Ahead of them, it was Court Day in Lexington. From the town, as a centre,
white turnpikes radiated in every direction like the strands of a spider's
web. Along them, on the day before, cattle, sheep, and hogs had made their slow
way. Since dawn, that morning, the fine dust had been rising under hoof and
wheel on every one of them, for Court Day is yet the great day of every month
throughout the Bluegrass. The crowd had gone ahead of the Major and Chad. Only
now and then would a laggard buggy or carriage turn into the pike from a
pasture-road or locust-bordered avenue. Only men were occupants, for the
ladies rarely go to town on court days--and probably none would go on that
day. Trouble was expected. An abolitionist, one Brutus Dean--not from the
North, but a Kentuckian, a slave-holder and a gentleman--would probably start
a paper in Lexington to exploit his views in the heart of the Bluegrass; and
his quondam friends would shatter his press and tear his office to pieces. So
the Major told Chad, and he pointed out some "hands" at work in a field.

"An', mark my words, some day there's goin' to be the damnedest fight the
world ever saw over these very niggers. An' the day ain't so far away."

It was noon before they reached the big cemetery on the edge of Lexington.
Through a rift in the trees the Major pointed out the grave of Henry Clay, and
told him about the big monument that was to be reared above his remains. The
grave of Henry Clay! Chad knew all about him. He had heard Caleb Hazel read
the great man's speeches aloud by the hour--had heard him intoning them to
himself as he walked the woods to and fro from school. Would wonders never
cease.

There seemed to be no end to the houses and streets and people in this big
town, and Chad wondered why everybody turned to look at him and smiled, and,
later in the day, he came near getting into a fight with another boy who