Brother Jeremiah Buford rose and “hea’tily concuhed in what the brothah had said;” and dapper little Spriggins, who was said to be studying law, and to be altogether as smart as a whip, expressed his pleasure that a man of such enterprise had come among them to wake the coloured people up to a sense of their condition and to show them a way out of it. So the idea which had been formulated in the fecund brain of Solomon Ruggles became a living, active reality. His project once on foot, it was easy enough to get himself elected president and treasurer. This was quite little enough to do for a man whose bright idea might make them all rich, so thought the stockholders or prospective stockholders who attended the meeting, and some who came to scoff remained to pay. It was thus that the famous Coloured Improvement Company sprang into life. It was a Saturday afternoon of the third week after the formation of the company that Mr. Ruggles sat in the “firm’s” office alone. There was a cloud upon his face. It was the day when most of the stockholders brought in their money, but there had been a picnic the day before, and in consequence a distinct falling off in the receipts of the concern. This state of affairs especially annoyed the president and treasurer, because that dual official had just involved himself in some new obligations on the strength of what that day would bring him. It was annoying. Was it any wonder, then, that his brow cleared and a smile lightened up his rather pleasant features when the door opened and an old woman entered? “Ah, madam, good afternoon,” said the Coloured American Investment Company, rubbing its hands; “and what kin I do fer you?” The old lady timidly approached the table which the official used as a desk. “Is you Mistah Ruggles?” she asked. “I have the honah to bear that name,” was the bland response. “Well, I got a little money dat I wants to ’vest in yo’ comp’ny. I’s hyeahd tell dat ef you put yo’ money in dere hit jes’ lays and grows.” “That’s the princerple we go on, to take small investments and give back big profits.” “Well, I’s sho’ dat my ’vestment’s small ’nough, but I been savin’ it a mighty long while.” The old woman drew a weather-beaten purse from her pocket, and Solomon Ruggles’s eyes glistened with expectation as he saw it. His face fell, though, when he saw that it held but little. However, every little helps, and he brightened again as the old lady counted, slowly and tremblingly, the small store of only five dollars in all. Ruggles took the money in his eager palms. “Of course, Mrs.—” “Mandy Smif’s my name.” “Of course, we can’t promise you no fortune in return fu’ an investment of fi’ dollahs, but we’ll do the bes’ we kin fu’ you.”