“I think you are right; let him try the road awhile,” added the less sentimental son.
“Now, good-bye; if I run upon a respectable-looking negro that I think would suit you and mother, I will send him to you.”
’Squire Brown collected his packages and set out for home, a long, lonesome ride through the country, over seventeen miles of macadam road, that hot, dusty night. He needed Jim, and did not like to see him go to prison, but could not prevent it. The old place would not seem the same without the little black negro, with his merry laugh and shining face.
“I don’t understand why the little rascal cannot behave,” said the ’Squire to himself, as his horse jogged along.
That evening, when he drove up to the lot gate, Mrs. Brown, who had been looking for him for hours, called out in a strident voice: “Well, did you bring Jim?”
“No, I am sorry to say, he went to jail in spite of all I could do; the judge was prejudiced against him. He will have to serve nine months on the chain-gang.”
“That is too bad,” said Mrs. Brown. “Jim is a good darkey.”
“Yes,” put in the ’Squire, “but he will break up camp meetings.
“I did all I could, employed a lawyer, spoke to the solicitor, and swore a half-lie about Jim’s character.”
Bright and early Monday, ’Squire Brown and his son, Harry, met on the Square in Charlotte, just as they had met two mornings before.