It was the perception in him of these very qualities which had prompted the authorities of the little college where he had taken his degree and received his theological training, to urge him to go among his people at the South, and there to exert his powers for good where the field was broad and the labourers few. Born of Southern parents from whom he had learned many of the superstitions and traditions of the South, Howard Dokesbury himself had never before been below Mason and Dixon’s line. But with a confidence born of youth and a consciousness of personal power, he had started South with the idea that he knew the people with whom he had to deal, and was equipped with the proper weapons to cope with their shortcomings. But as he looked around upon the scene which now met his eye, a doubt arose in his mind. He picked up his bag with a sigh, and approached a man who had been standing apart from the rest of the loungers and regarding him with indolent intentness. “Could you direct me to the house of Stephen Gray?” asked the minister. The interrogated took time to change his position from left foot to right and to shift his quid, before he drawled forth, “I reckon you’s de new Mefdis preachah, huh?” “Yes,” replied Howard, in the most conciliatory tone he could command, “and I hope I find in you one of my flock.” “No, suh, I’s a Babtist myse’f. I wa’n’t raised up no place erroun’ Mt. Hope; I’m nachelly f’om way up in Adams County. Dey jes’ sont me down hyeah to fin’ you an’ to tek you up to Steve’s. Steve, he’s workin’ to-day an’ couldn’t come down.” He laid particular stress upon the “to-day,” as if Steve’s spell of activity were not an everyday occurrence. “Is it far from here?” asked Dokesbury. “’Tain’t mo’ ’n a mile an’ a ha’f by de shawt cut.” “Well, then, let’s take the short cut, by all means,” said the preacher. They trudged along for a while in silence, and then the young man asked, “What do you men about here do mostly for a living?” “Oh, well, we does odd jobs, we saws an’ splits wood an’ totes bundles, an’ some of ’em raises gyahden, but mos’ of us, we fishes. De fish bites an’ we ketches ’em. Sometimes we eats ’em an’ sometimes we sells ’em; a string o’ fish’ll bring a peck o’ co’n any time.” “And is that all you do?” “’Bout.” “Why, I don’t see how you live that way.” “Oh, we lives all right,” answered the man; “we has plenty to eat an’ drink, an’ clothes to wear, an’ some place to stay. I reckon folks ain’t got much use fu’ nuffin’ mo’.”