“I'd rudder be er niggah Dan ter be er whi' man, Dough the whi' man considdah He se'f biggah; But of yo' mus' be white, w'y be hones' of yo' can, An ac' es much es poss'ble like er niggah! “De colah ob yo' skin Hit don't constertoot no sin, An' yo' fambly ain't er-- Cuttin' any figgah; Min' w'at yo's er-doin', an' do de bes' yo' kin, An' ac' es much es poss'ble like er niggah!” The tune of this song was melody itself, brimming with that unkempt, sarcastic humor which always strikes as if obliquely, and with a flurry of tipsy fun, into one's ears. When the performance was ended, and the final tinkle of the rollicking banjo accompaniment died away down the slope of Sommerton Hill, Phyllis put her plump chin in her hands and, with her elbows on her knees, looked steadily at Barnaby for a while. “Barn,” she said, “is my father going to get the colored people to indorse Mr. Tom Bannister?” “Yes, ma'm,” replied the old negro; and then he caught his breath and checked himself in confusion. “Da-da-dat is, er--I spec' so--er--I dun'no', ma'm,” he stammered. “Fo' de Lor' I's--” Phyllis interrupted him with an impatient laugh, but said no more. In due time Barnaby sang her some other ditties, and then she went into the house. She gave the negro a large coin and on the veranda steps she called back to him, “Good-night, Uncle Barn,” in a voice that made him shake his head and mutter: “De bressed chile! De bressed chile!” And yet he was aware that she had outwitted him and gained his secret. He knew how matters stood between the young lady and Tom Bannister, and there arose in his mind a vivid sense of the danger that might result to his own and Colonel Sommerton's plans from a disclosure of this one vital detail. Would Phyllis tell her lover? Barnaby shook his head in a dubious way. “Gals is pow'ful onsartin so dey is,” he muttered. “Dey tells der sweethearts mos'ly all what dey knows, spacially secrets. Spec' de ole boss an' he plan done gone up de chimbly er-kally-hootin' fo' good.” Then the old scamp began to turn over in his brain a scheme which seemed to offer him a fair way of approaching Mr. Tom Bannister's pocket and the portemonnaie of Phyllis as well. He chuckled atrociously as a pretty comprehensive view of “practical politics” opened itself to him. Tom Bannister had not been to see Phyllis since her father had delivered his opinion to her touching the intrinsic merits of that young man, and she felt uneasy.