‚ÄúAh! where do you teach?‚Äù asked Mr. ¬ÝCaldwell. He was certain he knew the teachers of all the white schools in the county. Miss Taylor told him. He stiffened slightly but perceptibly, like a man clicking the buckles of his ready armor, and two townswomen who listened gradually turned their backs, but remained near.
‚ÄúYes‚ÅÝ‚Äîyes,‚Äù he said, with uncomfortable haste. ‚ÄúAny‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîinformation‚ÅÝ‚Äîof course‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Miss Taylor got out her notes.
“The leading landowners,” she began, sorting the notes searchingly, “I should like to know something about them.”
‚ÄúWell, Colonel Cresswell is, of course, our greatest landlord‚ÅÝ‚Äîa high-bred gentleman of the old school. He and his son‚ÅÝ‚Äîa worthy successor to the name‚ÅÝ‚Äîhold some fifty thousand acres. They may be considered representative types. Then, Mr. ¬ÝMaxwell has ten thousand acres and Mr. ¬ÝTolliver a thousand.‚Äù
Miss Taylor wrote rapidly. “And cotton?” she asked.
“We raise considerable cotton, but not nearly what we ought to; nigger labor is too worthless.”
“Oh! The Negroes are not, then, very efficient?”
‚ÄúEfficient!‚Äù snorted Mr. ¬ÝCaldwell; at last she had broached a phase of the problem upon which he could dilate with fervor. ‚ÄúThey‚Äôre the lowest-down, ornriest‚ÅÝ‚Äîbegging your pardon‚ÅÝ‚Äîgood-for-nothing loafers you ever heard of. Why, we just have to carry them and care for them like children. Look yonder,‚Äù he pointed across the square to the courthouse. It was an old square brick-and-stucco building, sombre and stilted and very dirty. Out of it filed a stream of men‚ÅÝ‚Äîsome black and shackled; some white and