It was Saturday, and in Pleasantville a jail-raising was in
progress. During all the years of its corporate dignity the
village had never boasted any building where the evil-doer could
be placed under restraint; hence had arisen its peculiar habit of
dealing with crime; but a leading citizen had donated half an
acre of ground lying midway between the town and the river
landing as a site for the proposed structure, and the scattered
population of the region had assembled for the raising. Nor was
Pleasantville unprepared to make immediate use of the jail, since
the sheriff had in custody a free negro who had knifed another
free negro and was awaiting trial at the next term of court.

"We don't want to get there too early," explained the judge, as
they quitted the cabin. "We want to miss the work, but be on
hand for the celebration."

"I suppose we may confidently look to you to favor us with a few
eloquent words?" said Mr. Mahaffy.

"And why not, Solomon?" asked the judge.

"Why not, indeed!" echoed Mr. Mahaffy.

The opportunity he craved was not denied him. The crowd was like
most southwestern crowds of the period, and no sooner did the
judge appear than there were clamorous demands for a speech. He
cast a glance of triumph at Mahaffy, and nimbly mounted a
convenient stump. He extolled the climate of middle Tennessee,
the unsurpassed fertility of the soil; he touched on the future