"Honey," he said tremblingly, "I b'lieve we can do it—if cotton goes to twelve cents, we can pay the mortgage."
Two miles north of the school an old black woman was shouting and waving her arms. "If cotton goes to twelve cents we can pay out and be free!" and she threw her apron over her head and wept, gathering her children in her arms.
But even as she cried a flash and tremor shook the South. Far away to the north a great spider sat weaving his web. The office looked down from the clouds on lower Broadway, and was soft with velvet and leather. Swift, silent messengers hurried in and out, and Mr. Easterly, deciding the time was ripe, called his henchman to him.
"Taylor, we're ready—go South."
And John Taylor rose, shook hands silently, and went.
As he entered Cresswell's plantation store three days later, a colored woman with a little boy turned sadly away from the counter.
"No, aunty," the clerk was telling her, "calico is too high; can't let you have any till we see how your cotton comes out."
"I just wanted a bit; I promised the boy—"
"Go on, go on—Why, Mr. Taylor!" And the little boy burst into tears while he was hurried out.
"Tightening up on the tenants?" asked Taylor.