“What a wonderful crop it is!” Mary had fallen pensive.
‚ÄúYes, indeed‚ÅÝ‚Äîif only we could get decent returns for it.‚Äù
“Why, I thought it was a most valuable crop.” She turned to him inquiringly.
‚ÄúIt is‚ÅÝ‚Äîto Negroes and manufacturers, but not to planters.‚Äù
“But why don’t the planters do something?”
“What can be done with Negroes?” His tone was bitter. “We tried to combine against manufacturers in the Farmers’ League of last winter. My father was president. The pastime cost him fifty thousand dollars.”
Miss Taylor was perplexed, but eager. ‚ÄúYou must correspond with my brother, Mr. ¬ÝCresswell,‚Äù she gravely observed. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sure he‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Before she could finish, an overseer rode up. He began talking abruptly, with a quick side-glance at Mary, in which she might have caught a gleam of surprised curiosity.
“That old nigger, Jim Sykes, over on the lower place, sir, ain’t showed up again this morning.”
Cresswell nodded. “I’ll drive by and see,” he said carelessly.
The old man was discovered sitting before his cabin with his head in his hands. He was tall, black, and gaunt, partly bald, with tufted hair. One leg was swathed in rags, and his eyes, as he raised them, wore a cowed and furtive look.
“Well, Uncle Jim, why aren’t you at work?” called Cresswell from the roadside. The old man rose painfully to his feet, swayed against the cabin, and clutched off his cap.