went winding through field and lane to the ginhouse. On he worked till the
crescent moon came up and he could hardly discern fleece from leaf. At
last, fearing that the basket-weighing might be ended before he could reach
the ginhouse, a half mile distant, he emptied his pick-sack, belted at his
waist, into the tall barrel-like basket, tramped the cotton with a few
movements of his bare feet, and then kneeling got the basket to his
shoulder: he was not used to the balancing on head which seemed natural as
breathing to the old hands. With long strides he hurried to the ginhouse.
He was not a minute too early. Almost the last basket had been weighed,
emptied and stacked when he climbed the ladder-like steps to the scaffold
where the cotton was sunned preparatory to its ginning. When he had pushed
his way through the crowd of negroes hanging about the door of the
ginhouse-loft he heard the overseer call, "Whar's that yaller whelp,
Als'on?"

"Here, sah," Alston answered, hurrying forward to put his basket on the
steelyard.

"Give me any mo' yer jaw an' I'll lay yer out with the butt-en' er this
whip," said Mr. Buck. Alston was wondering what he had said that was
disrespectful, when the man added, "Won't have none yer sahrin' uv me. I's
yer moster, an' that's what yer's got ter call me, I let yer know."

Alston's blood was up, but the slaves were used to self-repression. All
that was endurable in their lives depended on patience and submission.

"Beg poddon, moster," Alston said with well-assumed meekness. "In Ol'
Virginny we use ter say moster to jist our sho'-'nuff owners; but," he
added quickly, by way of mollifying the overseer, who could not fail to be
stung by the covert jeer, "it's a heap better ter say moster ter all the