"But that's what don' sp'iled preachin'; too many lazy nigga's a-graftin offa de people!" But Ferguson, as Wyeth learned later, was something of a pessimist, and predicted all kinds of deplorable things. And it was at this moment that a dejected creature made his appearance. He was bald headed, bowlegged, but, notwithstanding these possible deficiencies in his make-up, aggressive. His name was Thurman, and, said he, between bites of sweet potato pie: "Aw, nigga;--youah allus a-p'dictin'--som'thin' awful!--To--heah you tell it,--since the democrats--has got int' powah--cawse a buncha crazy nigga's--didn' know how t' vote--at dat aih convention in Chicawgo--the world is--liable to end tomorra'!" "It mought!--It mought;--'n' 'f it did--you be one--a d' fust--t' bu'n in hell--too; but don't you 'dress me lak dat no mo'--in sech distressful terms! You autta be 'shamed a-yo' se'f." And he munched pie for a time, uninterrupted by speech. Thurman only grunted unconcernedly. "What are the prospects of the colored people down here at the present time?" inquired Sidney, hoping to relieve the tension; but he could have rested easily on this score, for, as he learned later, they carried on that way every night. That was their diversion; but Thurman was now heard from. "HELL!" he answered calmly. "Good Lawd man!" cried Ferguson shocked. "What's comin' ovah you!" "Lyin' 'n' stealin'; drinkin' cawn liquah 'n' gittin' drunk; bein' run in, locked up and sent to d' stock-ade 'n' chain-gang;" he resumed, ignoring Ferguson's shock entirely. Whereupon, Ferguson looked more distressed than ever; but only wrinkled his face in a helpless frown, and said nothing. "Gee!" cried Sidney; "but that's an awful prospect." All this time Thurman had not smiled, but accepted everything as a matter of course, from the way he partook of sweet potato pie. "You must not pay any attention to Mr. Thurman, Mister," said the proprietress, from across the room. She was a patient-faced, sleepy, short woman. And now, for the first time Thurman moved in his seat, and took exception to the words. Said he, somewhat loudly, and emphasizing his words with a raised hand: "_Pay no 'tention! Pay no 'tention; wull I reckon yu'd bettah. Hump_," he deliberated, pausing long enough to fill his mouth with more potato: "_Pay no 'tention when yu' know yu'se'f that Jedge Ly'les 's a sentincin' mo' nigga's to the stock-ade 'n' chain-gang than he's eve' done befo'. 'N' a good reason he has fo' doin' so too! Lyin', doity, stinkin', stealin' nigga's_," he ended disgustedly. Presently, before anyone had time to deny his sweeping assertion, he resumed: "Mis' M'coy, yu' know dem taters I got frum you tuther night?" "I rember them quite well, Mr. Thurman," she replied, resignedly.