“I know, I know,” Silas sighed; “an' in my opinion that's exactly why we need law--an' good law at that. Niggers are natural imitators of the whites; they see lawlessness, an' they git lawless. Mob law stirs up the worst that's in 'em. They see injustice done--the wrong man lynched, for instance--an' they brood over it in secret an' want to hit back, an' they do it the first chance. I don't see you at meetin' often, Brother Hoag, an' you may not depend much on Scripture--many busy men don't, these days; but it is my chief guide, an' our Lord an' Master laid down rules of conduct that if they was half obeyed thar wouldn't be a speck o' strife betwixt white an' black. Lovin' the humblest--'the least of these,' as our Saviour put it--an' turnin' t'other cheek as a daily practice wouldn't leave an openin' for such as that last night.” Silas put some wooden pegs into his mouth, and began to make holes in the shoe-bottom with an awl and a flat-headed hammer. Hoag glared steadily at the bald pate for a moment, and then, shrugging his shoulders, he stood up. There was a red spot on each of his cheeks, a sullen, thwarted sort of flare in his eyes. “Well, I'll have to be goin',” he said, winding his pliant whip around his hand. “I see you won't help me build that shoe-factory. I may do it, an' I may not. Thar is another deal I may put the money in, but that's plumb out o' your line. So long.” The cobbler raised his eyes and muttered an inarticulate something from his peg-filled mouth, and watched Hoag as he went out and unhitched his horse. “He's one o' the big men o' the county,” Silas mused, “an' yet he don't seem to have the slightest inkling o' what rail justice means. I reckon the almighty dollar has plumb blinded him. He wasn't any more concerned with what I told 'im about that pore darky than if I'd been talkin' about a dead hog. Well, they say he's give up believin' in a God or a future life, an' if he has he's livin' up to his lights, or _down_ to 'em--I don't know which.” CHAPTER X |IN morbid ill-humor, and vaguely discontented under an intangible something that seemed to press upon him from external sources, Hoag went to his horse. At another time the conviction that a mere cobbler had convinced him of his lack of judgment in regard to a business venture would have irritated him beyond expression; but, strange to say, Silas had said other things that were even more objectionable, and Hoag had been obliged to sit and listen, and by his silence leave the impression on the stupid lout that he was right. The fellow was no doubt talking that way to others, and others were talking to him in the same vein. Diagonally across the street was the front entrance to a big livery-stable. It had a high board front, on which was painted a horse in a racing-gig and a driver in a jockey's cap leaning forward whip in hand, feet firmly braced. Beneath the picture were the words: “TRAWLEY'S FEED AND SALE STABLES”