Having procured the drinks, Jerry, the momentary subject of the race discussion which goes on eternally in the South, was making his way back across the street, somewhat disturbed in mind.
“O Lawd!” he groaned, “I never troubles trouble till trouble troubles me; but w’en I got dem drinks befo’, Gin’l Belmont gimme half a dollar an’ tol’ me ter keep de change. Dis time he didn’ say nothin’ ’bout de change. I s’pose he jes’ fergot erbout it, but w’at is a po’ nigger gwine ter do w’en he has ter conten’ wid w’ite folks’s fergitfulniss? I don’ see no way but ter do some fergittin’ myse’f. I’ll jes’ stan’ outside de do’ here till dey gits so wrop’ up in deir talk dat dey won’ ’member nothin’ e’se, an’ den at de right minute I’ll ban’ de glasses ’roun, an’ moa’ lackly de gin’l ’ll fergit all ’bout de change.”
While Jerry stood outside, the conversation within was plainly audible, and some inkling of its purport filtered through his mind.
“Now, gentlemen,” the general was saying, “here’s my plan. That editorial in the negro newspaper is good campaign matter, but we should reserve it until it will be most effective. Suppose we just stick it in a pigeonhole, and let the editor—what’s his name?”
“The nigger’s name is Barber,” replied McBane. “I’d like to have him under me for a month or two; he’d write no more editorials.”
“Let Barber have all the rope he wants,” resumed the general, “and he’ll be sure to hang himself. In the meantime we will continue to work up public opinion—we can use this letter privately for that purpose—and when the state campaign opens we’ll print the editorial, with suitable comment, scatter it broadcast throughout the state, fire the Southern heart, organize the white people on the color line, have a little demonstration with red shirts and shotguns, scare the negroes into fits, win the state for white supremacy, and teach our colored fellow citizens that we are tired of negro domination and have put an end to it forever. The Afro-American Banner will doubtless die about the same time.”
“And so will the editor!” exclaimed McBane ferociously; “I’ll see to that. But I wonder where that nigger is with them cocktails? I’m so thirsty I could swallow blue blazes.”
“Here’s yo’ drinks, gin’l,” announced Jerry, entering with the glasses on a tray.
The gentlemen exchanged compliments and imbibed—McBane at a gulp, Carteret with more deliberation, leaving about half the contents of his glass.
The general drank slowly, with every sign of appreciation. “If the illustrious statesman,” he observed, “whose name this mixture bears, had done nothing more than invent it, his fame would still deserve to go thundering down the endless ages.”
“It ain’t bad liquor,” assented McBane, smacking his lips.
Jerry received the empty glasses on the tray and left the room. He had scarcely gained the hall when the general called him back.
“O Lawd!” groaned Jerry, “he’s gwine ter ax me fer de change. Yas, suh, yas, suh; comin’, gin’l, comin’, suh!”
“You may keep the change, Jerry,” said the general.
Jerry’s face grew radiant at this announcement. “Yas, suh, gin’l; thank y’, suh; much obleedzed, suh. I wuz jus’ gwine ter fetch it in, suh, w’en I had put de tray down. Thank y’, suh, truly, suh!”
Jerry backed and bowed himself out into the hall.
“Dat wuz a close shave,” he muttered, as he swallowed the remaining contents of Major Carteret’s glass. “I ’lowed dem twenty cents wuz gone dat time—an’ whar I wuz gwine ter git de money ter take my gal ter de chu’ch festibal ter-night, de Lawd only knows!—‘less’n I borried it offn Mr. Ellis, an’ I owes him sixty cents a’ready. But I wonduh w’at dem w’ite folks in dere is up ter? Dere’s one thing sho’—dey’re gwine ter git after de niggers some way er ’nuther, an’ w’en dey does, whar is Jerry gwine ter be? Dat’s de mos’ impo’tantes’ question. I’m gwine ter look at dat newspaper dey be’n talkin’ ’bout, an’ ’less’n my min’ changes might’ly, I’m gwine ter keep my mouf shet an’ stan’ in wid de Angry-Saxon race—ez dey calls deyse’ves nowadays—an’ keep on de right side er my bread an’ meat. Wat nigger ever give me twenty cents in all my bawn days?”
“By the way, major,” said the general, who lingered behind McBane as they were leaving, “is Miss Clara’s marriage definitely settled upon?”
“Well, general, not exactly; but it’s the understanding that they will marry when they are old enough.”
“I was merely thinking,” the general went on, “that if I were you I’d speak to Tom about cards and liquor. He gives more time to both than a young man can afford. I’m speaking in his interest and in Miss Clara’s—we of the old families ought to stand together.”
“Thank you, general, for the hint. I’ll act upon it.”
This political conference was fruitful in results. Acting upon the plans there laid out, McBane traveled extensively through the state, working up sentiment in favor of the new movement. He possessed a certain forceful eloquence; and white supremacy was so obviously the divine intention that he had merely to affirm the doctrine in order to secure adherents.
General Belmont, whose business required him to spend much of the winter in Washington and New York, lost no opportunity to get the ear of lawmakers, editors, and other leaders of national opinion, and to impress upon them, with persuasive eloquence, the impossibility of maintaining
