Mr. ¬ÝHarry Cresswell
The Cresswells, father and son, were at breakfast. The daughter was taking her coffee and rolls upstairs in bed.
“P’sh! I don’t like it!” declared Harry Cresswell, tossing the letter back to his father. “I tell you, it is a damned Yankee trick.”
He was a man of thirty-five, smooth and white, slight, well-bred and masterful. His father, St. ¬ÝJohn Cresswell, was sixty, white-haired, mustached and goateed; a stately, kindly old man with a temper and much family pride.
‚ÄúWell, well,‚Äù he said, his air half preoccupied, half unconcerned, ‚ÄúI suppose so‚ÅÝ‚Äîand yet‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe read the letter again, aloud: ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄòApproaching you as one of the most influential landowners of Alabama, on a confidential matter‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîh‚Äôm‚ÅÝ‚Äîh‚Äôm‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äòa combination of capital and power, such as this nation has never seen‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äòcotton manufacturers and cotton growers.‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ Well, well! Of course, I suppose there‚Äôs nothing in it. And yet, Harry, my boy, this cotton-growing business is getting in a pretty tight pinch. Unless relief comes somehow‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, we‚Äôll just have to quit. We simply can‚Äôt keep the cost of cotton down to a remunerative figure with niggers getting scarcer and dearer. Every year I have to pinch ‚Äôem closer and closer. I had to pay Maxwell two hundred and fifty to get that old darky and his boys turned over to me, and one of the young ones has run away already.‚Äù
Harry lighted a cigarette.