"Thank you, Captain," the young fellow answered, his hand tightening in its hold upon the big rough one. To find such honest hearty friendship beaming upon him from the old weather worn face made him regret more keenly their parting. "But if I take your advice I'm afraid I'll need your help sooner than you think."
The Captain gave way to one of his sudden bursts of noisy laughter. "Never you mind that—lad," he said with a chuckle. "What I told you was downright common horse sense. I'll see you some of these days again, and I've a sneaking notion it won't be so far off." He turned away hurriedly and had soon disappeared in the crowd of negroes that were unloading the boat.
The young fellow stepped ashore and was taken possession of by a negro with a beaming face, who shouldered his trunk and carpet bag without any consultation whatever, and led the way toward a nameless vehicle standing in the road. It was at least some satisfaction to find one who had anticipated his wishes, and the newcomer took his seat in the hack with a sigh of relief and some doubts of a successful ascent of the steep hill which loomed before him.
"Whar to, Boss?" came from the eminently competent guide when he had mounted the box. Evidently he was porter, coachman and owner of the vehicle.
"To the Mansion House."
"I knowed it," with a shake of his head and a display of fine white teeth. "All de sho' 'nough white folks goes dah. It's de place ob de town." Then with a dashing sweep of the whip, he set off up the hill at a rattling pace. Half way up they came to a sudden stop and the driver turned round again. "Boss," he began in an evident desire to be friendly. "is Gin'r'l Jackson still President ob de United States?" His doubts settled on this question, the precarious speed was resumed, the top of the hill reached and the journey ended before a long two story building, proudly bearing a large sign on which was painted in red and yellow letters, "The Mansion House."
Two negro porters rushed forward from the main door that opened directly on the pavement, one grabbing the carpet bag from the vehicle, the other lifting the little hair trunk with an ease that showed the lightness of its contents.
The young fellow stopped a moment as he stepped to the pavement and glanced at his surroundings. The pavement before the tavern was of brick, wide and shaded by overarching elms that cast a thick shade, making the place into a sort of veranda for the hostelry. Tables and chairs were placed here, and several groups of men had gathered on the pavement to procure the papers that had just been brought up from the boat. Near the main door four men were seated about a table, one reading aloud from a paper, interrupted at almost every other word by the vehement and noisy comments of his listeners, while an agile waiter was supplying the party continually with trays of drinks.
As the young fellow slowly made his way toward the door of the hostelry the man who was reading stopped suddenly, laid down his paper, and frankly stared at him. The others followed the glance of the first so that he was forced to undergo the scrutiny of the entire crowd as he entered the tavern.
He instinctively knew that he was being criticized and commented upon, and stopping a moment inside the door, he heard one of them say—"Another Yankee schoolteacher—I'll wager! If we don't look out we'll have nothing but Yankee professors and school marms down here presently." Then followed a burst of laughter and an order for another round of juleps.