The Sprig’s Ball
William Gibbon.
{Illustrations by C. W. Berry.}
Several years ago, at the junction of two little streams in a fertile section of the cotton district, stood a rickety old blacksmith-shop. The master of its forge, Remington Ingleheart, familiarly known as “Rem,” was a stout, thick-set man, of slave parentage. He was a thrifty young fellow, sure of success at his trade. For some time he had been “goin’ with a gal,” as he said, about half a mile up one of the little streams, but had never come to any definite understanding, because there had been but one room to the shop. By the time of which we write, however, things were different. An extra apartment was practically completed. The neighbors wondered what “Rem” was up to. When asked about it, he simply answered that he was tired “workin’ an’ sleepin’ in de same place.”
Among all the young negroes of the vicinity, “Rem” had but one particular friend. This was Hicks Gale. Hicks was a sort of blacksmith, too. In rushes of work he would come over and help “Rem.” One cold December night, “Rem” had a job on hand that must be finished before he turned in. How he wished for Hicks! As if the wish had anything to do with it, Hicks actually appeared about nine o’clock.
“Hullo, Hicks!” exclaimed “Rem.” “Jus’ de man I wants to see. Take de sledge an’ strack a little fur me.”
“Dat ain’t presactly what I come fur,” said Hicks; “but I kin hit you a few licks, anyhow.”
“What’s on hand?” asked “Rem,” thrusting the iron back for a new heat.