"Our enterprise, sir!" they said to the strangers on the strength of the five thousand dollars locally invested.
Once it had vigor to sing, the song of the mill knew no resting; morning and evening, day and night it crooned its rhythmic tune; only during the daylight Sundays did its murmur die to a sibilant hiss. All the week its doors were filled with the coming and going of men and women and children: many men, more women, and greater and greater throngs of children. It seemed to devour children, sitting with its myriad eyes gleaming and its black maw open, drawing in the pale white mites, sucking their blood and spewing them out paler and ever paler. The face of the town began to change, showing a ragged tuberculous looking side with dingy homes in short and homely rows.
There came gradually a new consciousness to the town. Hitherto town and country had been ruled by a few great landlords but at the very first election, Colton, an unknown outsider, had beaten the regular candidate for sheriff by such a majority that the big property owners dared not count him out. They had, however, an earnest consultation with John Taylor.
"It's just as I said," growled Colonel Cresswell, "if you don't watch out our whole plantation system will be ruined and we'll be governed by this white trash from the hills."
"There's only one way," sighed Caldwell, the merchant; "we've got to vote the niggers."
John Taylor laughed. "Nonsense!" he spurned the suggestion. "You're old-fashioned. Let the mill-hands have the offices. What good will it do?"
"What good! Why, they'll do as they please with us."
"Bosh! Don't we own the mill? Can't we keep wages where we like by threatening to bring in nigger labor?"
"No, you can't, permanently," Maxwell disputed, "for they sometime will call your bluff."
"Let 'em call," said Taylor, "and we'll put niggers in the mills."