is bad, a born thief, and ought
to be sent up for life; got ten years last time--"

Here the voice of the promoter, talking within, broke in; he was bending
over his figures, sitting by the colonel. He was slight, with a sharp
nose.

"The convicts," he said, "would cost us $96 a year and board. Well, we
can squeeze this so that it won't be over $125 apiece. Now if these
fellows are driven, they can build this line within twelve months. It
will be running by next April. Freights will fall fifty per cent. Why,
man, you'll be a millionaire in less than ten years."

The colonel started. He was a thick, short man, with a clean-shaven face
and a certain air of breeding about the lines of his countenance; the
word millionaire sounded well to his ears. He thought--he thought a
great deal; he almost heard the puff of the fearfully costly automobile
that was coming up the road, and he said:

"I suppose we might as well hire them."

"Of course," answered the promoter.

The voice of the tall stranger in the corner broke in here:

"It will be a good thing for them?" he said, half in question.

The colonel moved. "The guard makes strange friends," he thought to
himself. "What's this man doing here, anyway?" He looked at him, or
rather looked at his eyes, and then somehow he felt a warming toward
him. He said:

"Well, at least, it can't harm them; they're beyond that."

"It will do them good, then," said the stranger again.

The promoter shrugged his shoulders. "It will do us good," he said.

But the colonel shook his head impatiently. He felt a desire to justify
himself before those eyes, and he answered: "Yes, it will do them good;
or at any rate it won't make them any worse than they are." Then he
started to say something else, but here sure enough the sound of the
automobile breathing at the gate stopped him and they all arose.

"It is settled, then," said the promoter.

"Yes," said the colonel, turning toward the stranger again. "Are you
going into town?" he asked with the Southern courtesy of white men to
white men in a country town. The stranger said he was. "Then come along
in my machine. I want to talk with you about this."

They went out to the car. The stranger as he went turned again to look
back at the convict. He was a tall, powerfully built black fellow. His
face was sullen, with a low forehead, thick, hanging lips, and bitter
eyes. There was revolt written about his mouth despite the hang-dog
express