“All right, Sam,” said Cunningham, as he took the reins. “Here’s a plug of tobacco for you.”
He threw a piece of tobacco toward the colored man, who caught it skilfully.
“Thank yo’, suh,” grinned the negro. “Dat off hoss am po’erful nervous, suh, when der cayars come along, suh.”
“Jump right in, Mr. Merriwell,” invited Cunningham.
Frank did so, and the ruffian followed suit, swinging the horses toward the road that led from the station.
The Yale men had started for the nearest hotel, followed by a throng of men and boys, both white and black. At the head of this throng marched King Jimmy, with his head erect and the Yale badge secure upon his breast. After him flocked his new subjects, while behind them walked the deposed king, Scrubby Watson, with his hands thrust into his pockets, his hat pulled over his eyes, and his entire aspect one of hopeless dejection.
Jimmy stared as Cunningham’s team went past with Frank Merriwell seated beside the sandy-haired giant, then off came the little fellow’s hat in a profound salute.
And off came the caps of the followers of King Jimmy.
Frank waved his hand, and away went the team through the outskirts of Charlottesville, soon turning from the town to the country.
April in Virginia is fair and beautiful. The world was green and fresh, and in the purple haze of the west the Blue Ridge rose against the sky. Frank drew in great breaths of the pure air, his eyes glowing as he looked about at the attractive scene. The negro huts were picturesque, and the colored men and women smoking in the shade, with dancing pickaninnies here and there, were sights to delight the eye of an artist.