“No, aunty,” the clerk was telling her, “calico is too high; can’t let you have any till we see how your cotton comes out.”
‚ÄúI just wanted a bit; I promised the boy‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúGo on, go on‚ÅÝ‚ÄîWhy, Mr. ¬ÝTaylor!‚Äù And the little boy burst into tears while he was hurried out.
“Tightening up on the tenants?” asked Taylor.
‚ÄúYes; these niggers are mighty extravagant. Besides, cotton fell a little today‚ÅÝ‚Äîeleven to ten and three-fourths; just a flurry, I reckon. Had you heard?‚Äù
Mr. ¬ÝTaylor said he had heard, and he hurried on. Next morning the long shining wires of that great Broadway web trembled and flashed again and cotton went to ten cents.
‚ÄúNo house this year, I fear,‚Äù quoth Mr. ¬ÝMaxwell, bitterly.
The next day nine and a half was the quotation, and men began to look at each other and asked questions.
“Paper says the crop is larger than the government estimate,” said Tolliver, and added, “There’ll be no painting this year.” He looked toward the Smith School and thought of the five thousand dollars waiting; but he hesitated. John Taylor had carefully mentioned seven thousand dollars as a price he was willing to pay and “perhaps more.” Was Cresswell back of Taylor? Tolliver was suspicious and moved to delay matters.
“It’s manipulation and speculation in New York,” said Colonel Cresswell, “and the Farmers’ League must begin operations.”
The local paper soon had an editorial on “our distinguished fellow citizen, Colonel Cresswell,” and his efforts to revive the Farmers’