"Heah that John is livenin' things up at the darky school," volunteered the postmaster, after a pause.
"What now?" asked the Judge, sharply.
"Oh, nothin' in particulah,—just his almighty air and uppish ways. B'lieve I did heah somethin' about his givin' talks on the French Revolution, equality, and such like. He 's what I call a dangerous Nigger."
"Have you heard him say anything out of the way?"
"Why, no,—but Sally, our girl, told my wife a lot of rot. Then, too, I don't need to heah: a Nigger what won't say 'sir' to a white man, or —"
"Who is this John?" interrupted the son.
"Why, it 's little black John, Peggy's son,—your old playfellow."
The young man's face flushed angrily, and then he laughed.
"Oh," said he, "it 's the darky that tried to force himself into a seat beside the lady I was escorting—"
But Judge Henderson waited to hear no more. He had been nettled all day, and now at this he rose with a half-smothered oath, took his hat and cane, and walked straight to the schoolhouse.
For John, it had been a long, hard pull to get things started in the rickety old shanty that sheltered his school. The Negroes were rent into factions for and against him, the parents were careless, the children irregular and dirty, and books, pencils, and slates largely missing. Nevertheless, he struggled hopefully on, and seemed to see at last some glimmering of dawn. The attendance was larger and the
