“Why, ain’t you been readin’ in de papers ’bout dem big festerbuls dat Mr. Roseanfelt an’ his fine lady’s been havin’ spechully fer de niggers? Dat’s it, sir! Dere’s where Uncle Derrick’s goin’.” The old fellow was in earnest. He wore his best shoes--a new pair of number fourteen brogans--a weather-beaten stovepipe hat and an antiquated suit of livery. In a bandanna handkerchief, swung over the end of a stout cane across his shoulder, he carried a few odds and ends of dress. “Well, Uncle Derrick, how much money are you taking with you? Can you go in good style?” “Boss, dat’s de weak p’int ’bout my trip. De ole nigger’s des got ernuff to git to Salisbury, but ef he can’t fine er frien’ dere to hep him on he’ll walk. I’s gwine to go ef de Lawd lets me live. De time dat I’s been waitin’ fer is done come. It sho’ is. All de niggers in my part uv de town is talkin’ ’bout goin’. President Roseanfelt (dat’s what de Dutch folks uv Keebarrus county calls him) sho’ is de frien’ uv de nigger. Think uv it! Niggers wid deyer shinin’ clothes on eatin’ wid de rich white folks uv de lan’! I ain’t got no fine clothes, but ef de ole nigger kin des git dere he’ll be all right; some good white gem’man frum de Souf will hand me out er thanky-suit. No, sir, I ain’t ’spectin’ no trouble arter I git dere fer de ole nigger’s mighty handy ’bout de house. Ef I can’t git in at de fust table I kin at de secon’.” “But, Uncle Derrick, they won’t let a cornfield negro go in the White House; it’s high-toned negroes, like Booker Washington and John Dancy, that attend the receptions of the President.” “What? Dem yaller niggers! Dey ain’t fitten to go wid de quality. It’s de right black nigger dat’s got de ’ristocrat blood in him. My ole marster uster say dat a light-skin nigger an’ er roan mule wuz de wust things in de worl’. “No, sir, I ain’t skeered uv no nigger wid er yaller skin. Ef I des kin git to de Big House dat’s all I ax; I’ll do de rest.” Dr. Smith, seeing that Derrick was serious, furnished him with money to buy a ticket to Washington and urged him to go forth and be merry. But, a week later, Derrick returned to Concord, ragged and bruised. His clothes had been rent in many places and his head badly wounded. He hobbled up town and called on Dr. Smith, to whom he told the story of his visit to Washington, and recited the fearful tale of woe that follows: “Marster, I ’clare ’fo’ Gawd dat I’ll never leave home ergin while I live. Dere’s mo’ good foks in Concord dan anywhere else. I’ll die right here. Dem Washington foks is de meanes’ people dat I ever seed. De niggers is bigity an’ de white men don’t pay no ’tention to you, an’ dat’s one place de poleesmens don’t take no draggin’ fer dey’ll knock you down fer lookin’ mad. I sho’ did think that judgment day had come when I got dere. “De trip up dere on de train wuz fust-class. I seed lots uv fine people on de way. But no sooner dan I lit on de groun’ at Washington my trouble started.