. He questioned himself only. To him that smile meant familiarity, good-fellowship, and a thorough mutual understanding. He looked into the dark, dancing eyes of Miss Callena, and in spite of his statement of a few days ago that he had been located too long to “lif’ anchor,” he felt a pang at his heart that was like the first stab of jealousy. So he was deeply interested that evening when Maria, his fellow-servant, told him that Mr. Dunkin was waiting to see him. He hurried through with his work, even leaving a speck of lint on the major’s coat,—an unprecedented thing,—and hastened down to his guest.

A look of great seriousness and determination was fixed upon the features of the “prosp’ous bachelor” as his host made his appearance and invited him up to his room.

Mr. Dunkin was well seated and had his pipe going before he began: “Mistah Taf’, I allus has ’lowed dat you was a sensible young man an’ a pu’son of mo’ dan o’dina’y intel’gence.”

“You flattah me, Mistah Dunkin, you flattah me, suh.”

“Now I’s a man, Mistah Taf’, dat don’t do nuffin’ in a hu’y. I don’ mek up my min’ quick ’bout myse’f ner ’bout othah people. But when my min’ is made up, it’s made up. Now I come up hyeah to cornfide in you ’bout somep’n’. I was mighty glad to hyeah you say de othah day dat yo’ ’fections was done sot an’ located, because hit meks me free to talk to you ’bout a mattah, seein’ dat hit’s a mattah of my own ’fections.”

“This is ve’y int’rustin’, Mistah Dunkin; go on.”

“I’s a-cornfidin’ in you because you is a young man of presentment an’ knows jes’ how to pu’sue a co’se of cou’tin’. I unnerstan’ dat you is ingaged to Miss Marfy Madison.”

Mr. Taft smiled with a sudden accession of modesty, either real or assumed.

“Now, I ain’t nevah had no experunce in cou’tin’ ladies, because I nevah ’spected to ma’y. But hit’s nachul dat a man should change his min’, Mistah Taf’, ’specially ’bout sich a mattah as matermony.”

“Nothin’ mo’ nachul in de world.”

“So, when I seed dat it was pos’ble to bring sich a young lady as I hyeahed Miss Callena Johnson was, to Miltonville, by jes’ havin’ a school, I wo’ks to have de school.”

“Oh, dat’s de reason you commence to tek sich a int’rus’, huh!” The expression slipped from Alonzo’s lips.

“Don’ narrow me down, Mistah Taf’, don’ narrow me down! Dat was one o’ de reasons. Howsomevah, we has de school an’ Miss Callena is hyeah. So fa’ my wo’k is good. But I ’low dat no man dat ain’t experunced in cou’tin’ ort to tek de ’sponsibility alone.”

“Of co’se not!” said Alonzo.

“So I t’ought I’d ax you to he’p me by drappin’ roun’ to Miss Callena’s ’casionally an’ puttin’ in a word fu’ me. I unnerstan’ dat women-folks laks to hyeah ’bout de man dat’s cou’tin’ dem, f’om de outside. Now, you kin be of gret suhvice to me, an’ you won’t lose nothin’ by it. Jes’ manage to let Miss Callena know ’bout my propity, an’ ’bout my hogs an’ my hosses an’ my chickens, an’ dat I’s buyin’ mo’ lan’. Drap it kind o’ delikit lak. Don’ mention my name too often. Will you he’p me out dat-away?”

“W’y, co’se I will, Mr. Dunkin. It’ll gi’ me gret pleasuah to he’p you in dis way, an’ I’ll be jes’ as delikit as anybody kin.”

“Dat’s right; dat’s right.”

“I won’t mention yo’ name too much.”

“Dat’s right.”

“I’ll jes’ hint an’ hint an’ hint.”

“Dat’s right. You jes’ got it right ezactly, an’ you sha’n’t lose nothin’ by it, I tell you.”

The “prosp’ous bachelor” rose in great elation, and shook Mr. Taft’s hand vigorously as he departed.

“Miss Marfy, Miss Callena: Miss Callena, Miss Marfy,” repeated Mr. Taft, as he stood musing after his visitor had gone.

It may have been zeal in the cause of his good friend, or it may have been some very natural desire for appreciation of his own merits, that prompted Alonzo Taft to dress with such extreme care for his visit to Miss Callena Johnson on the next night. He did explain his haste to make the call by telling himself that if he was going to do anything for Mr. Dunkin he had better be about it. But this anxiety on his protégé’s account did not explain why he put on his fawn-coloured waistcoat, which he had never once worn when visiting Miss Martha, nor why he needed to be so extraordinarily long in tying his bow tie. His beaver was rubbed and caressed until it shone again. Major Richardson himself had not looked better in that blue Prince Albert coat, when it was a year newer. Thus arrayed, stepping manfully and twirling a tiny cane, did the redoubtable Mr. Taft set out for the conquest of Miss Callena Johnson. It is just possible that it was Alonzo’s absorption in his own magnificence that made him forgetfully walk down the very street on which Miss Martha Madison’s cottage was situated. Miss Martha was at the gate. He looked up and saw her, but too late to retreat.

“La! Mistah Taf’,” said Miss Martha, smiling as she opened the gate for him. “I wasn’t expectin’ you dis evenin’. Walk right in.”

“I—I—I—thank you, Miss Marfy, thank you,” replied the dark beau, a bit confused but stepping through the gateway. “It’s a mighty fine evenin’ we’re havin’.”

“I don’t wunner you taken yo’se’f out fu’ a walk. I was thinkin’ ’bout goin’ out myse’f ontwell I seen you comin’ along. You mus’ ’a’ been mighty tuk up wif de weathah, ’cause you hahdly knowed when you got to de gate. I thought you was a-goin’ to pass on by.”

“Oh, I couldn’t pass dis gate. I’m so used to comin’ hyeah dat I reckon my feet ’u’d jes’ tu’n up de walk of dey own accord.”

“Dey didn’t tu’n up dat walk much Sunday. Whaih was you all day aftah mo’nin’ chu’ch? I ’spected you up in de aft’noon.”

“I—I—would ’a’ been”—Mr. Taft was beginning to writhe upon his chair—“but I had to go out to mek some calls.”

“Oh, yes,” retorted Miss Martha, good-naturedly, “I reckon you was one o’ dem gent’mans dat was settin’ up at de schoolteachah’s house.”

“I fu’ one was callin’ on Miss Callena. Hit’s only propah when a strange lady come to town fu’ de gent’men to call an’ pay deir ’spects.”

“I reckon hit ain’t propah fu’ de gent’mans to tek none o’ de ladies to call.”

“I ain’t ’scussin’ dat,” said Mr. Taft, with some acerbity.

“Of co’se you ain’t. Well, hit ain’t none o’ my bus’ness, to be sho. I ain’t thinkin’ nothin’ ’bout myse’f or none o’ de things you been sayin’ to me. But all I got to say is, you bettah leave Miss Callena, as you call huh, alone, ’cause evahbody say ol’ man Dunkin got his eyes sot on huh, an’ he gwine to win. Dey do say, too, dat he outsot you all, Sunday.”

Nothing could have hurt Alonzo Taft’s pride more than this, or more thoroughly aroused his dignity.

“Ef I wanted Miss Callena Johnson,” he said, “I wouldn’t stan’ back fu’ nobody like ol’ man Dunkin.”

“I reckon you wouldn’t, but you might set in an’ git jes’ nachully sot back;” and Martha laughed maliciously.

“I ain’t boastin’ ’bout what I could do ef I had a min’ to, but I ’low ef I wan’ed to set my cap fu’ any young lady, I wouldn’t be feared o’ no ol’ man dat don’t know nothin’ but hogs an’ chickens.”

“Nevah min’! Dem hogs an’ chickens fetches money, an’ dat’s what yo’ fine city ladies wants, an’ don’t you fu’git it.”

“Money ain’t a-gwine to mek no ol’ man young.”

“De ol’ man wa’n’t too ol’ to outset you all young men anyhow.”

“Dey’s somep’n’ mo’ to cou’tin’ ’sides settin’.”

“Yes, but a long set an’ a long pocket is mighty big evidence.”

“I don’t keer ef it is. Wha—what’s de use of argyin’? I do’ want Miss Callena nohow—I do’ want huh.”

“You stahted de argyment; I didn’t staht it. You ain’t goin’, is you?”

“I got to go,” said Alonzo, with his hand on the door-knob; “I done ovahstayed my time now.”

“Whaih you gwine to?”

“I—I—oh, I’m goin’ down de street. Don’ ax whaih I’m a-goin’ to, Miss Marfy; it ain’t good raisin’.”

“I unnerstan’ you, ’Lonzo Taf’. I unnerstood you when you fus’ come in, all rigged out in yo’ fines’ clothes. You did’n’ ’low to stop hyeah nohow. You gwine down to see dat teachah, dat’s whaih you gwine.”

“Well, s’posin’ I am, s’posin’ I am?”

“Well, s’posin’ you is,” repeated Miss Martha. “Why, go on. But I hope you won’t run acrost ol’ man Dunkin ag’in an’ git outsot.”

“I ain’t afeard o’ runnin’ acrost ol’ man Dunkin,” said Alonzo, as he went out; and he smiled an inscrutable smile.

Martha watched him as he went down the street and faded into the darkness. Then she went in and locked her door.

“I don’t keer,” she said to herself, “I don’t keer a bit. Ef he wants huh, he kin go ’long an’ git huh. I ’low she’ll be glad enough to have him. I ain’t gwine to try an’ hol’ him a bit.” Then, to fortify her resolution, she buried her face in her apron and sobbed out the fulness of her heart.

Mr. Taft’s good-humour and gallantry came back to him as he knocked at Eli Thompson’s door and asked for the teacher. Yes, she was in, and came smiling into the front room to see him. He carefully picked his phrases of greeting, shook her hand gently, and hoped that she was enjoying good health.

Alonzo rather prided himself on the elegance of his conversation. His mind rebelled against the idea of having to talk hogs to this divine creature, and for some one else besides.

“Reely, Miss Callena, I do’ know as de gent’men ought to bothah you by callin’ ’roun’ in de evenin’. Haid wo’k is so hahd dat aftah yo’ dooties endurin’ de day you mus’ be mos’ nigh wo’ out when night comes.”

“Oh, I assure you you are wrong, Mr. Taft. I am not very tired, and if I were there is nothing that rests the mind like agreeable company.” And oh, the ravishing smile as she said this! Alonzo felt his head going.

“I don’t reckon even agreeable company ’u’d res’ me aftah labourin’ wif some o’ de childern you’ve got in yo’ school; I knows ’em.”

“Well, it’s true they’re not all of them saints.”

“No, indeed, they’re not saints. I don’t see how a slendah, delikit lady like yo’se’f kin manage ’em, ’less ’n you jes’ ’spire ’em wif respect.”

“I can see already,” she answered, “that it is going to take something more than inspiration to manage the rising generation of Miltonville.”

Here was Alonzo’s opportunity. He cast his eyes romantically toward the ceiling.

“I c’nfess,” he said, “dat I am one o’ dem dat believes dat yo’ sex ought to be mo’ fu’ o’nament. You ought to have de strong ahms of a man to pertect you an’ manage fu’ you.”

If that was a twinkle which for an instant lightened the dark eyes of Miss Callena, Mr. Taft did not see it, for his own orbs were still feelingly contemplating the ceiling.

“Ah, yes,” sighed the teacher, “the strong arms of man would save poor woman a great deal; but it is always the same difficulty, to find them both strong and willing.”

“Oh, I know ef you was de lady in question, dey’d be plenty dat was willin’ right hyeah in dis town.” Alonzo went on impetuously, “Men dat owns houses an’ lan’ an’ hosses an’ hogs, even dey’d be willin’ ef it was you.”

Miss Callena’s eyes were discreetly cast down.

“Oh, you flatter me, Mr. Taft.”

“Flattah you! No, ma’am. You don’t know lak I do. You have sholy brought new life into dis hyeah town, an’ all Miltonville’ll tek off its hat to you. Dat’s de way we feel to’ds you.”

“I am sure I appreciate these kind words of yours, and I hope that I shall be able to keep the good opinion of Miltonville.”

“Jes’ as Miltonville hopes dat it may be pu’mitted to keep you,” said Alonzo, gallantly. And so the conversation went along merrily.

It was after ten o’clock before the enamoured caller could tear himself away from the soft glance and musical voice of the teacher. Then he told her: “Miss Callena, I sholy have injoyed dis evenin’. It has been one of de most unctious in all my life. I shell nevah fu’git it so long as I am pu’mitted to remain on dis earth.”

In return, she said that the pleasure had been mutual, and it had been so kind of him to come in and take her mind off the cares of the day, and she did so hope that he would call again.

Would he call again! Could he stay away?

He went away walking on air. The beaver was tilted far back on his head, and the cane was more furiously twirled. The blue Prince Albert was thrown wide, showing the fawn-coloured waistcoat in all its glory.

“Miss Callena, Miss Marfy, Mr. Dunkin an’ me!” said Mr. Taft; and he chuckled softly to himself. Then he added: “Well, I did speak ’bout de hosses an’ de hogs an’ de lan’, didn’t I; well, what mo’ could I do? Of co’se, I didn’t say whose dey was; but he didn’t want me to mention no names—jes’ to hint, an’ I did hint. Nobody couldn’t ask no mo’ dan dat.”

Thus does that duplicity which is resident in the hearts of men seek to deceive even itself, making shining virtues of its shadiest acts.

In the days that ensued, Alonzo availed himself of Miss Callena’s invitation to call, and went often. If he was trying or had succeeded in deceiving himself as to his feelings, in the minds of two sagacious women there was yet no doubt about his intentions. The clear eyes of the teacher could do something besides sparkle; they could see. And she wondered and smiled at the beau’s veiled wooing. From the first gorgeous moment of the fawn-coloured waistcoat and the blue Prince Albert, the other woman, Martha, had seen through her recreant lover as by inspiration. She constantly brooded over his infidelity. He had entirely deserted her now, not even making any pretence of caring what she thought of him. For a while the girl went stolidly about her own business, and tried to keep her mind from dwelling on him. But his elegance and grace would come back to her with the memory of their pleasant days of courtship, and fill her heart with sorrow. Did she care for him still? Of course she did. The admission hurt her pride, but fostered in her a strong determination. If she did love him and had dared to confess so much to herself, she had already reached the lowest depths of humiliation. It could be no worse to make an effort to retain her lover. This resolution gave her warrant to accost Mr. Dunkin the next time she saw him pass the house.

“Howdy, Mistah Dunkin?—how you come on?”

“Jes’ tol’able, Miss Marfy. How’s yo’se’f?”

“Mode’t’, thanky, jes’ mode’t’. How de school-house come on?”

“Oh, hit’s p’ogressin’ mos’ salub’ious, thanky, ma’am.”

“I would ax you how de teachah, but hit do seem dat Mistah Taf’ done beat yo’ time so claih dat you wouldn’t know nothin’ ’bout it.”

“Haw, haw, Miss Marfy, you sholy is de beatenes’ one to have yo’ joke.”

“I ’claih to goodness, Mistah Dunkin, I’s s’prised at a man o’ yo’ position lettin’ Mistah Taf’ git de bes’ of him dat way.”

“Nemmine, Miss Marfy, I ’low dat young man o’ yo’n done let out my secut, but you cain’t rig me ’bout hit.”

“I don’t unnerstan’ you. What young man, an’ what secut?”

“Oh, I reckon you an’ Mistah Taf’ ’ll soon be man an’ wife, an’ hit ain’t no hahm fu’ de wife to know what de husban’ know.”

“I do’ know huccome you say dat; Mistah Taf’ don’ have nothin’ to say to me; he cou’tin’ Miss Callena Johnson.”

“Don’ have nothin’ to say to you! Cou’tin’ Miss Callena!”

“Dat’s de reason I wants to know huccome you back out.”

“Back out! Who back out? Me back out? I ain’t nevah backed out: Mistah Taf’ foolin’ you.”

“’Tain’ me he’s a-foolin’. He may be foolin’ some folks, but hit ain’t Marfy Jane Madison. La, Mistah Dunkin, I knows colo’ed folks, I kin shet my eyes an’ put my han’s on ’em in de da’k. Co’se hit ain’t none o’ my business, but I know he ain’t puttin’ on his bes’ clothes, an’ gwine to see dat teachah th’ee times a week, ’less ’n he got notions in his haid. ’Tain’t in human natur, leastways not colo’ed human natur as I knows it. ’Tain’t me he’s a-foolin’.”

“Do he put on his best clothes an’ go th’ee times a week?”

“Dat he do, an’ ca’ies huh flowahs f’om ol’ Major Richardson’s pusservatory besides, an’ you ain’t makin’ a move.”

“Ain’t Mistah Taf’ nevah tol’ you nothin’?”

“Tol’ me nothin’! No, suhree. What he got to tell me?”

“Uh huh!” said Mr. Dunkin, thoughtfully. “Well, good-night, Miss Marfy. I’s glad I seed you; but I mus’ be gittin’ along. I got to delibe’ate ovah dis question.”

“Oh, yes; you go on an’ delibe’ate, dat’s right, an’ while you delibe’atin’, Mistah Taf’ he walk off wid de lady. But ’tain’t none o’ my business, ’tain’t none o’ my business.”

Mr. Dunkin deliberated as he walked down the street. Could there be any truth in Martha Madison’s surmises? He had talked with Alonzo only the day before, and been assured that everything was going right. Could it be that his lieutenant was playing him false? Some suspicious circumstances now occurred to his mind. When he had spoken of going himself to see Miss Callena, he remembered now how Alonzo had insisted that he had matters in such a state that the interference of Mr. Dunkin just at that point would spoil everything. It looked dark. His steps were taking him toward Major Richardson’s. He heard a footstep, and who should be coming toward him, arrayed even as Martha Madison had said, but the subject of his cogitations? Mr. Dunkin thought he saw Alonzo start as their eyes met. He had a bouquet in his hand.

“Hey ho, ’Lonzo. Gwine down to Miss Callena’s?”

“Why—why—ye’—yes. I jes’ thought I would walk down that way in yo’ int’rus’.”

“My! but you sholy has got yo’se’f up fit to kill.”

“When de genul sen’s his messengers out to negoterate, dey mus’ go in full unifo’m, so’s to impress de people dat dey genul is somebody.”

“Jesso,” assented the elder man, “but I don’t want you to be waihin’ out yo’ clothes in my suhvice, ’Lonzo.”

“Oh, dat’s all right, Mistah Dunkin; hit’s a pleasuah, I assuah you.”

“How’s things comin’ on, anyhow, down to Miss Callena’s?”

“Couldn’t be bettah, suh; dey’s most puspicious. Hit’ll soon be time fu’ you to come in an’ tek mattahs in yo’ own han’s.”

“Do you tell Miss Callena ’bout de houses an’ lan’?”

“Oh, yes; I tells huh all about dat.”

“What she say?”

“Oh, she jes’ smiles.”

“I reckon you tol’ huh ’bout de hogs an’ de chickens an’ de hosses?”

“Yes, indeed, I sholy done dat.”

“What she do den?”

“She jes’ smiled.”

“Did you th’ow out a hint ’bout me buyin’ mo’ lan’?”

“Why, co’se I wa’n’t go’n’ to leave dat paht out.”

“Well, den, what did she say?”

“She smiled ag’in.”

“Huh! she mus’ be a gone smiler. ’Pears to me, ’Lonzo, ’bout time she _sayin’_ somep’n’.”

“Oh, she smile ’cause she kin do dat so purty, dat’s de reason she smile.”

“Uh huh! Well, go ’long, I mus’ be gittin’ home.”

Alonzo Taft smiled complacently as he passed on. “Yes,” he said to himself, “it’ll soon be time fu’ Mistah Dunkin to come in an’ tek mattahs in his own han’s. It’ll soon be time.”

He had lost all scruples at his course, and ceased self-questioning.

Mr. Dunkin gave no sign of perturbation of mind as he walked down the street to his cottage. He walked neither faster nor slower than he had gone before seeing Martha Madison. But when he sank down into the depths of his arm-chair in the privacy of his own apartment, he said: “Miss Marfy say dat while I delibe’atin’ Mistah Taf’ walk off wif de lady. Huh uh! Well, I jes’ delibe’ate a little mo’ while I’s a-changin’ my clothes.”

Who shall tell of the charms which Miss Callena displayed that night,—how her teeth gleamed and her eyes sparkled and her voice was alternately merry or melting? It is small wonder that the heart of Alonzo Taft throbbed, and that words of love rushed to his lips and burst into speech. But even then some lingering sense of loyalty made his expressions vague and ambiguous. There was the sea before him, but he hated, nay, feared to plunge in. Miss Callena watched him as he dallied upon the shore of an open declaration, and admired a timidity so rare in a man of Taft’s attainments.

“I know you boun’ to look down on me, Miss Callena,” he said, with subdued ardour, “’cause I’m a ign’ant man. I ain’t had no ejication nor no schoolin’. I’m jes’ a se’f-made man. All I know I’ve lunned f’om de white folks I’ve wo’ked fu’.”

“It isn’t always education that makes the man, Mr. Taft,” said the school-teacher, encouragingly. “I’ve seen a great many men in my life who had all the education and schooling that heart could wish, but when that was said, all was said. They hadn’t anything here.” She pressed her hand feelingly and impressively upon her heart. “It’s the noble heart, after all, that makes the real man.”

Mr. Taft also pressed his hand against his heart and sighed. They were both so absorbed that neither of them saw the shadow that fell on the floor from a form that stood in the doorway.

“As for being self-made,” Miss Callena went on, “why, Mr. Taft, what can be nobler or better for a man to know than that all he has he has got by his own efforts?”

The shadow disappeared, and the form receded from the doorway as the suitor was saying: “I tek no credit to myse’f fu’ what I’ve got, neither in sense or money. But I am glad to say dat I wo’ked fu’ everything myse’f.”

“You have reason to be proud of such a fact.”

They were visibly warming up. Alonzo moved his chair a little nearer, and possessed himself of Miss Callena’s hand. She did not draw it away nor repulse him. She even hung her head. Yes, the proud, educated, queenly Callena Johnson hung her head. Meanwhile, in the darkness of the doorway the form stood and glowered upon them.

“Miss Callena, at a time like dis, I hates to talk to you about de o’dina’y things of life, but when anything se’ious arises, it is allus well fu’ de pahties to know each othah’s circumstances.”

“You are a very sensible man, Mr. Taft.”

“Call me ’Lonzo,” he murmured, patting her hand. “But, as I was going to say, it’s necessary dat you should know de circumstances of anybody who wanted to ax fu’ dis han’ dat I’m a-holdin’.”

Miss Callena turned her head away and was silent. In fact, she held her breath.

“Miss Johnson—Callena—what ’u’d you think of a nice cottage wif no encumbrances on it, a couple o’ nice hosses, a cow an’ ha’f a dozen of de fines’ hogs in Miltonville—”

“An’ all o’ dem mine!” thundered the voice of the form, striding into the middle of the room.

Miss Callena shrieked. Alonzo had been about falling on his knees, but he assumed an erect position with an alacrity that would have done credit to a gymnast.

“Co’se, of co’se, Mistah Dunkin! I was jes’ a-comin’ to dat!”

“I jes’ come down fu’ feah you’d fu’git to tell Miss Callena who all dem things ’longed to, an’ who’s a-layin’ dem at huh feet,” said Mr. Dunkin.

“I ’low Miss Callena unnerstan’ dat,” said Mr. Taft, bobbing his head sheepishly.

“I don’t remember that Mr. Taft explained this before,” said Miss Johnson, turning coldly from him. “Do have a seat, dear Mr. Dunkin.”

Alonzo saw with grief that the idol of his heart had transferred her affectionate smiles to the rightful owner of the other property that had been in question. He made his stay short, leaving Mr. Dunkin in undisputed possession of the field.

That gentleman took no further time for deliberation. He promptly proposed and was accepted. Perhaps even the romantic Miss Callena had an eye to the main chance.

The day after the announcement of the engagement, he met his erstwhile lieutenant on the street.

“Well, well, Mistah Dunkin, we winned huh, didn’t we?” said Alonzo.

“’Lonzo Taf’,” said Mr. Dunkin, deliberately, “I fu’give you, but you ain’t de man I teken you to be.”