niggers have just been sent to the gang--young ones, too; educated but
good for nothing. They're all that way."

Miss Taylor looked up a little puzzled, and became aware of a battery of
eyes and ears. Everybody seemed craning and listening, and she felt a
sudden embarrassment and a sense of half-veiled hostility in the air.
With one or two further perfunctory questions, and a hasty expression of
thanks, she escaped into the air.

The whole square seemed loafing and lolling--the white world perched on
stoops and chairs, in doorways and windows; the black world filtering
down from doorways to side-walk and curb. The hot, dusty quadrangle
stretched in dreary deadness toward the temple of the town, as if doing
obeisance to the court-house. Down the courthouse steps the sheriff,
with Winchester on shoulder, was bringing the last prisoner--a
curly-headed boy with golden face and big brown frightened eyes.

"It's one of Dunn's boys," said Bles. "He's drunk again, and they say
he's been stealing. I expect he was hungry." And they wheeled out of the
square.

Miss Taylor was tired, and the hastily scribbled letter which she
dropped into the post in passing was not as clearly expressed as she
could wish.

A great-voiced giant, brown and bearded, drove past them, roaring a
hymn. He greeted Bles with a comprehensive wave of the hand.

"I guess Tylor has been paid off," said Bles, but Miss Taylor was too
disgusted to answer. Further on they overtook a tall young yellow boy