They rolled their big water-keg up to the plantation well, where a couple of grinning darkies filled it for them. As they came back past the row of slave shanties, a pleasant smell of bacon and corn-pone drifted out to their nostrils. Half a dozen negroes--strapping black field hands in cotton shirts and trousers--lounged on the grass in front of the cabins. One drew weird minor chords from a home-made banjo, and the others were “patting Juba” as they swayed and sang. Rolling bass and rich husky tenor blended in a throbbing harmony that sent shivers of delight up and down Tad’s spine. It was the first time he had ever heard negroes singing a plantation song. After they had reached the landing and were getting supper aboard the flatboat, the words still came drifting down to them: “Oh, I long fo’ to reach dat heavenly sho’, To meet ol’ Peter standin’ at de do’; He say to me, ‘Oh, how you do? Come set right yonner in de golden pew.’” “Gosh,” said Abe, “those boys shore can sing.” Allen nodded. “Ye’d oughter hear ’em when they git really worked up to it,” said he. “That time I was down to Paducah, there was a big gang of ’em aboard the steamboat, bein’ took down to New Orleans. Sing! Boy, you’d thought they was goin’ on a picnic!” “Pore things,” said Abe. “Aw, shucks,” Allen laughed. “Thar goes your tender-heartedness again, Abe. ’Tain’t no use feelin’ sorry fer ’em, no more than cattle goin’ to market.” Abe shook his head, thoughtfully. “It’s not exactly the same,” he said. “They _ain’t_ cattle, no matter how much folks say so. You take it on a plantation like this one an’ they look to be well kept an’ happy enough. But s’pose this owner dies, or gits a new overseer. Right off, mebbe inside a week’s time, they’re bein’ starved, or whipped, or sold down the river--families broke up--everything changed. “Misery comes to white folks, too, but at least they’ve got somethin’ to say about it. Looks like we have to have the slaves to raise cotton. But we ought to make it more of a square deal.” “Oh, well,” yawned Allen, “what’s the use of arguin’? ’Tain’t likely any of us’ll ever be bothered about it, one way or t’other.” They followed the overseer’s suggestion and spent that night tied up at the plantation landing. The last thing Tad heard before he dropped off to sleep was a broken strain of that barbaric music--a low, sobbing croon, inexpressibly sad--borne down on the night wind from the slave quarters. The crew of the _Katy Roby_ were up betimes next morning. “We’re runnin’ slow,” said Abe. “Got to do some rowin’ or we won’t be in New Orleans on schedule. Come on thar, cooks an’ cook’s helpers, git that fry-pan hot!” And he bent his long back to the oars with a vigor that made the ash wood creak.