se by.

"Yes, he's colored," the Forecaster agreed. "But don't you think he can
draw?"

"He surely can."

It was on the point of Anton's tongue to suggest that the colored artist
should be admitted to the membership of the club, but, so far, its
membership had been confined to the white boys, largely in deference to
the feelings of the older people of the neighborhood, many of whom
remembered the difficulties that followed the reconstruction period
after the Civil War.

Anton looked a little troubled.

"Do you think we ought to get mixed up in a thing like this?" he asked.

The Forecaster glanced at him.

"You mean because Caesar is a negro?"

"Yes, sir," the crippled lad replied.

"I don't want to persuade you one way or the other," the Weather Man
replied, "but I can tell you how I feel about it. I don't see that it
matters very much what point of view a fellow has on the color question,
we're all agreed that the darkies should be given every chance. You
certainly can't harm yourself by helping any one, no matter who it is
that you help."

"Sure," Ross agreed.

"And even if the person you help is never going to be able to do you any
good, why, that's all the more reason for helping, isn't it?"

"Yes," admitted Anton.

"All right, then. Supposing some of the older people here do feel that
it's necessary to draw the color line closely; well, I don't see that it
wouldn't be a good thing for us to strike out a little. The color line
is there, and it's going to stay there. But the most unreconstructed man
in the district--even Colonel Grattan, for example--will do everything
possible to better the condition of the negroes. I think it's the
absolute duty of every American boy to help every other American boy
when he gets the chance, whether his skin is white or black."

"Yes," said the laconic Bob.

Anton brightened up, for he was anxious to help Caesar.

"What do you suppose we can do?" he asked.

"I'd rather put it up to you boys," said the Forecaster. "This is your
affair, after all."

Anton turned to Ross.

"Haven't you some scheme?" he asked.

Ross shook his head.

"I haven't thought one out. How about it, Bob?"

"Deacon Paul," was the abrupt reply.

"Yes," said Ross, "old Paul will do pretty nearly anything for me,
because Dad was so good to his father when he was a slave. But I don't
quite see what he can do?"

"I do be thinkin'," said the Irishman, "if I might be so bold as to make