While she waited, she passed her time watching the negroes who were congregated about a small building which seemed to be part store, part bar-room, though from her observation the latter was its principal office.
They were a loud and slovenly set, but appeared to be good-humored, and rather like children engaged in rough horse-play; and when their voices sounded most like quarrelling they would suddenly break out in loud guffaws of laughter.
They were so boisterous at times that Mrs. Welch was glad when the station-agent returned and asked if she wouldn’t go over and sit in his house till Al came. She would have done so, but, as he evidently intended to remain in the office, she thought it would be a good opportunity to learn something about the negroes, and perhaps also to teach him a little on her part.
“Were the negroes not improving?” she asked. Her companion’s whole manner changed. She was surprised to see what a keen glance was suddenly shot at her from under his light brows.
“Not as I can see—You can see ’em yonder for yourself.”
“Do they ever give you trouble?”
“Me?—No’m; don’t never give me trouble,” he answered, negligently. “Don’ give nobody as much trouble as they did.”
Mrs. Welch was just thinking this corroborative of her own views when he, with his back to her, stooped for something, and the butt of a pistol gleamed in his trousers pocket. Mrs. Welch froze up. She could hardly refrain from speaking of it. She understood now the significance of his speech. Just then there was quite a roar outside, followed by the rattle of wheels, and the next instant Mrs. Welch’s vehicle drew up to the door. For a moment Mrs. Welch’s heart failed her, and she regretted the enterprise which had committed her to such a combination. In the shafts of a rickety little wagon—the wheels of which wobbled in every direction and made four distinct tracks—was a rickety little yellow horse which at that moment, to the great diversion of the crowd of negroes outside, was apparently attempting to back the wagon through a fence. One instant he sat down in the shafts, and the next reared and plunged and tried to go any way but the right way. Two negroes were holding on to him while the others were shouting with laughter and delight. The driver was a spare, dingy-looking countryman past middle age, and was sitting in the wagon, the only creature in sight that appeared to be unmoved by the excitement. Mrs. Welch’s heart sank, and even after the plunging little animal was quieted she would have declined to go; but it was too late now. She had never put her hand to the plough and turned back.
“I can manage him,” said the driver serenely, seeing her hesitation. And as there were many assurances that he was “all right now,” and everyone was expecting her to get in, she summoned the courage and climbed in.
It was a wearying drive. The roads were the worst Mrs. Welch had ever seen, but, in one way, there was excitement enough. The tedium was relieved by the occasional breaking of the harness and the frequent necessity of dismounting to walk up the hill when the horse balked.