“He’s trying to get away. Keep him in debt, but let him draw what he wants.”
“Aunt Rachel?”
‚ÄúH‚Äôm, they‚Äôre way behind, aren‚Äôt they? Give her a couple of dollars‚ÅÝ‚Äînot a cent more.‚Äù
“Jim Sykes?”
“Say, Harry, how about that darky, Sykes?” called out the Colonel.
Excusing himself from his guests, Harry Cresswell came into the office.
To them this peculiar spectacle of the market place was of unusual interest. They saw its humor and its crowding, its bizarre effects and unwonted pageantry. Black giants and pygmies were there; kerchiefed aunties, giggling black girls, saffron beauties, and loafing white men. There were mules and horses and oxen, wagons and buggies and carts; but above all and in all, rushing through, piled and flying, bound and baled‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas cotton. Cotton was currency; cotton was merchandise; cotton was conversation.
All this was ‚Äúbeautiful‚Äù to Mrs. ¬ÝGrey and ‚Äúunusually interesting‚Äù to Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool. To Mary Taylor it had the fascination of a puzzle whose other side she had already been partially studying. She was particularly impressed with the joy and abandon of the scene‚ÅÝ‚Äîlight laughter, huge guffaws, handshakes, and gossipings.
‚ÄúAt all events,‚Äù she concluded, ‚Äúthis is no oppressed people.‚Äù And sauntering away from the rest she noted the smiles of an undersized smirking yellow man who hurried by with a handful of dollar bills. At a side entrance liquor was evidently on sale‚ÅÝ‚Äîmen were drinking and women, too; some were staggering, others cursing, and yet others singing. Then suddenly a man swung around the corner swearing in bitter rage: