was laughing and
chewing a sliver of toothpick.

"O Tump Pack," he called loudly, "you kain't git away from me! If you
roll bones in Hooker's Bend, you'll have to divide your winnings with
the county." Dawson winked a chill eye at the crowd in general.

"But hit's out o' date, Mr. Bobbs," the old gray-headed minister, Parson
Ranson, was pleading.

"May be that, Parson, but hit's easier to come up before the J.P. and
pay off than to fight it through the circuit court."

Siner pushed his way through the crowd. "How much do you want, Mr.
Bobbs?" he asked briefly.

The constable looked with reminiscent eyes at the tall, well-tailored
negro. He was plainly going through some mental card-index, hunting for
the name of Peter Siner on some long-forgotten warrant. Apparently, he
discovered nothing, for he said shortly:

"How do I know before he's tried? Come on, Tump!"

The procession moved in a long noisy line up Pillow Street, the white
residential street lying to the west. It stopped before a large shaded
lawn, where a number of white men and women were playing a game with
cards. The cards used by the lawn party were not ordinary playing-cards,
but had figures on them instead of spots, and were called "rook" cards.
The party of white ladies and gentlemen were playing "rook." On a table
in the middle of the lawn glittered some pieces of silver plate which
formed the first, second, and third prizes for the three leading scores.

The constable halted his black company before the lawn, where they stood
in the sunshine patiently waiting for the justice of the peace to finish
his game and hear the case of the State of Tennessee, plaintiff, versus
Tump Pack, defendant.

CHAPTER II

On the eastern edge of Hooker's Bend, drawn in a rough semicircle around
the Big Hill, lies Niggertown. In all the half-moon there are perhaps
not two upright buildings. The grimy cabins lean at crazy angles, some
propped with poles, while others hold out against gravitation at a
hazard.

Up and down its street flows the slow negro life of the village. Here
children of all colors from black to cream fight and play; deep-chested
negresses loiter to and fro, some on errands to the white section of the
village on the other side of the hill, where they go to scrub or cook or
wash or iron. Others go down to the public well with a bucket in each
hand and one balanced on the head.

The public well itself lies