“Now, Deacon Atwood,” said January Kelly, deliberately, “I think a parcel of gentleman that was raised and been college-bred, men that would undertake to ride over things by killing out a few niggers—well, I think its a very small idea for an educated man. I think they must have lost all conscience of heart; I think all conscience of heart are gone when they come to do that, _I do_; but you a’n’t in earnest, Deacon? You’re a Christian man. I ha’nt got _no neighbors_ as would hurt me. I’m a honest man as works hard, and minds my own business, and takes care o’ my family; and nobody ain’t gwoine to kill me, nohow.” “Oh, no, January; nobody won’t hurt honest, hard-working darkies like you, if they let politics alone; but then there’ll be lots of the leaders be killed, ’fo’ election, if just such men as yo’ don’t come over and help us save the State,” said the Deacon. “Why the State is all here. I don’t see as it’s lost, nor gwoine to smash, either; and if we have a Government we’ve got to have leaders. If all the men stayed to home and worked land like I do, there wouldn’t be no Government.” “So much the better,” snapped the Deacon. “The strong could take care of themselves and look out for the weak ones too.” “Well, I don’t know about that. The rogues would steal and kill all the same, and who’d take care of our lives and our property, and collect the taxes, and build the bridges the war burned down, and the school-houses, and pay the teachers, and all them things?” “There is too many of them now; and South Carolinians shall rule South Carolina!” broke forth Deacon Atwood, with great vehemence; “and I want you to come over to the democratic party where you won’t get hurt. We’ll all help you if you will.” “Why Deacon, I thought yo’ was just saying we is getting along the best. I was born in South Car’lina, an’ so was mos’ all the collud people in the State to-day, and ain’t we South Carolinians then? Now all I has got to say is, _that it’s a mighty mean man as won’t stand to his own_. It war the ’publican party as made me a free man, an’ I reckon I shall vote ’publican _long as I breaves_! That is all I can say, Deacon. I don’t know no mo’.” “Hud up!” said the Deacon, and he rode abruptly away. “What on earth has come over Deacon Atwood, I wonder,” said Mr. Kelley, to a tall, muscular black man, who, swinging his hoe lazily, had at length planted his row abreast with the spot where his employer had dropped his when the Deacon saluted him. “Talking ’bout politics, I reckon!” was the drawling reply.