“Well, _gentlemen_,” with keen irony in his tone, “I reckon you think you’ve done a right smart thing, getting the Southern gentleman in a hole? A pro–_dee_–gious fine thing, I reckon, since it’s kept you away from chu’ch. _Baptis_’ church, I believe?” This was to poor Canfield, who was suspected of having been of that communion in his youth, and of being much ashamed of it after his marriage to an aristocratic Episcopalian. “Nice Sunday mo’ning to worry a Southern gentleman! Gentleman who’s owned a plantation that you could stick this hyeh picayune town into one co’neh of! Owned mo’ niggehs than you eveh saw. Robbed of his land and his niggehs by you Yankee gentlemen. Drinks a little wine to make him fo’get what he’s suffehed. Gets ovehtaken. Tries to avenge an insult to his honah. Put him in a felon’s cell and whitewash his gyarments. And now you come hyeh—you come hyeh—” here his eye fell with deep disapproval upon Winthrop’s white flannels—“you come hyeh in youh underclothes, and you want to have him held fo’ Special Sessions.” “You are mistaken, Colonel Brereton,” Winthrop interposed; “if we can have your promise—“ “I will promise you nothing, seh!” thundered the Colonel, who had a voice like a church–organ, whenever he chose to use it; “I will make no conventions with you! I will put no restrictions on my right to defend my honah. Put me in youh felon’s cell. I will rot in youh infehnal dungeons; but I will make no conventions with you. You can put me in striped breeches, but you cyan’t put my honah in striped breeches!” “That settles it,” said the justice. “And all,” continued the Colonel, oratorically, “and all this hyeh fuss and neglect of youh religious duties, fo’ one of the cheapest and most o’nery niggehs I eveh laid eyes on. Why, I wouldn’t have given one hundred dollahs fo’ that niggeh befo’ the wah. No, seh, I give you my wo’d, that niggeh ain’t wo’th ninety dollahs!” “Mike!” said the Justice, significantly. The Colonel arose promptly, to insure a voluntary exit. He bowed low to Winthrop. “Allow me to hope, seh,” he said, “that you won’t catch cold.” And with one lofty and comprehensive salute he marched haughtily back to his dungeon, followed by the towering Mike. The Justice sighed. An elective judiciary has its trials, like the rest of us. It is hard to commit a voter of your own party for Special Sessions. However—“I’ll drive him over to Court in the morning,” said the little Justice. * * * * * I was sitting on my verandah that afternoon, reading. Hearing my name softly spoken, I looked up and saw the largest and oldest negress I had ever met. She was at least six feet tall, well–built but not fat, full black, with carefully dressed gray hair. I knew at once from her neat dress, her well–trained manner, the easy deference of the curtsey she dropped me, that she belonged to the class that used to be known as “house darkeys”—in contradistinction to the field hands. [Illustration]