‚ÄúLook at that,‚Äù he said finally. She glanced at the headlines‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúProminent Negro Politician Candidate for High Office at Hands of New Administration. B. ¬ÝAlwyn of Alabama.‚Äù
“Why, it’s Bles!” she said, her face lighting as his darkened.
“An impudent Negro,” he voiced his disgust. “If they must appoint darkies why can’t they get tractable ones like my nigger Stillings.”
“Stillings?” she repeated. “Why, he’s the man that’s waiting.”
‚ÄúSam, is it? Used to be one of our servants‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou remember? Wants to borrow more money, I presume.‚Äù He went downstairs, after first helping himself to a glass of whiskey, and then gallantly kissing his wife. Mrs. ¬ÝCresswell was more unsatisfied than usual. She could not help feeling that Mr. ¬ÝCresswell was treating her about as he treated his wine‚ÅÝ‚Äîas an indulgence; a loved one, a regular one, but somehow not as the reality and prose of life, unless‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe started at the thought‚ÅÝ‚Äîhis life was all indulgence. Having nothing else to do, she went out and paraded the streets, watching the people who were happy enough to be busy.
Cresswell and Stillings had a long conference, and when Stillings hastened away he could not forbear cutting a discreet pigeon-wing as he rounded the corner. He had been promised the backing of the whole Southern delegation in his schemes.
That night Teerswell called on him in his modest lodgings, where over hot whiskey and water they talked.
“The damned Southern upstart,” growled Teerswell, forgetting Stillings’ birthplace. “Do you mean to say he’s actually slated for the place?”