“They’re talking of the coming campaign,” said Miss Wynn.
“What!” exclaimed Bles aloud. “You don’t mean that anyone can advise a black man to vote the Democratic ticket?”
An elderly man turned to them.
“Thank you, sir,” he said; “that is just my attitude; I fought for my freedom. I know what slavery is; may I forget God when I vote for traitors and slaveholders.”
The discussion waxed warm and Miss Wynn turned away and sought Miss Jones.
“Come, my dear,” she said, “it’s ‘The Problem’ again.” They sauntered away toward a ring of laughter.
The discussion thus begun at Miss Wynn’s did not end there. It was on the eve of the great party conventions, and the next night Sam Stillings came around to get some crumbs from this assembly of the inner circle, into which Alwyn had been so unaccountably snatched, and outside of which, despite his endeavors, Stillings lingered and seemed destined to linger. But Stillings was a patient, resolute man beneath his deferential exterior, and he saw in Bles a stepping stone. So he began to drop in at his lodgings and tonight invited him to the Bethel Literary.
“What’s that?” asked Bles.
‚ÄúA debating club‚ÅÝ‚Äîoldest in the city; the best people all attend.‚Äù
Bles hesitated. He had half made up his mind that this was the proper time to call on Miss Wynn. He told Stillings so, and told him also of the evening and the discussion.