As many an older actor has done before and since, Alfred endeavored to conceal his confusion by stalling. It was really Alfred's first appearance before a heterogenous audience.

Alfred learned even at that early age that there is a difference in audiences. Notwithstanding his failure, with the density of perception that usually pervades an amateur's mind, Alfred changed his costume to Lacy Hare's military togs. He mistook the shouts of laughter aroused by this suit as approval of his acting. Lin relieved the situation by leading Alfred out of the room ere he had presented half of his famous impersonations.

Lin said afterwards: "I don't know what got inter thet boy. Why I allus said he had brass enuf in his face to act afore a protracted meetin' but be durned ef he warn't es bad es Joe Sanford when he stuck on the pole. I never been more cut up in my life, fur I would a swore he was too spunkey to git skeered."

The remainder of the program was more than successful. Everyone acquitted themselves creditably excepting Alfred. Lin sang the pathetic ballad:

"Out in the cold world, out in the street, Asking a penny of each one I meet; Shoeless I wander about through the day, Wearing my young life in sorrow away. No one to help me, no one to love, No one to pity me, none to caress, Fatherless, motherless, sadly I roam; A child of misfortune, I'm driven from home."

Lin had a deep, sweet voice, almost a baritone. She was full of sentiment and magnetism. Deeply in earnest she sang the song with telling effect. A tear, a heartfelt tear, came from the eyes of more than one of the sympathetic group.

Uncle Joe and Uncle Jack and one or two of the elder men had been led to the cellar several times during the evening, for a more pleasant purpose than Alfred generally went there for. The hard cider was kept in the cellar, the sweet cider upstairs. Uncle Joe was as mellow as a pippin. At the end of Lin's first chorus he threw her a handful of change. The other men threw coppers or small silver pieces. Lin, like a true artist, stood unmoved and continued her song. Alfred picked up the money and handed it to her. She disdained to receive it. How the fires of jealousy burned within Alfred's breast as he noted the triumph of Lin. How the men could become so affected as to throw her money he could not comprehend.

Before the next song, Lin lectured Alfred before the entire company, saying: "The fellur with the head drum (tambourine) in the circus minstrels never beat it in the sad tunes, only in the comic ones. Es long as ye've bin showin', a body'd think ye knowed thet much."

This calling down further humiliated Alfred.

Bill Storey followed in a tuneful baritone, singing:

"Oh, the old home ain't what it used to be, de banjo and de fiddel am gone, An' no more you'll hear the darkies singing among de sugar cane an' corn. Great changes hab come to de poor colored man, but dis change makes him sad an' forlorn, For no more we hear de darkies singing among de sugar cane an' corn."

Then all sang the chorus:

"No, the old home ain't what it used to be, (etc.)"

This number met with great approval. Professional jealousy surged through Alfred's breast. He hated everyone who had been successful. Thoughts of all kinds of revenge ran through his mind. He would tell mother that the ten pound rib roast was bought only to get eight bones for Bill Storey and four bones was all he could rattle on at one time. Alfred felt that the whole company had conspired against him, that they were the cause of his not being appreciated.

Supper was announced. Yes, supper, and they all sat down to a table; none of your society lunches, juggled on your knees, as served at the fashionable functions of today. When Uncle Wilse called down blessings upon all, even those sitting around the fire in the other room, who could not find places at the first table, bowed their heads reverently.

Cold roast chicken, pickles, sweet preserves, doughnuts, jellies, fine and red, cold claw, beets, hot mince pie, pound cake, layer cake, apples, tea, coffee and cider.

It took mother and Lin all day to prepare the repast. Fun and jokes were passed at and upon one another and everybody was happy, everybody but Alfred. With jealousy gnawing his vitals he sat between two big, grown-up men, unnoticed save when he requested some edible passed to him. He almost made up his mind to forsake the amusement profession and take his mother's advice to study to become a doctor.

Supper over, good nights were said. Guest after guest departed. One garrulous gentleman remained; he was noted for his staying qualities. He would visit a family in the country near his home and keep them up until after midnight, which was a terrible breach of etiquette in those days when country folks went to bed with the chickens and town people who stayed up after eleven were looked upon with suspicion.

The mother had caught herself nodding several times, the father was yawning, Lin could scarcely keep her eyes open, and Alfred had taken two or three naps. The prolonged visit had become almost unbearable to all except the lone guest who kept up a commonplace conversation, just sufficiently animated to keep him awake. In the middle of one of his dryest sentences Lin jumped up and said:

"Come on folks, let's go to bed, I expect Uncle Wilse wants to go home."



CHAPTER NINE

Never mind the pain For gladness will outlive it. When your neighbor needs a smile Don't hesitate to give it.

Then came sorrow into the life of Alfred. The father was ill for many months; war came with its blighting influences, bringing ruin to many, prosperity to a few.

The father's family were Virginians, the mother's Marylanders. True to their traditions they believed in the people of the South, not favoring secession, however. In the white heat of continued controversy relatives became enemies.

To add to their troubles Brownsville was visited by the most disastrous fire in its history. Alfred's folks lost everything, even to their wearing apparel. Alfred was the most fortunate member of the family. He entered and re-entered the burning home after he had been warned not to do so. At every return from the blazing house he carried some of his boyish belongings.

Lin, in recounting the thrilling scenes of the night of the fire, said: "Ef the men hed hed any sense all the things could hev been got out. Jim Lucas and Tom Brawley jes piled the bedsteads, bureaus, looking glasses and arm-cheers out of the third story winders an' durn ef I didn't see Tom Brawley kum out of the house with a arm load of pillurs wrapped up in a blanket. Hit takes a fire or a dog fight to show whuther peepul hev got eny judgment or not."

On his last trip out of the house Alfred carried his dog "Bobbie," two pet frizzly chickens, the uniform Lacy Hare and Aunt Betsy fashioned, Mrs. Young's part of his clown suit and the head-drum or tambourine.

Lin fairly snorted when she saw the boy approaching; "Now look at the dratted, fickle boy, leavin' his Sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes to perish fur them ole show duds. Hit beats the bugs jes to think thet boy 'ud run into thet house blazin' like a lime kiln from top to bottom. A body'd thot he'd tried to save somethin' thet would a done us good. But no; all he thinks about is them ole show things. It's a wonder he didn't try to get the melodeon out eny way."

The condition of the family was changed in one night from prosperity to near-poverty. The mother resolutely refused all proffered aid from relatives with whom relations had been strained. To Uncle Joe's and Betsy's offer she returned the message: "If we were Southern sympathizers before the fire, we are not beggars now."

Lin was as defiant as the mother: "Huh, yes. Ef we'd let 'em help us now, the fust election kum up they'd throw it up to us. Uncle Billy is a candidate fer county jedge, I reckon he wants a few votes. The Lord will purvide a way." She added: "Jus tell Joe an' Betsy an' all the rest of 'em thet we'll hoe our own row yit a while. No siree-horse-fly-over-the-river-to-Green-County, we don't want no abolishunist to help us."

Alfred could not fully comprehend the feelings that influenced the members of the family in the stand they took, but anything his mother said or did always met with his loyal support.

The proud, strong-minded mother guided the destinies of the family through the troublesome times that followed. The strictest economy was practiced in all things. Brownsville has ever been noted for the hospitality of its people and the plenteous supplies found on the tables of all. Therefore, when the usual good things were missing from the table and the mother explained that it would not be for long but for the time being it was imperative to live sparingly, Alfred put all in a good humor by calling on Muz, (the children's favorite name for the mother), "Muz, cook it all up at once and let's have one good, big meal like we used to have, then starve right."

Uncle Jake and Aunt Betty and all their family were steadfast friends during all the days of distress, as were Uncle William and grandfather and his family. Even Cousin Charley exerted himself to be of assistance.

Lin afterwards declared that the Biblical prophecy, "Meny shall be called an' only a few kum," had found verification in Charley's changed conduct. Since Lin "jined" church, she often attempted to quote scripture.

Among other offerings that Cousin Charley bestowed upon Alfred were two hounds with a colony of lively fleas. This gift was greatly appreciated by Alfred as the dogs were good coon hunters. It was not long ere the news came to Alfred's folks that Cousin Charley had stolen the hounds from Turner Simpson, a colored man who lived near the town, and noted for his superior hounds and numerous children. When the mother firmly commanded that the dogs be returned to their owner Alfred was greatly disappointed. Lin informed the boys that the dogs had to eat and that the mother had enough mouths to feed "without runnin' a dog's boardin' house. Why ye durned little fool ye, don't ye know Charley's jus put them dogs yar to git 'em kept. They'll jus keep 'em yar till they want to hunt coon an' then they'll take 'em. Ef it wur a hoss or hippotumas es was in thet sorry animile show, an' Charley 'ud gin it to ye, I'd feel ye could call it yer own. But a houn' dog, never. He'd never part with a houn'. Some fine mornin' the houn's'll turn up missin' an' ye'll find Dr. Playford hes bought 'em fur about five dollars."

Lin's reference to Dr. Playford gave Alfred an inspiration. He was on his way to Dr. Bob Playford's with the hounds chained together and nearly pulling him off his feet, so eager were they for exercise. The sporting doctor's eyes glistened as he looked the dogs over and noted their good points. Alfred explained that they were a present from Cousin Charley, that he prized them greatly but his mother would not permit him to retain them.

The doctor purchased and paid for the dogs, handing the boy a crisp five dollar greenback bill. Although greenbacks were greatly depreciated in value at that time, no bill of like denomination has ever before or since had the purchasing power that that five dollars had for Alfred. He could scarcely contain himself until he arrived at home, that he might hand the money to his mother. The doctor informed Alfred that he would give him an additional dollar if he would deliver the dogs to Turner Simpson, adding: "Simpson keeps all my hounds; he has a pack of them there now and these two will be all I'll need for a while. Be careful of the dogs, almost anybody will steal a hound dog and brag about it afterwards."

When requested to deliver the dogs to Simpson, Alfred was dumbfounded. He was soon on his way with the dogs. They did not have to drag the boy as on the way to the doctor's house. When they struck the old road above the tannery, Alfred gave the hounds a run, until Turner Simpson's house came into view.

Their arrival brought hounds from under the old log house, the porch and the stable. Kinky, woolly-headed, barefooted pickanninnies peeked through broken window panes and out of half-opened doors. The baying of the hounds brought old Simpson out to the road.

Alfred advised him that Dr. Playford had paid him one dollar to deliver the hounds and sent instructions that they be properly cared for.

"Oh, shucks. You jes tell Bob I allus takes good keer ob his dawgs," spoke the old negro in a half joking way. "An' you say to de Doctor, dat when he wants to take a pair ob houns away from yar agin he better jes tell me. I done sarch four days fuh dem houns. I neber dream de Doctor hed 'em. I nearly hed a fite wid John McCune's boys kase I cused dem ob kidnapin' de houns. Now I mus' go ober an' tell John de Doctor hed de dawgs all de time."

The six dollars were given to the mother. Lin declared Alfred the best boy in the world and one who, "ef he had the chance, could take keer of himself."

A few days later Cousin Charley brought Alfred a fine pair of white and blue pigeons in a nice little box. After talking on many subjects Charley came to the real object of his visit. He stated that he had bought the two hounds from a man whom he did not know. He paid the man the cash for the dogs. Now he had learned that the dogs had been stolen from Turner Simpson and he felt it his duty to restore them to their rightful owner.

Lin was washing dishes at the beginning of Charley's talk. She seated herself on the table—a favorite position of Lin's—and nodded approval at the end of every sentence Charley uttered. When he concluded, Lin began:

"I'll be tee-to-tall-y dog-goned ef this haint the mos' curious sarcumstance thet's ever kum up. Now a man—and Lin emphasized each word with the laying of the forefinger of her right hand into the palm of her chubby left—stole Turner Simpson's houns. Ye say ye bought 'em—nodding at Charley—ye didn't know they wus stole. Ye gin the houns to Alfurd. Now ye kum after the dogs; ye has to gin the houns back to Turner Simpson. Ye furgit who ye got the houns from an' can't git yer money back, ye're out jus thet much. Now s'posin' Alfurd sole them air houns to Doctor Bob Playford—Charley crimsoned—an' the Doctor says 'Yere Alfurd, yers a dollar, carry the houns to Turner Simpson's' an' Alfurd 'ud do hit, then yer conscience 'ud be easy, wouldn't hit?'"

"Yes um," meekly answered Charley, "but I don't think Bob Playford wants to buy any houns, he has a plenty, 'bout twenty I reckon."

Lin smiled as she informed Cousin Charley that "he hed twenty-two by this time. An' let me tell ye sumthin' further: Ef ye're tradin' in birds or pigins or whatever ye call 'em, ye better fin' sum other feller to handle 'em kase Alfurd's got on a swappin' canter an' it'll be hard to head him." Lin laughed long and heartily. Cousin Charley mumbled something about the principle of the thing as he left the house.

It developed that Cousin Charley had been doing quite a business in hounds. The pair Alfred had, or a similar pair, had been sold to Doctor Playford, at least twice during the past six months. When Charley needed a little money, he just sold the Doctor a pair of his own hounds.

The Doctor took it all good naturedly as he remarked: "Charley has stolen more hounds for me than he has sold me, therefore, I still owe him."

The mother, when the facts came out, forthwith sent Alfred to the Doctor with the five dollars. The Doctor laughed and said: "Alfred, go home and tell Mary (his mother) that I gave you the five dollars for keeping the dogs. And say—If Charley steals them again you just grab them, come and tell me and I'll give you five dollars more."

Alfred played spy on Charley for some time but Charley seemed to have lost interest in the hound business.

After the old play-ground, Jeffries Commons was abandoned, Sammy Steele's tan-yard became the favorite practicing place of the athletically inclined boys of the town. The soft tan bark was even more suitable for tumbling, leaping and jumping than the old saw-dust ring on the commons.

The owner of the tan-yard, Sammy Steele—no one ever called him Samuel—was thought, by those who did not know him intimately, to be hard and severe. And so he was to those who fell under his displeasure. Only a few of the boys of the town were permitted to enjoy the practicing place. Alfred was one of them. To Alfred, the dignified, hard working, honest tanner, was always kindly.

Alfred performed many errands and did many chores with quickness and willingness for the owner of the tan-yard. The willingness of the boy caught the fancy of the industrious man. One day he called Alfred up to his office.

The big, earnest man began by saying, (he always repeated his words)—: "Little Hatfield boy, little Hatfield boy, you are not big enough to do much work, much work, but you are willing, you are willing, to do all you can. You are here a greater part of your time, the greater part of your time. The bark is thrown down, thrown down, from the loft to the mill, to the mill, where they grind it; I say grind it, little bits of bark fly off, fly off on the ground bark. I want the ground bark kept clear of the unground, of the unground bark. You are spry, I say you are spry. It will take you but a little while morning and afternoon to clear the ground bark pile of the unground pieces, of the unground pieces. For this I will pay you twenty-five cents a day, twenty-five cents a day."

Alfred wended his way home in high glee. The prospect of earning money was pleasing to the boy. Long before the family arose in the morning he was up and waiting for his breakfast. Although it was but a few moment's walk to his place of employment, he insisted that he had best carry his noonday lunch. This the mother would not permit.



Active as a squirrel the boy scampered over the bark pile picking up the bits of unground bark. The work was but play.

The noon hour found him on the tan bark pile practicing. As the bell rang calling the men to work he was at his place with the most industrious of them.

During the many years that have begun and ended since he worked in Sammy Steele's tannery, Alfred has received some pretty fair weeks' salaries, but no pay ever brought the happiness the one dollar and fifty cents he received for that week's work in the old bark mill when he presented it to his mother.

Not many days elapsed before his industry was rewarded by an increase of wages to three times the amount he had previously received. His work took wider range, upstairs to the big finishing room and the office where he came in constant contact with the owner of the tannery. He made himself more useful to the man higher up, and when his pay was increased to one dollar a day, it seemed a fortune was in sight.

The illusion still clung. The present was but the means to an end and beyond lay his hopes. To become a great clown in the circus was the goal. Nor were the little band of minstrels, whose rehearsals had been checked by the fire and the loss of the melodeon, lost sight of. The big finishing room found the little band of amateur minstrels rehearsing almost every night, strange to say, the straight laced old tanner did not object. When several of the nearby neighbors complained of the noise and din, he simply gave orders to limit the rehearsals to 10 p. m.

Lin said: "Huh! ef enybody but Alfurd was at the head of it, Sammy Steele would a histed every one on 'em long ago."

Lin was peeved. She could not imagine how the singing could be anything without her voice and the melodeon. A tan-yard hand who played the violin by ear had supplanted Lin. She declared he could only "fiddle fer dancin', he couldn't foller singin'. Ye can't foller a fiddle an' sing, ye got to hev a melodeon or accordion. A fiddle wus never made to sing with, hit's all right fer dancin'. Lor', ye never hear any real music less ye got a lead. That's the reason ye never hear any good singin' in Baptus meetin'. They're agin manufactured music, they haven't got enythin' to go by."

Lin had joined the Campbellite Church for the reason that it was the furthest from the Baptist belief, so she claimed. Alfred always believed down deep in his heart that Lin had allied herself with that particular denomination for the reason that her vocal abilities were appreciated in the little congregation and for the further reason that the church had an organ.

Lin felt her exclusion from the minstrel rehearsals more than she cared to reveal. Alfred did all he could to comfort her. He assured her that Charley Wagner, the violin player, was not nearly so satisfactory as she.

"But s'pose I had saved the melodeon"—(Lin always attributed her rejection by the minstrel band to the loss of the melodeon)—"you couldn't a-used it in the tan-yard, it's too damp there and it would spoil the tune of it. Why, it's most ruined my tambourine. Beside," concluded Alfred, "regular minstrels are all men, they don't have any women folks in 'em."

His explanation was plausible but it did not satisfy Lin. "Huh! I wasn't good enuf fur yer ole tan-yard pack. I s'pose when ye got a lot of patchin' and sewin' to do, ye'll be callin' on me but ye won't fin' me in. Good bye, Mr. Clown, minstrel. Next time ye try to ak out afore folks I hope ye'll do better en ye did the nite uv the big party."

This was a home thrust, it pierced to the quick. Alfred was over sensitive. Often, when the remembrance of the failure alluded to by Lin troubled his mind, he had soothed himself with the hope that few had noticed his failure. But Lin's remark forced the awful feeling upon him that, like Cousin Charley's potato deal, it was known and talked of by the whole town.

Unexpected happenings brought the rehearsals of the minstrels in the old tan-yard to an abrupt ending.

It was during the dark days of the reconstruction period, immediately following the war. Only those of the south can fully realize what those days meant to a people already impoverished by the most gigantic war of Christendom.

Colonel Charlotte, once wealthy, now reduced to almost want, (we will place his residence, oh anywhere, in Virginia, Georgia or Alabama); his once productive plantation neglected for want of tenants and help to cultivate it, stock and products confiscated. Many and earnest were the conferences held by the Colonel and his unfortunate neighbors, to devise ways and means to recuperate their lost fortunes. After each conference with his friends the Colonel would wend his way homeward to confer with his good wife, who was a most sensible and therefore a lovable woman.

When the Colonel was most despondent the wife was most buoyant, cheering him as best she could. After the Colonel had given vent to his feelings, recounting for the hundredth time his helplessness in the face of the oppressive laws rigidly enforced by the carpet-bag officers; after he had delivered himself of a tirade against those who were responsible for the condition of affairs, the good wife said: "Colonel, I know if the Christian people of the North were aware of the sufferings of our people, we would get relief. I pity you in your troubles and do hope we may see a way to help ourselves. We are out of corn, the meal is almost gone and we have very little bacon left. Our children should be in school but I cannot bear to send them with the toes out of their shoes and their shabby clothes."

The Colonel would compress his lips, cussing every Yankee on earth. He would find his way to the country store to while away another day in useless conference with his neighbors. The same persons met daily and dispersed nightly to carry their woes to their homes. Time and again Colonel Charlotte informed the patient little wife that he was without hope.

"Don't give up," encouraged the wife, "I know it looks dark but it is always darkest before dawn; let us look toward the east and pray for light. I know something will come to us, but for my part, I would not care. I can stand it, but the children, poor innocents, should not be made to suffer; no shoes or clothes fit to go to school or church in. The winter is coming on and our provisions are scant. I worry only on account of the children. Colonel, do the best you can; that is all mortal can do, the Lord will do the rest."

The Colonel left his fireside early the next morning resolved to find something to relieve the wants of his family. Returning home later than usual he was in a towering rage. The good wife was alarmed.

"Why, Colonel, what has disturbed you so?"

"Wife, I'm mad clar through and if Captain Barbour warn't an old friend of the family, I declar' to God I'd assaulted him today."

"Heaven forbid," pleaded the wife, "I know Captain Barbour surely would not wound your feelings intentionally."

The Colonel explained that they were talking over their troubles, bewailing their helplessness, when Captain Barbour said: "Why Colonel Charlotte, you're better off than any of us, you have the means at your command to not only make a living but to lay a little money by."

"And wife, when I asked him how, what do you think he said? That I had a carriage and horses and I could open a livery stable. Open a livery stable!" And the hot blood of the Charlottes' reddened his temples again as he clinched his fists and walked up and down in his anger. "Me, a Charlotte, engage in the livery business. Why, wife, I could scarcely keep my hands off him. Me, a Charlotte, in the livery business. Pollute that old family carriage that bears on its panels the crest of the Charlotte family, whose blood runs back to the men of Cromwell."

The facts are the old family carriage was about the only relic of the Charlotte family's former greatness; imported from England years before, held as almost sacred by succeeding generations of the Charlotte family. To have one intimate that the sacred old vehicle should be used to convey the common herd was a heavy blow to the pride of the Colonel.

"Well, Colonel," soothingly spoke the wife, "I know your pride has been hurt, I know just how badly you feel. I know you are proud and I really fear that Captain Barbour in his zeal to assist you was indiscreet. He should not have spoken so abruptly but should have given you time to consider the motive that prompted him. I know—he—he—meant—well—and—and—perhaps—you—should—consider his advice. Can't we talk it over?" As she approached him, looking up into his face with a half smile and a half cry, she pleaded: "I would hate to say one word that would humble your pride, but—but those children—you know they ought to have schooling. And I declare, Colonel—I do not know—what we're going to do for something to—to—eat." And here the wife broke down.

The Colonel folded her in his arms as he soothed her, stroking her hair. He declared he would sacrifice all the pride of the Charlottes that she and his did not suffer.

The negroes were sent to the corn patch to fetch the old horses, pluck the burrs out of manes and tails, smooth them up by currying the long hair off their shaggy coats. The old family carriage was hauled out of the shed, washed, the brass mountings brightened, the coat of arms, the panels scoured until they shone again.

The sting was somewhat removed from the Colonel's feelings by the painter making the sign read "Liberty Stable." The word "Livery" was not in the painter's vocabulary. When he assured the Colonel that the sign was proper the Colonel was more satisfied.

Four or five days wore away. The Colonel, from his seat in front of the store, like Enoch Arden patiently watching for a sail, grew more despondent each day.

One November evening, the rain gently falling from the weeping clouds seemingly in sympathy with the Colonel's dismal feelings, a young negro was seen coming towards him. Colonel Charlotte recognized Sam, a former slave, the son of an old house servant.

The Colonel returning the salutation in a manner none the less cheery said: "Why, Sam, how you all has growed up. I declare I wouldn't knowed you only your voice is so much like your father's. How's all? Whar you livin' and what you a-doin' for yourself? Come on boy, tell me about you eh?"

Sam explained to the Colonel that "he was working on de new railroad buildin' down Raleigh way an' wus doin' tolerable well. A dollar a day, not countin' Sundays an' I gits my fodder."

"Well, Sam, if you can stow vittles away like you all done when I fed you, you're gettin' well paid."

The Colonel laughed at his own joke, the first laugh he had indulged in for days. Sam was encouraged by the Colonel's good humor. Doffing his hat, he addressed the Colonel in a sort of patronizing manner:

"Cunnel, I dun heard you all gone into the liberty business."

This flattered the Colonel slightly and he straightened up, replying:

"Yes, Sam, I just got tired of seeing my horses and vehicles around doing nothing and I wanted something to occupy my time. I don't count much on what I'll make but it will keep me from rusting out."

"Well, Cunnel, I'se jus come all de way down yar to see you. Dar's gwine to be a dance down to Townsley's tonight an' me an' my company an' my friend an' his gal wants to go, an' I kum to ask you all how much you gwine fur to ax us to carry us all to de dance an'——"

Like a flash the Colonel jumped to his feet, the old rickety, split-bottom chair was hurled after Sam with the words:

"You dam black scoundrel, I'll break every bone in your black body if I get hold of you."

This speech was hurled after the thoroughly frightened Sam as the Colonel pursued him. Giving up the chase the Colonel stalked home. His wife observed his anger as he entered.

"Wife, I've never in my life sustained a worse shock than today. To think of it after all these days of waitin', after I have been in the liberty business all these days, the first human being to come to me"—and the Colonel choked with rage—"the first human being to come to me to hire that old family carriage, was a dam nigger."

Then the Colonel in more moderate language described the scene between himself and Sam. The good wife listened to the Colonel until he concluded. Then in a conciliatory tone, she said: "Well, Colonel, it does seem as though fate is cruel to you. I do hope you will bear up bravely. I think it just awful that the first customer should have been a nigger. I do hope we will have others soon."

Then after a pause, she resumed, "Insofar as I am concerned I would willingly die before I'd ask you, a Charlotte, to sacrifice your pride further. But when I think of our children I don't know what to say. Colonel," and she trembled as she spoke, "do you—do—you think—Sam had money to pay for the hire of the carriage?"

"I done heard the money jingle in his pocket when he run."

"Well, Colonel, I wouldn't even suggest that—that—you carry those niggers to the ball, but if—if we only had the money—it would do us so much good. Those children—."

The Colonel waited to hear no more. Out into the chilly autumn evening, more briskly than he had moved in weeks, stalked the Colonel. Reaching the Liberty Stable, he ordered one of the boys to locate Sam. "Make haste," was his parting order.

The boy soon returned escorting Sam who seemed somewhat afraid to get too near the livery stable proprietor. The Colonel assured Sam that he desired to talk with him. Leading the way he walked until well out of hearing of his stable boy.

He began inquiringly, "So there's a big ball at Townsley's tonight. It's the fust I've heard of it, an' you an' your company wants to go. Well Sam, you work hard fur your money an' you ought not to spend it too freely because winter's coming on and these reconstruction laws the Yankees have put on us will make it hard on all of us."

"About how much do you reckon it will cost you all to go to the ball in a first class livery turn out?"

"I dunno sah," meekly answered Sam.

"How much you got?" was the Colonel's next question.

"Five dollars," and Sam jingled the coin in his pocket, showing a set of ivories that would have been the envy of any society belle in the land.

"Give it to me," and the Colonel reached his long arm out towards Sam, the palm of his hand up. Sam placed the five dollars in it.

"Sam, I want to see you have your pleasure. Five dollars is less than I ever charged for a carriage to a ball before. Being's it's you I'll let it go fer that figure providin' you never mention to any person on earth that you hired a conveyance from Colonel Charlotte."

"Yes, sah. I'll promise an' I'll neber tell airy livin' soul 'bout it," answered Sam, showing signs of fright.

The Colonel looked about to assure himself that there were no witnesses and commanded Sam to raise his right hand and kneel on the ground. Sam hesitated, the ground was wet and he had on his new store pants, but down he knelt.

"Now swear by all the laws of reconstruction that if you ever tell you rid in Colonel Charlotte's kerrige, you will be whipped by the Ku-Klux, haunted by ghosts and burned by witches until you are dead and buried in a grave as deep as hell."

The thoroughly frightened boy assented to the oath. The Colonel ordered him to arise, get his company together, "mosey" down to where the big road crossed the branch and wait until the carriage arrived.

The Colonel never entered the livery stable, content to leave the conducting of the same to his help. However, he was not content to trust the old family carriage to them. Ordering the horses hitched to the sacred vehicle, the Colonel hastened to the house, "to plant the tin, afore some dam Yankee carpet-bagger grabbed it," as he expressed it.

He returned to find the carriage ready for him. Two tallow dips burning dimly in the big, old-fashioned lamps on either side of the driver's seat were the admiration of the boys who lighted them. The Colonel ordered them to "blow them thar candles out," saying that they only blinded him. The real reason was that the Colonel did not desire any light shed on the transaction that would disclose his part in it.

Once down the hill he halted the team under the big oak tree where four dusky figures, two males and two females, stood. In a voice he intended to sound other than his own, the Colonel ordered the waiting group to "git in quick, pull down the curtains and don't airy dam niggers poke your heads out till we git to Townsley's."

The horses moved off, the Colonel soliloquizing as they trotted along the sandy road: "S'pose I meet a white man an' he asks me where I'm goin', what will I tell him? Was there ever a white man, was there ever a Charlotte put to this test before. If ever a Charlotte knew that I engaged in this business what would I say to him? Did I ever think I'd come to this? Me, Colonel Charlotte, hauling niggers to a ball." And he again cussed the reconstruction laws.

Arriving at the country store the dance was already under full headway. The fiddles and scraping of feet could be plainly heard.

The voice of the caller, "Swing your partners; all hands around; first gent lead off to the right," floated out on the damp air.

"Git out," was the Colonel's orders to his fares. "Now, don't stay all night or you'll walk back," were his last words to Sam and his company as they ran upstairs to the ball room.

Tying the horses to the fence, the Colonel lighted his pipe, walking to and fro to warm his chilled blood, he gave way to his gloomy thoughts again. "What would Captain Barbour, Colonel Woodburn and Major Hinkle say if they found out that he, Colonel Charlotte, was engaged in carrying niggers to a ball. Ef I was to be ketched yar by a white man, what explanation could I make that would protect the honor of my family?"

For himself the Colonel felt that he was eternally disgraced and had reached the point where he was willing to be ostracized but hoped to protect the family name.

Sam returned to the carriage to find a wrap or other article the women had forgotten. The air was very chilly. "Sam, have you all got any fire upstairs," asked the Colonel.

"Yes, sah, dars a roarin' fire up yander Colonel. Jus walk up sah an' warm yoself."

Pulling his hat down over his eyes, turning his coat collar up to disguise himself, the Colonel climbed the narrow stairs. Peeping through the door at the whisking dancers he skulked along the side of the room until he reached the big, open wood fireplace. The warmth was very grateful to his benumbed frame. He had not the assurance to look around at the dancers; while his front side was thoroughly warmed, the rear of his anatomy was still numb. About the time he had determined to about face, the dance ceased. He heard several remarks not intended for his ears:

"Who is dat ole white man 'trudin' yar? Whar did dat ole white man kum frum? Who fetched him up yar?"

The Colonel couldn't bear it longer. Stalking out, he descended the stairs, asking himself if he could sink lower. In the depths of degradation, what could happen that would sink him lower. A Charlotte ordered out of a nigger ballroom.

The cold air pierced him more quickly since leaving the ballroom. The big wood fire influenced him to return to its comforting warmth. By this time the fire had heated up the room. The heat from the over-heated revellers, the aroma permeating the atmosphere, was not unfamiliar to the Colonel's sense of smell yet none the less unpleasant.

It impelled the Colonel to seek fresh air more quickly than the side remarks had previously. Out in the chilly air he gave way to his thoughts as before, thoughts tinged with even more bitterness.

The fire had made him more and more susceptible to the cold and it was not long ere the Colonel started on his way to warm himself again. Sam met him at the foot of the stairs. Bowing and scraping, he began by apologizing profusely:

"Cunnel, I declars I hates to tell you all but the gemmen dat runs de frolik jus tol' me I has to. I'se been pinted a committee to tell you dey hes made a good hot fire in de back room down stairs fer you. You kin go in an' warm yerself. Dey all doan wants you to kum in de big room up stairs eny more. De fak is, de ladies up dar objecks to de oder ob de stable on yer clothes."

The facts are that a tannery is not as pleasant to the olfactory senses as Pinaud's perfumes, but Alfred, unlike Col. Charlotte, had exposed himself to objectionable odors by working over the vats and leather by day, and thumping the tambourine by night in the big finishing room. But no complaints ever came to his ears of the unpleasant odor of the tannery he carried home with him until Lin was discarded by the minstrel band. Therefore, when the mother, backed by Lin, informed him that he would have to give up his tan-yard affiliations, the boy felt in his heart that as in the Colonel's case, it was not the odor but prejudice.

He almost wished he had arranged that Lin might have retained her place as leader of the singing. But there were other reasons why he was ordered to leave the tanning business.

The Workman Hotel was but a few steps from the old tannery. The new landlord was giving the place a cleaning up. Cal Wyatt, the son of the hotel man, came over to the tannery and requested Alfred, John Caldman, Vince Carpenter and several others to go over during the noon hour to the cellar and give them a hand in stacking up sundry barrels and kegs.

All complied. The barrels were quickly lifted on top of each other. A tin cup full of some sort of fluid was passed around several times. All sipped from the cup, much as folks do from a loving cup nowadays. As the barrels were piled higher, the tin cup went around again and again.

Alfred had sipped from a large spoon a little of the same sort of tasting stuff when Grandpap Irons made a little toddy before breakfast. But never had his lips sunk into a tin cup filled with the stuff previously. A feeling came over him such as he had never experienced, and it seemed as if all in the cellar were similarly affected. Those of the tan-yard hands who had never been known to raise their voices in song, essayed to sing the minstrel songs. Those so awkward that they could not walk naturally endeavored to dance.

Ordinarily Alfred would have laughed himself weak at the hilarious attempts of the tan-yard hands, and their imitations. Under the influence of the tin cup's magic fluid he held them in that contempt that only the professional can feel for the jay who endeavors to imitate him.



Alfred stood motionless, or as near motionless as he possibly could. John Caldman, who was known and respected as the one quiet and unobtrusive person in the tannery, and from whose lips a loud word never escaped, stood erect and immovable as the singing, dancing tan-yard hands whirled about him. With compressed lips and haughty mien he seemed not to notice them.

Suddenly he spoke and in a voice so loud and unnatural that all were awed into silence. The quiet man had changed so completely he seemed another person. Alfred gazed at him in astonishment. He hurled epithets and denunciations at those whose names he had never before mentioned aloud. He recalled insults and abuse heaped upon him by all connected with the tannery; he invited, he insisted that the biggest and strongest of those about him come out and fight. He dared the whole crowd to jump on him.

None accepting his dare he declared his intention to go to the tan-yard and clean out the old shebang, following his threat with a movement towards the tannery followed by the wobbling crowd.

Entering the big finishing room Alfred saw the infuriated John standing in the middle of the room, an iron hook in one hand, a lump of coal in the other, while the workmen were flying upstairs and down stairs. Alfred endeavored to follow those who went down stairs. He remembered starting from the first step at the top. Vince Carpenter afterwards informed him he never hit another step in his descent.



Gathering himself up in time to hear Vince shout: "Here comes Mr. Steele," as badly scared as his dazed senses would permit him to be, Alfred fumbled and scrambled about for a moment. He spied a large wheel-barrow overloaded with cows' ears and other by-products of green hides that go into the refuse and find their way to the glue factory. This slimy mess was just out of the lime vat.

Alfred grabbed the handles and started with the wheel-barrow he did not know where, his sole object being to stall and make the boss believe he was at work. Along a narrow plank walk he pushed the gruesome load, weaving, wobbling at every step, threatening to go off one side or the other at any moment, headed for the dump where all the water-soaked, discarded tan bark was deposited.

Reaching the dumping ground, standing between the handles of the wheel-barrow, Alfred attempted to overturn it. The handles overturned Alfred. Down the steep incline, rolled Alfred, wheel-barrow and contents in one conglomerate mass, Alfred under the avalanche of cows' ears, tails, etc.

Mrs. Hampton witnessed from her back porch the race down the dump pile. Calling a couple of boys the lady led the way to where Alfred lay, digging him from under the slimy mess. The boys loaded the soaking figure into the wheel-barrow and carried him home.

Sammy Steele used as motive power in his bark mill a fine white mare and an iron grey mule. When Alfred could not get the use of the white mare he rode or drove the mule. Alfred's parents and others continually cautioned him to beware of the mule, that it was vicious and would surely kick him.

When the boys arrived at Alfred's home and Lin saw them assisting the almost senseless boy into the house, she began: "Well, fur the luv of all thet's holy, what's the rumpus now? I'll bet a fip Sammy Steele's mewel's kicked thet boy."

The boys did not reply, depositing their burden on the floor, hastily departed. To Lin's persistent inquiries, Alfred admitted that the mule had kicked him. In a maudlin way he stuttered: "L-o-o-k-o-u-t, Lin, she'll k-k-i-c-k you." Then he laughed a silly laugh.

Lin was convinced that the boy was out of his head, delirious from the mule's kick, sent for the doctor who came in haste. Lin explained that she was "skeered nearly to death. I wus yar all alone an' they kum draggin' him in. I tried to talk with him but he's plum out of his head. His mother an' his pap an' me an' all of us hes warned him time an' 'gain that that mewel would be his death, but he jus kept a-devilin' aroun' hit; now ye see what kum of hit. He's jus like he had a stroke of palsy, hit's a wonder the mewel hedn't killed him stun dead. Ef hits palsied him he mought jus es well be dead."

Thus Lin ran on as the old doctor carefully looked the patient over. The doctor had long practiced in Brownsville. Tomato vine poisoning cases were rare. Alfred's ailment on this occasion was common. He made no mistake in diagnosing the case although he did not inform the family of his conclusions. However, he assured them that "the boy would be all right in a day or two. His appetite might not come to him at once but he would be all right in the morning. Just let him sleep, don't wake him, and when he gets out caution him to—keep away from the mule," added the doctor dryly.

Lin said: "Be durned ef hit ain't the queerest case I ever seed. Alfurd's jus es sick es he kin be an' the old doctur didn't gin him nothin'."

A few days later it was whispered among the neighbors that Alfred and a number of the tan-yard hands broke into Bill Wyatt's cellar and drank up all his liquor and Alfred, "little as he wus, drinked more'n eny of em." George Washington Antonio Frazier 'lowed that Alfred "drinked so much he wouldn't want another drink fer a month. I wouldn't ef I'd hed his cargo," he concluded.

Lin threw her head up in disgust as she denied this rumor: "Huh, all ole Frazier is peeved 'bout is bekase he didn't git his ole hog belly filled up fur nuthin'."

Alfred slept he knew not how long. It was night when he awoke. Half awake, he would doze and dream—now he was carrying gourds of water to Uncle Joe, hastening back to get a gourdful for his own parched lips. He would invariably drop the gourd or have some other mishap—he never got the water to his lips.

He realized that there were others in the room, the lamp was too low to distinguish them. He listened endeavoring to hear what they were talking of. The old clock down-stairs struck two, then the little clock on the mantelpiece chimed twice.

A figure arose, softly crossing the room and a hand was laid softly on the boy's forehead. His eyes were closed but he knew it was his mother's hand.

"He is a little less feverish, Pap, you had best go to bed. I'll call Lin early and lie down. Now go on, you have to work and you won't feel like it, if you don't get your sleep. Go on now, if he gets worse, I'll call."

"Gets worse I'll call you." Alfred repeated the words over and over in his mind. He imagined at first that he had been sick a long time. He gathered his thoughts—the old tavern cellar came into his mind, the antics of the tan-yard hands after they had quaffed from the tin cup. Alfred got no further in his ramblings than the tin cup; only a ray of thought, yet it was of sufficient power to cause the boy to retch and strain as though he would heave his stomach up.

The mother was holding a vessel in one hand and supporting the very sick boy with the other arm.

"Muz, Muz, what's the matter with me—how long have I been sick—d-do you th-i-n-k I'm goin' to die?"

The mother soothed him and persuaded him to go to sleep. Alfred closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. He heard footsteps and, peering out of the corner of his eye, he perceived the form of his father bending over him.

Softly walking over to where the mother sat with bowed head, the father began: "I thought I heard him talking. Was he awake?"

"Yes," answered the mother.

"What did he say?" eagerly inquired the father.

The mother informed him.

The father, looking toward the bed, remarked half to himself:

"I hope he will be sober enough to talk to me before I leave the house."

"Why, John," hastily began the mother, "you speak as if he were an old toper."

"Well, Mary. I did not mean it that way. But I have been worried ever since that minstrel crowd has been gathering at the tan-yard. Of course, I never knew Alfred to drink whiskey but they all drink more or less and Alfred is not the boy to pass anything by there's any fun in."

"But they had no business to give a boy whiskey," argued the wife, "and I would see about it and I would make an example of them if I were you."

"I will do all of that and more," warmly answered the father. After a pause, he resumed: "They tell me they were all in Wyatt's cellar and Cal Wyatt drew a tin cup of high proof whiskey. Alfred put the cup—"

Alfred was following the father's words. At the mention of the word "cup," his stomach rebelled again. His father was holding a vessel, his mother supporting the boy's head.

Turning his head, the father ejaculated: "Phew! If that isn't rot-gut I never smelt it."

Alfred pretended to go to sleep and the father and mother talked long and earnestly. Their solicitude for the erring boy, touched Alfred to the heart. He had not realized until this moment the meanness of his actions. When Alfred fully realized the misery and suffering he had caused his parents, he was impelled to crawl to them and kiss the hem of their garments, promising never to cause them pain from the same cause again.

Let it be recorded he did not realize immediately when he drank from the cup, that it was whiskey. After the first swallow or two he became oblivious to his danger. He felt that he was forever disgraced. He thought of getting out of bed and fleeing, he cared not whither, only to get far away from the scene of his disgrace.

We do not know that the boy resolved that he would never touch, taste or handle whiskey again. We do not know what resolutions he made to himself, but we do know that whisky never passed his lips again until he was more than a man grown and then rarely and in very small quantities.

Alfred slept. When he awoke it was daylight. The sun was shining brightly. His first thought was that he would be late for work. Then he heard the voice of a neighbor woman, one whom the mother disliked, one who was noted for her tatling propensities. As an excuse to call she had brought fruit for Alfred. The boy overheard her inquiries as to his condition. She whispered long and earnestly with Lin. The latter, looking down at the pale face of Alfred began questioning him:

"Well, I see ye're alive yit, I gess ye'll kum out of hit. I s'pose the hull durn town'll be laffin' at me. I never dreamed ye wus jus corned. Ef I'd knowed, I'd brot ye out uf it quicker; I'd jus made a hull tin cup uf hot mustard—"

Alfred heard no further than "tin cup." Flopping over on his stomach, endeavoring to hold down the last remnants of his innards, he begged to be left alone. But Lin kept on:

"An' yere I sends fur the doctor es innercent es a baby an' up an' tole him Sammy Steele's mewel hed histed ye. An' when he was feelin' roun' ye I thot he was feelin' fur busted bones, an' durned ef I ever knowed even when ye begun throwin' up on the carpit thet ye wus jus drunk."

Lin continued: "Ef I hadn't sent fur the doctor it wouldn't be so blamed green lookin' in me. I'll never hear the las' uf hit. I'll bet Sammy Steele's mewel's ears will burn, the hull town'll be talkin' 'bout thet mewel. They'll say he's a powerful kicker," and Lin laughed despite herself.

"Why, fur weeks after Joe Sandford got into thet fix with his wall-paper show clothes folks would laff when I went into meetin'. I could tell what they wus thinkin' uf the minnit they'd smile. Un the wust part uf hit is I went over to Mrs. Todd's an' we cried fur two hours. Mrs. Todd's brother got kicked in the spinel string (cord) with a mewel an' he died the same nite. He never moved after he wus kicked. He wus ossified from head to fut."

Alfred laughed. Lin corrected herself by saying: "Thet's what Mrs. Todd sed ailed him, but I knowed she meant 'palsified'."

Alfred again laughed. Lin knew she had made a mistake; she was sensitive and it nettled her to notice the smile on Alfred's face. In tones quite testy she advised him to "hold his laff 'til he could feel hit. Ye needn't git so peart, ye hain't out of danger yit, ye're liable to have anuther collapse or sumthin' else. Ye'll never look as white aroun' the gills when ye're laid out in them linen sheets ye stole fur yer show."

Lin "wondered what gran'muther would say when she heard of his 'sickness'." At the word "sickness" Lin winked with both eyes.

"I'll bet a fip Uncle Ned will say: 'Well, he's another notch nearer hell.'"

Alfred did not consider the reference to Uncle Ned, but grandmother came up in his mind and he determined to go to the old lady and tell her the whole truth. And this he did and, instead of condemnation, he received advice that strengthened him in avoiding many of the same sort of pitfalls thereafter.

The tin cup incident ended Alfred's connection with the tan-yard but Alfred never regretted his experience. The work was most health-giving and muscle developing. The examples of industry and integrity learned from Sammy Steele have been a guiding post in the life of the boy. Alfred had not been in his employ long until he was permitted to conduct small trades with the customers who visited the tannery.

One day a highly respected farmer brought in a hide. Alfred weighed the hide and figured up the amount due the farmer when Mr. Steele entered the room, passing the compliments of the day with the farmer. The hide was spread out on the table. The tanner folded it over as if to ascertain if it had been damaged in the skinning process. At the first touch of the hide he looked into the farmer's face, and in a careless tone, asked:

"Been killing a beef?"

"Yes," drawled the farmer.

"Eh, huh, eh, huh," nodded the tanner, "what did you do with the carcass?"

"Oh, we found a market at home for it. We got a big family," replied the farmer.

"Eh, huh" assented the tanner. Reaching over, he took up the slate, rubbed out Alfred's figures, figured the hide at about two-thirds the amount Alfred was about to pay the farmer.

To Alfred's surprise the farmer accepted the cut in price and hastily took his leave. The tanner looked after him in a contemptuous manner, turned to Alfred and inquired if he knew the farmer.

Alfred answered: "Yes, he's a neighbor of my uncle. He belongs to the Baptus Church and I heard the preacher say if God ever made an upright man, he was one."

"Yes, yes," answered the tanner, "God made all men upright but a murn hide will warp most of them."

A murn hide is one taken from an animal that dies of a disease. The sensitive touch of the old tanner detected the diseased hide immediately.

Alfred has applied this incident to many deals in his life and a murn hide became one of his pet references to a crooked transaction. The tie of friendship between Alfred and Sammy Steele lasted while the tanner lived.

Sammy Steele had not acquired a fortune in all the years of his hard labor. A skilled workman, he respected labor. No employe of his was ever tricked out of his wages. He was as fair to the poor as to the rich and both trusted him. In an uncouth world he was a gentleman; he bowed as courteously to a wash-woman as to an heiress.

An honest man, he was Alfred's boyhood friend, his friend in manhood. Alfred loved him while he lived and respected his memory after he was gone.

If there were more like Sammy Steele in this world there would be better boys and better men.



CHAPTER TEN

If every man's eternal care Were written on his brow, How many would our pity share Who raise our envy now?

Lest those who read these pages through feelings of sympathy for the author, or influenced by curiosity, may gain the impression that the people of Brownsville were not as staid as the exacting proprieties of society demanded, it must be pointed out that there was not a bar-room in the town. The two bakeries, William Chatland and Josie Lawton, sold ale by the glass. Every tavern sold whisky by the drink from a demi-john, jug or bottle that was kept locked up. The landlord carried the key and served his customers from a glass or tin-cup. He poured out the drink, limiting the amount to the condition of the one served.

Alfred would never admit Pittsburg in advance of Brownsville except in one thing—the mirrored palaces where only cut glass was used in serving the thirsty.



It is peculiar how one's environments will influence his actions in after years. Bill Brown continues to send cut glass goblets to his friends. He boasts that his friends drink only out of cut glass. This boast does not arouse Alfred's envy as he has friends in Brownsville who can drink out of the bung hole of a barrel.

With going to school five days in a week and hunting Saturday, Alfred was kept within bounds.

Kate Abrams—everybody who knew him addressed him as "Kate" (none ever called him Decatur)—Captain Kate Abrams was the beau ideal of a man in Alfred's estimation. Brave, gay and companionable, a man who loved boys and hated hypocrites, a riverman, one who had plyed the southern rivers from mouth to headwaters, as well known in St. Louis or Natchez as in his home town, high strung and generous, he was just the kind of man that boys love and respect.

To go hunting with Kate was a pleasure Alfred esteemed above all others. He was the first wing shot Alfred ever hunted with. It was the custom of the hunters of that section to kill all their game sitting.

When Alfred was permitted to handle and shoot the double-barreled gun Captain Abrams had purchased in St. Louis, he experienced thrills known only to an ardent hunter when a gun, the like of which he had never seen before, comes into his hands.

"You can't miss shootin' that gun", was Alfred's comment.

Captain Abrams generally killed all the game, furnished all the ammunition and divided even with the boys.

The Captain, Daniel Livingston and Alfred had been out one Saturday but bagged only two rabbits; the boys were figuring in their minds how two rabbits could be divided among three persons. When they arrived at the parting point, the Captain remarked, "I know you boys would rather have a half dollar each than a rabbit." With this he handed each a bright half dollar.

Alfred had gone but a few steps toward home when a stranger halted him, inquiring as to the location of the office of the Clipper, the weekly newspaper. Alfred obligingly directed the man to the office.

The stranger had Alfred greatly interested. He was a journeyman printer. Harrison was his name. Harrison was only one of the many who roamed over the country in those days. They roamed from one spree to another, sometimes looking for work and never keeping it long if found.

Harrison was an editorial writer. There were many of them in those days; their enunciation of their political faith was abuse of all who dared dispute them. They wrote for many years and not one line of their output serves as a true mark of the times or people of the days in which they lived.



Harrison had walked from Uniontown. He had been working on the Genius of Liberty, had left the paper before it ceased publication, as he put it. He borrowed Alfred's half dollar. He promised he would meet Alfred at the Clipper office early next morning.

Alfred was there early but Harrison did not arrive until noon. Alfred learned afterwards that high noon was early for Harrison, he always did his work between twelve o'clock midnight and bed-time.

Alfred never liked the man from the time he failed to keep his appointment and repay the half dollar, although for the next year he was in closer touch with Harry Harrison than any human being on earth. But he soon discovered that Harrison had knowledge of many things that he wished to learn. Of course, he got a great deal of chaff with the grain, but it was all enlightening.

Harrison had no difficulty in arranging with Mr. Hurd as editor, foreman, pressman, reporter and general manager of the Clipper, issued every Thursday. He had come from the Genius of Liberty published in Uniontown, a paper savagely opposed to the Clipper.

Alfred's father was a reader and an admirer of the Genius of Liberty, a Democratic paper, a hater of the principles of the Clipper and not very friendly toward the owner thereof. When Harrison called at Alfred's home to induce the parents to permit Alfred to ally himself with the office force of the newspaper of which Harrison was the head, the father bluntly told him that he did not have any faith in a Democrat who espoused the principles continuously enunciated by that Abolitionist sheet, the Brownsville Clipper, and he would not permit a child of his to work for the paper.

Harrison advised the family that although he was a Democrat he was above all a newspaper man, and newspaper men were compelled often times to sacrifice principles to exigencies. That it was not a matter of the present but of the future. Alfred should be fitted for a career that would bring him honor and renown. Harrison declared the boy was precocious beyond his years, all he required was training, and he, Harrison, was in a position to offer the boy opportunities that might never knock at his door again.

Notwithstanding the fact that the Brownsville Clipper had on many occasions praised the business competitor of Alfred's father and, while Uncle Billy was a candidate for county judge, not only assailed his loyalty but referred to all his family in uncomplimentary terms, Alfred became an attache of the paper.

According to Harrison's statement Alfred was to be one of the business staff, although there was no written agreement to that effect. However, Harrison made mention of this fact several times in conversation with the family. As Harrison was editor, reporter, foreman of the composing room, and also the compositor, pressman, etc., the only opening for Alfred was in the business department.

Lin said that Harrison was the "most nicest man that ever kum from Uniontown, thet they was nearly all 'mountin hoosiers' but she would bet Harrison kum from a good family and she hoped Hurd's would feed him right." In those days it was the custom for the employer to board his hands.

The first three days Alfred was in the business department he carried two tons of coal in two big pails from the cellar to the third story—the press room. Harrison declared it was not possible to publish a clean sheet unless the room was kept at an even temperature. Harrison had reference to the mechanical part of the paper, not the literary.

On press day, Baggy Allison, the town drayman, helped out. He worked the lever of the hand-press. It required heft and strength to pull the lever as it was necessary to press the form heavily to give the type the proper impression on the paper.

Alfred was the roller. Two gluey, molassy, sticky rollers about four inches in diameter with handles on them, not unlike a small lawn mower without wheels, was first run over the ink smeared on a large flat stone, then over the form lying on the press after each impression.

Press day was a big day in the little printing office.

Harrison had inaugurated reforms and improvements in the paper. He had a catchy style in writing up the news. For instance: When Polly Rider and Jacob Rail were united in marriage, the groom requested a nice mention of the wedding, it was promised him. The following appeared in the Clipper's next issue:

"On Wednesday evening in the presence of a large and respectable gathering of the quality of Bull Skin Township, Jacob Rail and Polly Rider were married by a duly qualified squire. The affair was held at Tom Rush's Tavern. All following the bride and groom a-horseback made a crowd as long as any that ever attended an infair or any other public outpouring in this neighborhood. Rush sets the best table on the old pike twixt Brownsville and Cumberland. At this infair he outshone all others; many claimed it was the best meal they ever sat down to. Mine host is not a candidate for any office we know of but he can get anything he wants in this county insofar as the support of this paper goes. And we know whereof we write. Two baskets filled with dainties and a demi-john came to this office. The whole office wishes the happy landlord 'bon vivant' until we can do better by him. The bride wore red roses and other posies; the groom wore a new black suit which he bought at Skinner's round corner clothing store. Everybody wishes them a pleasant voyage through life, as does the CLIPPER."

The two baskets of dainties had not been received when the article was written but a copy of the paper found its way into the hands of the landlord before the ink was dry and the baskets and demi-john were in the office soon thereafter. Folks were just as susceptible to favorable mention then as now.

In the same column of the Clipper appeared this voluntary tribute:

"T. B. Murphy, the handsome and polite ladies' man, the artistic grocer, has just gotten in a large supply of everything in his line. Murphy is just a little cheaper and a great deal better than other grocers. Among the toothsome goodies which the boys of the CLIPPER dote on are the fresh Scotch herring all ready for eating and the sugar crackers. They go together and make a snack fit for a king to gorge on."

Harrison never tired of sugar crackers and Scotch herring. The herring kept him continually thirsty, hence Jose Lawton came in for favorable mention:

"Jose Lawton, the oldest and best baker in the town this day received a dray load of Spencer & McKay's Cream Ale. Spicy and brown, it is a nectar fit for the gods and spurs on ye editor in his untiring labors for that great moral inspiration, the public."

All that day the business department of the paper was very busy with a large coffee pot carrying inspiration from Lawton's to the press room.

Harrison carried his reforms and innovations to the editorial pages of the paper. In his first editorial he attacked those who held the offices and those who aspired to them, that is, those to whom the paper was opposed. Uncle Billy Hatfield was a candidate for county judge. The Clipper said:

"The office holding habit is so strongly imbedded in the family," (Uncle Billy had been a justice of the peace, another uncle a constable and Alfred's father burgess for one term), "that if the voters of this county defeat them, as they surely will do as the CLIPPER is in the fight to stay, and they were sent to the Island of Ceylon, where the natives have no clothes on, they wouldn't be there long before they would hold all the offices. And thus, like here, have their hands in the pockets of the naked voters."

Press day Harrison would fly fold and what not until a dozen copies had been run off that looked right to him. With these he left the office, the drayman and business department struggled along with the printing of the paper. The circulation was nine hundred and it generally took the day and far into the night to work off the edition.

Harrison carried the copies containing complimentary write-ups of various enterprises and persons in town to the persons themselves and frequently returned with articles contributed by the recipient of the write-up. He would bestow them on the office force, a pair of suspenders to Alfred, a pair of gloves to Baggy Allison, cigars, cheese, Scotch herring, sugar crackers and tobacco, were distributed and kept on hand at all times, that is all times near press day.

Harrison generally celebrated for three days. Press day was Thursday; he kept it up until Sunday when he was generally very sick.

On this, Alfred's first press day, Baggy Allison, the pressman, grew very tired when three hundred of the edition had been worked off. The pressman proceeded to take a nap. That the great preserver of public morals might not be delayed in delivery, Alfred essayed to work the press. The foot rest was too far away for him to reach the lever. The first time he pulled it towards him while on a tension, the lever slipped from his slender grasp, and flying back, snapped one of the small springs in the press.

Harrison was sought and finally found but was too effulgent to realize the calamity. He recommended the press be shipped to Philadelphia and the office closed for two weeks. He was evidently feeling so good that he could not entertain the idea of getting back to the regular life in less time.

Mr. Hurd, the owner, insisted that Davy Chalfant, "the best blacksmith in the country," could repair the spring. Alfred was dispatched with the broken bits to Davy's shop. Davy was not only noted for his mechanical skill but for his likes and dislikes. He had a great admiration for mechanics who labored with heavy tools or machinery and greater contempt for all who were engaged in lighter labor. Davy could shoe horses, weld tires or axles as no other blacksmith in those parts.



Kaiser, the town jeweler, a German of delicate physique and features, a skilled workman, was held in special contempt by the big blacksmith who never passed the jeweler's shop that he did not hurl, under his breath, contemptuous words at the delicate little jeweler sitting in his window with a magnifying glass on his eye, plying his trade.

When Alfred handed the blacksmith the broken bits of the spring he took them in the hollow of his big palm and said: "What's these?"

Alfred explained that the press was broken and it would be impossible to print the paper until the spring was repaired and Mr. Hurd said he knew that he, Mr. Chalfant, could fix it.

Davy turned the bits of broken steel over in his palm with the forefinger of his other hand as he musingly said: "So Hurd said I could fix this thing, did he?" And here he handed Alfred the broken bits. "Well, you take it back to Hurd an' ax him what he takes me fur, a damned jeweler?"

Someone suggested that Gus Lyons, the machinist and piano tuner, could repair the spring, which he did after several hours work.

Harrison celebrated longer, with the result that the remainder of the edition was not worked off until after the regular edition of the following week. The edition of the week before went out with the regular edition with an added note at the top of the page explaining the terrible accident to the press which caused the delay.

It was one of the onerous duties of the business department to deliver the paper in three towns, Brownsville, Bridgeport and West Brownsville. To the houses on the hill above Workman's Tavern he generally sent the paper by a boy; the subscribers along Water Street, down toward the coal tipple, were served by somebody Alfred met going that way.



When Alfred took charge of the business department he was furnished a list of the subscribers in the three towns. It was not long until he lost the list; in fact, he never was guided by the list. None of the Democrats of any prominence in the town took the paper, but every week, those holding office would be touched up in the paper. The business department always took pains to deliver a copy of the paper to one thus mentioned. If the article were pretty severe Alfred saw to it that all the family of the one roasted received a copy of the paper.

This kept things stirred up around the office and the town. Alfred generally distributed the papers to every family whether they subscribed to it or not. From the outlying districts there came many complaints of the non-delivery of the paper. The owner of the paper hired a horse and buggy to trace the business department in its work.

Bob and Mrs. Hubbard owned a malt house and made excellent ale, so it was said. They were subscribers to the paper. The owner of the paper visited the Hubbards. The Mrs. was the business end of the firm. After visiting a little while and sampling a goblet of the ale, the owner of the paper announced the object of his visit:

"We have a new boy, complaints have come to the office that our readers are not receiving their papers regularly. How about yours?"

Mrs. Hubbard looked at the owner rather surprised, as she informed him that she "'adn't noticed the paper around the 'ouse in several weeks." She said: "I thought you 'ad stopped printing it."

This nettled the owner, who was proud of his paper. "No ma'am! We have never stopped it but you won't lose nothing, we will run you five weeks over on the next year's subscription." And he took another glass of ale.

The owner expressed his disappointment that the paper had not been delivered regularly. He remarked as he sipped at the fresh goblet of ale the lady had insisted on him taking, "You shall have your paper regularly hereafter, I shall bring it down myself every Thursday evening."

"Oh Lor', no, Mr. Urd," the good woman began, "Oh Lor', 'Urd, we wouldn't 'ave you trouble yourself for hennything. Never mind the paper, we never reads hit enyhow."

Alfred did not fancy Harrison but was constantly associated with him. There was a charm about the man for Alfred that was stronger than his dislike. Harrison knew, or pretended he did, all the showmen of the day, he would discuss them for hours while Alfred sat in open-mouthed wonder. There was one feature Alfred studied over greatly—Harrison's acquaintance with all noted showmen was brought about in nearly every instance by Harrison having assisted them financially at some time. Alfred had never thought of a clown or a minstrel except as one rolling in wealth. When Harrison related how he had assisted Dan Rice out of Louisville when in distress and Sam Sharpley out of Maysville when creditors oppressed him, Alfred's respect for the man was still more lessened. But it influenced him to look upon actors with a feeling less exalted than previously.



Alfred learned in after years that the hallucinations of Harrison as to assisting actors financially were common in the minds of those who lived a roving life.

Harrison gave Alfred the first copy of the New York Clipper he ever read, probably the only amusement paper in the United States at that time. Alfred was all of one rainy Sunday reading that copy of the Clipper. He kept it hid in the cow stable fearing his father would object to the paper.

Alfred became an authority on sports and amusements. The town people marveled at his knowledge. Frank McKernan, the sporting shoemaker, referred every argument that came up in his shop as to actors or prize fighters to him.

Harrison presented Alfred a book on stage management. It contained just such information as he had been seeking. The band of minstrels were busily rehearsing in the back room of Frank McKernan's shoe-shop. Harrison elated Alfred with the information that after the troupe became perfectly rehearsed they could give performances every Saturday night in Jeffres Hall and money would roll in on them.

John and Charley Acklin, splendid singers from the Methodist church choir, joined the troupe when the minstrels serenaded Alfred's family. Lin acknowledged, "the singin' wus purty an' ye git along right good although hit mought be better."

Harrison pronounced the troupe perfectly rehearsed and ordered Alfred to secure Jeffres Hall for the following Saturday night. Then came trouble. Harrison assumed to be manager and treasurer. Win Scott, Alfred's dearest pal, had always been the door-keeper. Win was intensely jealous of Harrison. Alfred required Harrison's aid with the newspaper and to have a few handbills printed. He loved old Win and he was greatly disturbed as to how to appease Win and satisfy Harrison.

Harrison had become very much interested in Lin. The lady had not given him any encouragement. Lin had a beau to whom she was loyal. Harrison continually quizzed Alfred as to Lin's attitude toward him. Alfred truthfully advised Harrison that Lin had never referred to him.

Harrison, in addition to his impecuniosity, had other peculiarities of which vanity was not the least. Alfred persuaded Lin to accompany Harrison to the proposed show. As Lin's "steady" was employed in a distant town and she was very anxious to witness the first minstrels performance, she sort of half way promised to permit the itinerant printer to escort her to the show. But she decidedly declared, "Ef he kums near me with the smell of licker on him I'll sack him quick."

Alfred felt that he was playing a desperate game but he had a great deal at stake. The fact is, in all his other shows he had never enjoyed the luxury of a treasurer. He did not fully comprehend the meaning of the term; a door-keeper was all he required and when Harrison continually talked of the treasurer as the one who held the destinies of the troupe in the hollow of his hand, it was displeasing to Alfred.

In fact, Alfred had inwardly resolved that Harrison should not handle the funds. Win Scott, his boyhood friend, should keep door and take in the money as heretofore. Alfred resolved, though Lin even refused to accept the invitation of Harrison, that he would declare himself at the last moment as to the treasurership.

Alfred called on Mr. Jeffres, the owner of the hall, the only one in town, stated his business, inquired as to the rental for a single night, intimating to the fidgety little Englishman that the hall would be rented many subsequent nights if the price was satisfactory.

Alfred has experienced many rebuffs but none so overwhelming as the refusal of Mr. Jeffres to consider his proposition. He was smothered with astonishment, chagrin and several other emotions that no appropriate names have been found for.

The parting words of Mr. Jeffres kept ringing in his ears as he sorrowfully walked homewards, his heart so heavy he could scarcely lift his feet from the ground: "Hi do not care to rent my 'all to hirresponsible persons. Hi 'av no desire to 'ave you an' your scalawags ha-running about my 'all naked as some of you did the day you 'ad your grandfather's coolin' sheets tacked hon the hold rag tent hin front of my 'ouse." Jeffres bowed Alfred out of his house as he concluded his speech.

Lin was up in arms. "Huh! Let ole Tilty go to blazes with his ole 'all (mimicking Jeffres). I'll git ye the Campbellite meetin' house, see ef I don't."

The true inwardness of the refusal of the hall was that Jeffres was the business competitor of Alfred's father. Captain Decatur Abrams was building the steamboat "Talequah." Jeffres greatly desired the contract and felt sure that he would get it. Captain Abrams was the father's friend through all the vicissitudes of those troublesome days and the contract went to Alfred's father.

In after years, when the old gentleman, whose feelings had softened with age, invited Alfred to appear in his hall, Alfred met the astounded man with a courtesy and consideration that made the two men friends ever afterwards.

Spurred to greater activity in furthering his scheme to produce his first minstrel enterprise, Alfred, without consulting anyone, walked out the old pike to the Redstone School-house. He waited outside until the noon hour. With the sound of the children's voices in their happiness at play disturbing his interview he made his errand known to the teacher.

Miss Lenhart, the teacher, was the sweetheart of his cousin Will, although Alfred was not aware of it nor did he know of the influence this had in securing him the school-house until long after the couple were wedded.

Washington Brashears, the president of the school directors, gave his permission and thus was the school-house secured. All the scholars, the teacher and the school directors were to receive free tickets for the performance.

The mother, remembering the boy's mishaps in similar attempts, was very earnest in her efforts to dissuade him from giving the exhibition, particularly when she was informed by the enthusiastic showman that the price of admission would be twenty-five cents for grown folks and a levy (twelve and a half cents) for children.

Harrison wrote up Jeffres in the Clipper as "one who would impede the progress of civilization. The discourager of genius and talent." Hurd toned down the article somewhat. However, it had the effect of advertising not only Alfred but his great moral exhibition.

Lin loaned Alfred the last cent she had in the world and accompanied him to the dry goods store that he might not be imposed upon in the purchase of red calico to be used as a curtain.

"I'll be thar from the time hit opens 'til it's over an' thar'll be no wall-paper show clo's in it nuther, ye see ef thur is. Mary, ye needn't be skeered, jes res' easy, I'll see hit's all es proper es eny meetin' or Sunday School an' ef they don't like it, be dog-goned ef I don't make Alfurd gin the money back."

This last declaration did more to allay the worry of the mother than anything that had been said before. The mother actually so forgot her fears that she assisted Lin in sewing the curtains.

Old man Risbeck, a neighboring farmer, not only loaned Alfred the lumber to build the platform, or stage, but assisted in building it.

Park McDonald, another farmer, a little the worse for hard cider, also assisted, with a great deal of advice which was not followed.

The teacher dismissed school at noon Friday that all might be in readiness for the big show Saturday night. Alfred was not altogether pleased with the idea of Lin bossing the whole job, fearing that many members of his troupe would be disgruntled over her domineering manner. However, she was so enthusiastic and inventive he refrained from doing or saying anything that would impair her usefulness. Lin was very sensitive and somehow Alfred felt that the success of the great undertaking required Lin's help.

Alfred had worked all night setting type and working off a small, square bill, printed in black ink on pink paper. He would have used red, blue or any other highly colored ink if it had been in the office.

The bill read:

HATFIELD AND STOREY'S ALABAMA MINSTRELS REDSTONE SCHOOL-HOUSE EARLY CANDLE LIGHT COME ONE—COME ALL ADMISSION PRICE 25 CENTS FOR MEN AND WOMEN TWELVE AND A HALF CENTS FOR CHILDREN.



Alfred not only set up and printed the bills announcing his first minstrel show but distributed them, tacking them up in conspicuous places.

The first bill was tacked on Mart Claybaugh's blacksmith shop near the old Brubaker Tavern. Alfred then continued out the pike to Searight's Tavern. At Uncle Billy Hatfield's a great display was made on barn, blacksmith and harness shop. When Uncle Billy returned home and read the bill headed "Hatfield and Storey's Alabama Minstrels," he first imagined that his political enemies were working something off on him. Cousin Will's explanation did not satisfy him and he ordered the bills removed, fearing they might jeopardize his political chances.

Alfred visited Plumsock, Cook's Mill, Joshua Wagner's cider press. Even at that early day Alfred had the advertising idea pretty well developed.

Press day the paper was worked off more promptly than usual and Alfred had the entire edition delivered by dark. Harrison had a longer list of complimentary mentions than usual, hence he celebrated more copiously than ever.

Lin learned of this through Alfred. She remarked: "Durn him an' his drinkin'. I'll jes fool him; I'll go out with you all."

This was another jolt for Alfred as Charley Wagner, the violinist of the company, was one of those obstinate Dutchmen who had to be treated "just so," otherwise he would "pack up his wiolin und scoot," as he expressed it. Wagner was fully informed as to the insinuations Lin had indulged in reflecting upon his ability and more than once he had advised Alfred, "If dor beeg Wirginia gal gets anyting to do mid dis troupe, yust count me out."

George Washington Antonio Frazier, the town teamster, had been engaged by Alfred to transport the troupe and properties to and from the little red school-house. A good sleighing snow covering the ground, the teamster had provided a big bob-sled well filled with straw to keep the feet warm. The start was to be made at 1 o'clock.

Alfred finally prevailed upon Lin to walk to the top of Town Hill and get in the sled there. He argued to her that she being the only woman in the party it would not look well for her to ride through town. Lin finally agreed to do as Alfred desired.

Then came another embarrassment. Alfred's brother Joe insisted on going. He followed his elder brother up and down stairs crying all the while. Finally it was decided to take the little fellow along. Customs cling to a family the same as other entanglements. Alfred's little brother was handicapped with a crop of curls exact imitations of those that had so embittered the early days of Alfred's life.

When the sled was loaded and all the troupe comfortably seated therein, it was discovered that the driver was not in sight. Alfred knew where to find him and was at his side in a moment. The old fellow was in the act of raising a large glass of whiskey to his lips as Alfred touched him on the arm and politely announced that the sled was loaded and all were waiting for the driver.

Lowering his arm, with the liquor untouched in his hand, the driver began: "Look yer, young man. You agreed to give me four dollars to carry you out to Redstone School-house an' back. My team'll hev to be fed thur an' I'll hev to eat supper somewhar. Ye'll hev to pay up the money afore I move a dam foot."

With this he raised the liquor to his lips and swallowed it with one gulp. The bar-room was crowded, as it usually was at that hour of the day. For a moment Alfred was confused; he did not possess one cent of money and it flashed through his mind that no one in the troupe would be likely to have any. For just one moment his heart started downwards; the eyes of all were upon him. Pulling himself together and straightening himself up to his full height, he said: "Mr. Frazier, I hired you to haul us to the school-house and return and insofar as your horse feed is concerned, that was not mentioned. I always intended you to eat supper with us at Eliza Eagle's. When you get back to town and complete your part of the bargain I will pay you, and not before."

This speech caught the crowd and took the old teamster somewhat by surprise.

"Wall, ef you'll put up the money with the landlord, I'll take ye out an' ef ye don't ye can hoof it," was the teamster's reply. Turning to the bar-tender, he said: "Give me a little more licker."

The last demand of the teamster was not an unreasonable one and it would not look well to refuse it. Alfred hotly replied: "You'll get your money when you do your work; I would not put up five cents for you while you are drinking whiskey."

This angered the old fellow. He sneeringly replied: "I pay fur my licker an' it's nun uf yer dam business how much I drink uf it."

Through the window Alfred discerned a team and sled driving by. Rushing out he discovered that it was his Uncle Jack Craft. The two families were not on speaking terms and had not been for a long time.

Alfred shouted: "Ho, Uncle! Ho, Uncle! Hold on; pull up, I want to see you."

The uncle seemed more than glad to have Alfred approach him. He did not even wait to hear the whole of the story Alfred had to tell of Frazier's meanness. Driving his much larger and more stylish conveyance alongside Frazier's rig, the passengers and baggage were transferred before Frazier realized what had transpired. As he emerged from the hotel he was met with jeers from the troupe as they started off up the old pike, not so rapidly as Alfred and Uncle Joe once traversed it on Black Fan, but at a pace that put all in good humor.

Alfred sat on the front seat holding his little brother and Charley Wagner's violin. It was not solicitude for the safety of the instrument that prompted him to persuade Wagner to permit him to hold it. He figured that if Wagner balked when Lin got in the sled at the top of the hill he would be better entrenched to argue with the obstinate leader with the violin in his hands.

When Lin hailed them by shouting: "How-dye, how's the minstrels?" all greeted her cordially. Alfred had his eye on the leader. While he was not as cordial in his greetings as the others, he smiled and returned Lin's salutations.

Alfred explained jokingly that Lin came along to take care of little Joe and to help Lize Eagle out with the supper.

The party was a merry one and everyone they met was the butt of their mirth. Old man Bedler at the toll gate passed the party free and wished Alfred all kinds of good luck. The old German's voice trembled and a tear rolled down his bronzed cheek as he shook hands with Alfred and said: "Good luck! Ef my poor Billy was only here he'd be with you."

He referred to his only son who was drowned a few months previously. Alfred had assisted in recovering the body and the old toll-gate keeper had the kindliest feelings for him.

It did not require long to arrange the stage and place the few properties. Lin was everywhere busy at all times.

The widow Eagle's humble home was only a short distance from the school-house. Supper was called and Lin and Charley Wagner were seen coming from the school-house together joking and laughing. Lin had captivated the leader. Lin refused to sit at the first table, she declared she would wait and eat with Mrs. Eagle and Mary Emily, the daughter. Meanwhile, she busied herself waiting on the table. She was markedly attentive to the leader, filling his plate even when he protested that he had more than enough.

The leader was an old bachelor. When he got the wishbone of the chicken all insisted that Lin and he pull it. When the leader got the short piece all laughed and joked him; all the party was jolly. No. There was one who was not, although he endeavored to conceal it by laughs and remarks. Lin knew that Alfred was nervous and worried. He was in doubt as to the receipts covering expenses; he was in doubt as to the show pleasing. In fact, he was suffering the tortures all have endured—who have a conscience—who ever produced a public entertainment.

The curtain went up, or rather was pulled aside, on Alfred's first minstrel show. Seated in the semi-circle were Billy Storey, bones and stump speech; Amity Getter, interlocutor or middleman, vocalist and guitar player; the Acklin Brothers, vocalists; Billy Woods, flute and piccolo, guitar and vocalist; Charles Wagner, violin; Billy Hyatt, clog and jig dancer; Tommy White, clog and jig dancer, and Alfred, singer, dancer, comedian, stage manager, property man and superintendent of wardrobe.

The little school-house was packed—sitting, standing and leaning room was all taken, even the window-sills were occupied.

Lin, seated near the stage, was lost in amazement at the improvement in the troupe. Her head nodded and foot patted in time with the tunes with which she was familiar. When Storey and Alfred concluded their double song and dance, (this was a new number to Lin), she led the applause and hustled Uncle Jack back of the scenes requesting the boys repeat the number. Alfred had profited by reading the book Harrison had presented him.

The song and music made a very great impression on Lin. Late and early you could hear her voice as she went about her work singing:

"I feel just as happy as a big sunflower, that bows and bends in the breezes, And my heart is as light as the winds that blow the leaves from off the treeses"

There was but one mishap that marred the evening's performance. The front curtain was run on rings, on a small, tight wire stretched across the entire width of the school house. The curtain that formed a background of the stage, and behind which the performers dressed, was much too heavy for the small nails with which it was secured. Someone pulled on the curtain and down it came. Alfred and one or two others were changing their costumes. Alfred with surprising nimbleness jumped into a large trunk, concealing himself so quickly that the audience caught sight of only his feet as he plunged head first into the trunk. The other two members were completely confused and ran into a corner turning their backs to the audience.



Dr. John Davidson and Othey Brashears were seated in the front row, grabbed the curtain and held it head high until all were costumed. It was then replaced and the show went on.

Lin, in commenting on what Alfred considered the most unfortunate accident that ever befell his show, said: "Well, ye jus couldn't call hit a back-set to the show, kase peepul laffed more about hit then anythin' else in the hull thing."

When the last note of the walk around had died out, the audience remained seated, waiting for more, (printed programs were unknown in those days). Getty went before the curtain and announced that the show was over. The crowd began to disperse; the boys from town and some of the country folks forced their way behind the scenes to congratulate Alfred, all declaring that it was the best entertainment they had ever witnessed.

One over-enthusiastic young fellow offered the leader two dollars to have fiddlers play for a dance; in fact many of the young folks desired to turn it into a dance. This seemed like desecration to Alfred and forever after he respected the dignified farmer, Washington Brashears, who, standing stately and tall, with the beard of a patriarch, in a voice mild but firm, said: "We have been entertained by our young friend and his companions in a way that it falls to the lot of but few to enjoy; only those in Filidelphy have the privilege of enjoying such exhibitions as we have enjoyed here tonight. As the chairman of the board of school directors, I can say that we permitted the use of this school-house for the entertainment. It is our only meeting house now, and there will be preaching here next Sunday evening, therefore we cannot permit dancing tonight."

The nearly ice cold, spring water influenced Alfred to go home with the black on his face. The little party and belongings were soon loaded into the roomy sled. Bidding goodnight to the few friends who remained to see them off, they headed homeward.

It was a happy party that sped along the old pike. Lin led in the singing of songs long since discarded by the minstrels. Even Uncle Jack entered into the jollity of the occasion. He was greatly elated over the success of the show.

The spirited team was traveling much faster than safety demanded. At a turn in the road there was a treacherous, slippery place, the sled swung around sideways—skidded would explain the motion—one runner slipped over the edge of the bank, the sleigh turned upside down throwing out the cargo of human freight.

Lin's scream could be heard half a mile. Alfred's only solicitude was for his brother Joe. Uncle Jack held on to the team which was released from the sled by the breaking of the pole. After the occupants extricated themselves it was found that the only serious damage suffered was the breaking of Amity Getty's fine guitar.



It required the combined strength of all to right the sled and get it up the steep bank to the roadway. The tongue or pole was made fast to the sled with rope and the journey resumed. Up hill, all could ride; down hill all were compelled to walk and hold the sled off the heels of the horses, as the broken pole would not permit the team to hold back.

It was two o'clock in the morning when the welcome lights of the town shone on the belated minstrels. Alfred was too tired and sleepy and the water too cold to wash the black off his face. He crept upstairs to the big room rarely occupied. Not answering the breakfast bell, Sister Lizzie was sent up to call him. One glance at the black face on the pillow sent her scampering down the stairs.

"I believe brother Alfred has brought a darkey home with him. There's one in the big bed any way."

This sent the father upstairs by bounds. Alfred was unceremoniously yanked out of bed and shoved down stairs. When he appeared in the kitchen such laughter as greeted him would have pleased him greatly the night before. Alfred explaining all the while that it was too cold to wash the black off his face the night before and that he couldn't get it off with cold water "no how."

The father insisted that he go to the back yard and scrub his face with cold water as punishment for going to bed blacked up.

To Lin's question as to how much he had made the night before Alfred gave evasive replies. Hastily eating his breakfast he was quickly on his way to Win Scott's home.

Before he had proceeded far on his way he met his pal Scott on his way to Alfred's home. Alfred judged from the size of the audience that there was not only sufficient money in Win's hands to pay all obligations but also a handsome surplus. He was simply crushed to learn that the receipts amounted to just $16.75.

Alfred felt that he would be everlastingly disgraced when he announced that he was not able to pay the debts incurred. The boys conferred long and earnestly. Win proposed that they pay Lin and Uncle Jack and then run off; go to the newly discovered oil country and make their fortunes.

This proposition was rejected by Alfred. To go to the oil regions was a pet idea of the older boy and it was not long ere he left the old town to seek his fortune and Alfred never saw him afterwards.

Alfred took the money. When he reached home he settled with Lin in full. Uncle Jack was handed his four dollars by Alfred with the air of a millionaire. After paying Lin and Uncle Jack, Alfred had $6.75 left, with debts to the amount of $31.75 pressing him, or they would be the next day.

He retired to his room. He could plainly hear Lin describing and praising the performance. She dwelt at length on the high quality of the gathering, saying that all the best people in Red Stone section were there. When Lin wondered what Alfred would do next, now that he had money, Alfred felt like rushing from the house to seek his pal and flee to the oil regions.

He opened the front door and walked out without any idea of where he was going. He walked aimlessly and found himself on Church Street where Sammy Steele overtook him on his way to church.