“Who’s John Taylor?” snorted the Colonel. “Why should we trust him?”
‚ÄúWell,‚Äù said Harry slowly, ‚Äúhe wants to marry Helen‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
His father grew apopletic.
“I’m not saying he will, Father; I’m only saying that he wants to,” Harry made haste to placate the rising tide of wrath.
‚ÄúNo Southern gentleman‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù began the Colonel. But Harry shrugged his shoulders.
“Which is better, to be crushed by the trust or to escape at their expense, even if that escape involves unwarranted assumptions on the part of one of them? I tell you, Father, the code of the Southern gentleman won’t work in Wall Street.”
‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôll tell you why‚ÅÝ‚Äîthere are no Southern gentlemen,‚Äù growled his father.
The Silver Fleece was golden, for its prices were flying aloft. Mr. ¬ÝCaldwell told Colonel Cresswell that he confidently expected twelve-cent cotton.
“The crop is excellent and small, scarcely ten million bales,” he declared. “The price is bound to go up.”
Colonel Cresswell was hesitant, even doubtful; the demand for cotton at high prices usually fell off rapidly and he had heard rumors of curtailed mill production. While, then, he hoped for high prices he advised the Farmers’ League to be on guard.
Mr. ¬ÝCaldwell seemed to be right, for cotton rose to ten cents a pound‚ÅÝ‚Äîten and a half‚ÅÝ‚Äîeleven‚ÅÝ‚Äîand then the South began to see visions and to dream dreams.