She was heavy laden, as I have implied. One arm bore a great bundle enclosed in a white sheet—laundry, doubtless—while on the other she carried a plump and complacent infant, crowing as it came, in that fine oblivion of weight which marks the procession of the heaviest babies everywhere. The young mother was pressing towards the river; a rusty skiff lay beside the bridge, in which, no doubt, she was to make her way to the negro settlement on the farther shore. She seemed ready to faint from the fatigue of her double burden, yet she pressed on with almost rapid steps, as if she must keep up till she reached the boat.
It was this that had attracted the attention of Mr. Laird, so rapt in observance that he evidently did not mark my uncle's movements. For the latter had hardly risen before our visitor sprang quickly to his feet—I can see him now, the tall black-robed figure, with high brow and auburn hair—and strode down swiftly towards the road. Another moment brought him alongside of the exhausted negress, whose white eyes could be seen wearily surveying him as he approached. Without a word he seized both burdens from her arms, the baby held high aloft as he led the way down to the boat. The mother straightened herself and followed closely, as if she had taken a new lease of life—it was not all due to the burdens she had lost, I'm sure—and the heavy baby crowed with delight at this improved style of locomotion. When, lo—miserabile dictu! as I learned in Virgil—this second pickaninny, with that tonsorial instinct which seems to mark the race, plunged its pudgy fingers where those of its predecessor had held high revel one brief half hour agone, squealing for very joy as it clutched the auburn mane of the Reverend Gordon Laird.
"Don't that beat the—the Dutch?" muttered my Uncle Henry from the porch, gazing at the tall and supple form, the now laughing and half boyish face, as our guest strode on towards the river, the baby and the bale like feathers in his arms. A funny smile was on uncle's face, half of contempt, half of admiration. "Those two brats both into his hair!" he murmured to himself—"and I sure enough got into his wool," as the grin deepened on his face.
He stood gazing. Then, recalling his sacred principles, he broke out anew: "Good heavens, he's going over to Slabtown with her," for our undaunted guest had by this time landed the bale in the bow of the skiff. Still holding the baby high, he took the woman's hand and helped her over the gunwale into the boat. A moment later we could see his shirt-sleeves glistening in the sun, he himself seated in the middle of the skiff, starting to pull vigorously for the other shore.
"Let him go," said my uncle between his teeth; "he's chosen his company and he can have it. By heavens," he went on hotly, "I was never so insulted in my life. What the—the dickens kind of a man is this Scotchman anyhow?—I've seen men shot for less than this. I remember once in Texas——"
"But, Henry," ventured my Aunt Agnes, "you shouldn't be so hard on him—he doesn't understand our——"
"Then why the devil doesn't he keep his mouth shut?" snorted my uncle; "comin' down here—like those infernal Yankees—an' tryin' to teach us how to run our niggers. I've seen men reach for their hip pockets for less'n that," declared my uncle, glaring round the circle.
"Now, now, Henry," said my mother gently, "that'll do, Henry. You're not much of an assassin—you know that. Besides, you can't help admiring his pluck, can you, now?"
"He's too —— plucky," muttered Uncle Henry, gazing at the now distant boat. Then followed a season of calm, broken only by the soft voices of my aunt and mother as they tried to pour oil on the troubled waters.
"And what do you say? What's your opinion of your Gordon Laird—and his nigger friends?" uncle suddenly demanded, turning on me as stern an eye as dear old uncle could ever treat me to. I had not yet spoken.