'damyankees,' as you call us, have always been doing. And you're just as
proud and exclusive and upper-classy as you were before the war. So it
wasn't your money that caused it."

"Maybe it was the climate," said Blandford, lightly, "or maybe our
negroes spoiled us. I'll call old Jake in, now. I'll be glad to see the
old villain again."

"Wait just a moment," said John. "I've got a little theory I want to
test. You and I are pretty much alike in our general appearance. Old
Jake hasn't seen you since you were fifteen. Let's have him in and play
fair and see which of us gets the watch. The old darky surely ought to
be able to pick out his 'young marster' without any trouble. The alleged
aristocratic superiority of a 'reb' ought to be visible to him at once.
He couldn't make the mistake of handing over the timepiece to a Yankee,
of course. The loser buys the dinner this evening and two dozen 15½
collars for Jake. Is it a go?"

Blandford agreed heartily. Percival was summoned, and told to usher the
"colored gentleman" in.

Uncle Jake stepped inside the private office cautiously. He was a little
old man, as black as soot, wrinkled and bald except for a fringe of
white wool, cut decorously short, that ran over his ears and around his
head. There was nothing of the stage "uncle" about him: his black suit
nearly fitted him; his shoes shone, and his straw hat was banded with a
gaudy ribbon. In his right hand he carried something carefully concealed
by his closed fingers.

Uncle Jake stopped a few steps from the door. Two young men sat in their