It was a good fall. Even Covey, forcing himself through the days, had to admit that. Crops had done well, and the land he had put in cotton promised much. Undoubtedly cotton was the thing. Next year he would buy a gin and raise nothing else. But now it was a big job to weigh, bale, and haul his cotton into town. Covey’s strength came back slowly. He had Tom Slater in to help him for a spell, but Tom wasn’t much good at figuring; and figuring was necessary, if he didn’t want those town slickers to cheat him out of every cent. One Sunday evening he was sitting out front, waiting for it to get dark so he could go to bed. Around the house came Amelia, trowel in hand. Covey didn’t mind Amelia’s flowers. That little patch of purple was right nice. But Amelia had hardly knelt down when from out back came the boy Fred. He stopped at a respectful distance and bowed. “You sent for me, Miss Amelia?” Covey sucked his tongue with approval. They had said this nigger was house-broke. He sure had the manners. Amelia had jumped up and was talking brightly. “Yes, Fred. I wonder if you can’t fix that old gate. Even with our netting this yard has no protection as long as the gate’s no good.” She indicated the worm-eaten boards sagging between two rotten posts. Fred turned and studied them a moment before replying. “Miss Amelia,” he said slowly, “I better make you a new gate.” _Damn!_ thought Covey. “Can you do that?” Amelia was delighted. “Yes, ma’m. I’ll measure it right now.” Covey watched him hurry across the yard, draw a piece of string from somewhere about him, and with clear-cut, precise movements measure the height and width between the two posts. “I’ll have to allow for straightenin’ these posts and the swing in and out, but I’m sure I can find the right sort of pieces in the barn,” he explained. “If it’s all right with Mr. Covey.” “Oh, I’m sure he won’t mind.” The next thing, Amelia was coming toward him. His wife’s sister certainly wasn’t as droopy as she used to be. Didn’t seem to be moping around any more. “Mr. Covey, don’t you think it would be very nice if Fred makes us a new gate? He says he can. It’ll help the appearance of the whole yard.” Yes, she sure had perked up. “Go ahead,” he grunted. Fred made one last calculation with his string. “I’ll go see about the wood right away,” he said, and turned to leave. “Wait till tomorrow,” Covey barked. “It’s still the Sabbath.” “Yes, sir,” said Fred, and disappeared around the house. Amelia bent over her flowers. A thought was breaking through the thick layers of Covey’s brain. Damned if that fresh nigger didn’t sound just like one of those city slickers! The way he had measured that opening! _I’ll bet he can figure!_ It was a staggering thought and struck him unprepared. Full on like that, it was monstrous. But when the first shock had passed--when the ripples sort of spread out--he calmed down and began to cogitate.