"
A pause at the Cresswell store, where Mr. Cresswell entered, afforded
Mary Taylor an opportunity further to extend her fund of information.
"Do you go to school?" she inquired of the black boy who held the horse,
her mien sympathetic and interested.
"No, ma'am," he mumbled.
"What's your name?"
"Buddy--I'se one of Aunt Rachel's chilluns."
"And where do you live, Buddy?"
"I lives with granny, on de upper place."
"Well, I'll see Aunt Rachel and ask her to send you to school."
"Won't do no good--she done ast, and Mr. Cresswell, he say he ain't
going to have no more of his niggers--"
But Mr. Cresswell came out just then, and with him a big, fat, and
greasy black man, with little eyes and soft wheedling voice. He was
following Cresswell at the side but just a little behind, hat in hand,
head aslant, and talking deferentially. Cresswell strode carelessly on,
answering him with good-natured tolerance.
The black man stopped with humility before the trap and swept a profound
obeisance. Cresswell glanced up quizzically at Miss Taylor.
"This," he announced, "is Jones, the Baptist preacher--begging."
"Ah, lady,"--in mellow, unctuous tones--"I don't know what we poor black
folks would do without Mr. Cresswell--the Lord bless him," said the
minister, shoving his hand far down into his pocket.
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