And there again the black men sang, like dark earth-spirits flitting in
twilight; the presses creaked and groaned; closer and closer they
pressed the silken fleece. It quivered, trembled, and then lay cramped,
dead, and still, in massive, hard, square bundles, tied with iron
strings. Out fell the heavy bales, thousand upon thousand, million upon
million, until they settled over the South like some vast dull-white
swarm of birds. Colonel Cresswell and his son, in these days, had a long
and earnest conversation perforated here and there by explosions of the
Colonel's wrath. The Colonel could not understand some things.
"They want us to revive the Farmers' League?" he fiercely demanded.
"Yes," Harry calmly replied.
"And throw the rest of our capital after the fifty thousand dollars
we've already lost?"
"Yes."
"And you were fool enough to consent--"
"Wait, Father--and don't get excited. Listen. Cotton is going up--"
"Of course it's going up! Short crop and big demand--"
"Cotton is going up, and then it's going to fall."
"I don't believe it."
"I know it; the trust has got money and credit enough to force it down."
"Well, what then?" The Colonel glared.
"Then somebody will corner it."
"The Farmers' League won't stand--"
"Precisely. The Farmers' League can do the cornering and hold it for
higher prices.
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