"Alwyn," she said sharply, "I shall report Zora for stealing. And you
may report yourself to Miss Smith tonight for disrespect toward a
teacher."
_Eight_
MR. HARRY CRESSWELL
The Cresswells, father and son, were at breakfast. The daughter was
taking her coffee and rolls up stairs 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. John Cresswell, was sixty, white-haired,
mustached and goateed; a stately, kindly old man with a temper and much
family pride.
"Well, well," he said, his air half preoccupied, half unconcerned, "I
suppose so--and yet"--he read the letter again, aloud: "'Approaching you
as one of the most influential landowners of Alabama, on a confidential
matter'--h'm--h'm--'a combination of capital and power, such as this
nation has never seen'--'cotton manufacturers and cotton growers.' ...
Well, well! Of course, I suppose there's nothing in it. And yet, Harry,
my boy, this cotton-growing business is getting in a pretty tight pinch.
Unless relief comes somehow--well, we'll just have to quit. We simply
can't keep the cost of cotton down to a remunerative figure with niggers
getting scarcer and dearer.
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