All the while Jervais was sitting with his chair tilted back against the wall, listening with supercilious indifference.
"How does it happen, Mr. Everett?" he said at last, looking into the face of the newcomer with a directness that spoke the doubt beneath his question. "How does it happen that you tell us nothing of this anti-slavery agitation that comes rumoured from Boston? You say you are from that country—so, of course, you oppose slavery too. Have you come down here to sow seeds of abolition?"
Everett met the eyes of his questioner squarely, and realized for the first time that this was the man who had made the slurring remark as he entered the tavern. For a few moments he considered his answer, knowing well that the impression he had made upon these men would be instantly annulled by the wrong words. Any personal prejudice on the subject which he might have acquired from the sentiments already spreading in the North he immediately put aside.
"I think that question," he answered slowly, meeting the intense look of each man in the crowd, "should be settled by the people who are slave owners. I am not—so I know nothing of the subject."
A burst of applause came from the crowd, followed by each fellow extending a hand to Everett and insisting upon his taking another julep.
"If they'd all do that way and mind their own business it'd be a whole lot better," drawled Mr. Suggs. "You ain't like Miss Prudence Varnum that came down here from Salem last year—and I'm certainly glad of it. She gave out she'd come here to teach school, but we soon found out it wasn't that. By Jingo, she'd come down here to write a book on the sins of slavery. We all didn't want the likes of her in town and we all just fixed a way to get her back home where she belonged. I just goes to her one day and tells her I'd heard she was writing a book, and that I could tell her a damn sight more about slavery than any fellow in town—if she wanted to hear it. She said she wasn't writing any book at all, but if I had a mind to tell her she had no objections to listening. You can bet I laid it on heavy. I lied as fast as a dog can trot, and the whiter her face got the more I'd lie. You can bet I made up a good tale about the way I had spent the last Sunday down on old Seth Burton's plantation. Says I, 'Miss Prudence, it certainly was blood curdling, and you sure want to put it in your book. But somehow, I kinder hate to tell you about it.' Says she, 'Oh, Mr. Suggs, please do. You don't know how it will help me to know the real state of this corrupt country.' Then I told her that we had run out of amusement, and just to liven up things, Seth had a big nigger tied to a tree and rammed a powder horn down his throat. 'Then, madam,' says I, 'he put a slow match to the powder while the rest of us stood off and bet whether the nigger's head would be blown clean off or just half way.' That went pretty hard on her, but I was bent on giving her her fill, so I went right on and told her that when they had too many nigger babies on old Seth's plantation he'd have them brought to town in a cotton basket and sold by the dozen, and if they didn't sell them all, he had what was left thrown in the river. I got up to leave after my last little piece of information, for I saw I'd have a fainting woman on my hands if I didn't. But, bless you, she called me back when I'd reached the door, and said, 'Mr. Suggs, you have opened my eyes. I had no idea it was such a wicked town. It almost makes me wonder what they would do to any one who expressed her disapproval of slavery.' 'Well, ma'm,' says I, 'I never heard tell of but one woman who expressed her opposition to the matter, and considering the reputation of this town, I can't say they treated her so badly. They only tarred and feathered her, and rode her on a rail for a few squares.' She left town on the first boat up the river, believing every word I'd told her, and I reckon she's lecturing right now on the information I gave her. But that's the way we handle 'em down here, if we don't like 'em, and it's a tip to you, sir, because you appear to be the best Yankee we've seen down this way. Hello, there's the stage from Jackson."
The loud fan-fare of a horn broke upon the mid day drowsiness of the town. In a few minutes the pavement before the tavern was crowded. From every direction people came running to get a close view of the day's arrival. A row of negro waiters lined up before the tavern door, an array that went far to impress the provincial voyageur as to the importance of the hostelry. Some Indians gathered in a silently observing group, and in a brick store across the street clerks and customers stood in the front door—for this was the terminus of the forty mile coach trip from Jackson, and the event of the day that broke the monotony of existence.
In a cloud of dust the coach finally made its appearance, a great lumbering car, swung on leather straps, and tilting from side to side, as the six lathered horses were urged into a final gallop by means of a cracking whip, loud blasts of the horn, and an impressive handling of the reins which the driver managed in magnificent style.
The group about the table, interrupted in their political discussions, wheeled about in their chairs, and though the block where the coach was to pull up was only a few paces directly before them, Jervais had already risen and detached himself from the others.
"Expecting some one, Jervais?" Mr. Suggs called after him, at the same time winking at the rest of the group.