The face of the town began to change, showing a ragged tuberculous looking side with dingy homes in short and homely rows.
There came gradually a new consciousness to the town. Hitherto town and country had been ruled by a few great landlords but at the very first election, Colton, an unknown outsider, had beaten the regular candidate for sheriff by such a majority that the big property owners dared not count him out. They had, however, an earnest consultation with John Taylor.
“It’s just as I said,” growled Colonel Cresswell, “if you don’t watch out our whole plantation system will be ruined and we’ll be governed by this white trash from the hills.”
“There’s only one way,” sighed Caldwell, the merchant; “we’ve got to vote the niggers.”
John Taylor laughed. “Nonsense!” he spurned the suggestion. “You’re old-fashioned. Let the mill-hands have the offices. What good will it do?”
“What good! Why, they’ll do as they please with us.”
“Bosh! Don’t we own the mill? Can’t we keep wages where we like by threatening to bring in nigger labor?”
“No, you can’t, permanently,” Maxwell disputed, “for they sometime will call your bluff.”
“Let ’em call,” said Taylor, “and we’ll put niggers in the mills.”
“What!” ejaculated the landlords in chorus. Only Maxwell was silent. “And kill the plantation system?”