"Why? Why? Do you think the plantation system can be maintained without
laborers? Do you think there's the slightest chance of cornering cotton
and buying the Black Belt if the niggers are unwilling to work under
present conditions? Do you know the man that stands ready to gobble up
every inch of cotton land in this country at a price which no trust can
hope to rival?"

John Taylor's interest quickened.

"Why, no," he returned sharply. "Who?"

"The Black Man, whose woolly head is filled with ideas of rising. We're
striving by main force to prevent this, and here come your damned
Northern philanthropists to plant schools. Why, Taylor, it'll knock the
cotton trust to hell."

"Don't get excited," said Taylor, judicially. "We've got things in our
hands; it's the Grey money, you know, that is back of us."

"That's just what confounds me," declared the perplexed young man. "Are
you men fools, or rascals? Don't you see the two schemes can't mix?
They're dead opposite, mutually contradictory, absolutely--" Taylor
checked him; it was odd to behold Harry Cresswell so disturbed.

"Well, wait a moment. Let's see. Sit down. Wish I had a cigar for you,
but I don't smoke."

"Do you happen to have any whiskey handy?"

"No, I don't drink."