akin er drink in public was ergin his
creed. Nice ole Jew tho. Keeps er paint store down street, and deals in
painters' merterial, but never buys er baral er biled oil wonc't in five
yers; but, like de widder in the Scripter, he alers has er baral ter
draw frum when er customer wants biled oil. Ole Mose is er fine man tho;
jes go in his stoe ter buy sumthin, pat him on his back, and tell him he
is er bo'n genterman, an thet you b'lieve he kin trace his geneology
back ter Moses an ther prophets, and thet his great-granddaddy's daddy
was ther only Jew thet sined ther Dicleration of Independance; thet he
looks like Napolyan, and he'll jes go inter his office an fetch yer ther
fines' segyar yer ever smoked an foller yer all over ther stoe. Nice ole
Jew Isaacs is. Ter see him stridin down ter bizniss ov er mawnin, yer
air reminded uv ther prophets uv ole jurneyin toards Jarusalum ter read
ther law." "What is the feller's name?" soliloquized a sallow-looking
chap who stood with his back to the stove scratching his head in
perplexity. "Name?" returned Dick Sands. "Why is you bin er listenin ter
me all this time an dunno who I'm talkin erbout?" "Excuse me," returned
the sallow man; "I no powerful well who yer ware talking er bout, and I
wus tryin ter think uv ther name uv thet chap who's bin er stump speakin
up in Sampson." "Fisher?" "No-o-o, thet ain't ther name; he's ther
feller thet's runnin fur Congress." "Belden!" exclaimed several in one
breath. "Thet's ther feller. Look er here," continued the sallow man,
"he tole we uns up there thet ef we cum an he'p ter make Wilminton er
white man's town, we ware ter jes move inter ther Niggers' houses an own
em; thet's what brung me here ter jine in this here fite." "Well, I tell
yer fren," answered Dick, "we air goin ter make this er white man's
town, thet's no lie, but ther ain't no shoity er bout ther other
matter." "Boots an saddles." Further conversation was cut off. Every man
flew to his horse and the host of murderers were off in a jiffy.

The city of Wilmington was startled by the loud report of a cannon on
the morning of November 10th, 1898, which made her tremble as though
shaken by an earthquake. Molly Pierrepont arose, hastened to the south
window of her cottage and looked out; the clouds which hung low over Dry
Pond were as brilliant in hue as though they hung over a lake of fire.
"Tis fire!" exclaimed Molly; "the hell hounds are at their work. Ben
Hartwright is keeping h