The excitement had reached its zenith. The tension was greatest, and the crowd could constrain itself no longer. The spell was broken when Elder Brown shouted: “An’ thank Gawd it were a mule-er!” “Amen!” added the parson. “Hold me, hold me, hold me, ef you don’t I’ll fly away to glory an’ leave you all,” bellowed Arabella. “Brother Simpkins, hold yo’ wife,” cried a voice. Cæsar Simpkins rose from his seat and started toward Arabella, who was prancing up and down the center aisle, but when she saw him coming she waved her hand at him and sung: “G’way, Cæsar, g’way, I don’t want you to hold me, I’s gut sugar an’ molasses in my soul, An’ I want’s Brer Honeycutt to hold me.” Parson Honeycutt hurried down from the rostrum, caught Arabella by the right arm, and they went up the aisle singing “Glory hallelujah!” Arabella went into a trance, fell in Brother Honeycutt’s arms, and was carried out and laid upon the grass beneath a large oak tree, where she was permitted to cool off and “come around.” The sequel: That afternoon, while on his way home, Brother Honeycutt was thrown from his roan mule, Napoleon Bonaparte, who became frightened at a toad hopping across the road, and had his left forefinger broken. “I told you so!” said one and all. “Dat nigger’s vision allers comes true.” [Illustration: _Jim in a Peaceful Mood._] A NEGRO AND HIS FRIEND On a sultry morning in August, nineteen hundred and two, an ex-Confederate soldier, who had fought under Lee and Jackson, hobbled across Independence Square, bearing heavily upon his cane, on his way to the Mecklenburg county courthouse. From the opposite direction came a young fellow, with ruddy complexion, beaming face and springy step, en route to the railway station to take an early train for a neighboring town. The two, unexpectedly, came together in front of the Central Hotel and extended their right hands to each other. “Why, father,” exclaimed the younger man, “what are you doing here this time of day? “Have you driven all the way from home this morning?” “Yes, son, I left the farm about daylight, and just this moment arrived. “Jim is in trouble again.” “Another church row?” “Yes; a camp meeting this time.” “Well, father, I think if I were in your place I would let that negro go to the roads. The ball and chain might improve him. He has given you no end of trouble and cost you some money; let him take his medicine.” “I don’t know about that, Harry; your mother and I have decided to stand by him once more. He is a mighty good boy about the place and we have implicit confidence in him.” “Yes, but he is forever fighting and getting in court. Let him go!” “Well, son, his daddy, Old John, was a good darkey, and your grandfather would not like it if we were to let one of his old carriage driver’s boys go to prison if we could help it. “I know Jim is pretty bad about fighting negroes, but he is a good hand, and we get on well with him.”