incontinently. He saw nothing but a crowd of queer looking people doing things they were not made to do and appearing absurdly happy over it. It irritated him unreasonably.
“See the washerwoman in red,” he whispered. “Look at the monkey. Come, let’s go.”
They trooped noisily downstairs, and Cresswell walked unceremoniously between a black man and his partner. Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool recognized and greeted the girl as Miss Wynn. Mrs. ¬ÝCresswell did not notice her, but she paused with a start of recognition at the sight of the man.
“Why, Bles!” she exclaimed impetuously, starting to hold out her hand. She was sincerely pleased at seeing him. Then she remembered. She bowed and smiled, looking at him with interest and surprise. He was correctly dressed, and the white shirt set off the comeliness of his black face in compelling contrast. He carried himself like a man, and bowed with gravity and dignity. She passed on and heard her husband’s petulant voice in her ear.
‚ÄúMary‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMary! for Heaven‚Äôs sake, come on; don‚Äôt shake hands with niggers.‚Äù
It was recurring flashes of temper like this, together with evidences of dubious company and a growing fondness for liquor, that drove Mary Cresswell more and more to find solace in the work of Congressman Todd’s Civic Club. She collected statistics for several of the Committee, wrote letters, interviewed a few persons, and felt herself growing in usefulness and importance. She did not mention these things to her husband; she knew he would not object, but she shrank from his ridicule.
The various causes advocated by the Civic Club felt the impetus of the aggressive work of the organization. This was especially the case with the