tate for white supremacy, and teach our colored
fellow citizens that we are tired of negro domination and have put an
end to it forever. The Afro-American Banner will doubtless die about the
same time."

"And so will the editor!" exclaimed McBane ferociously; "I'll see to
that. But I wonder where that nigger is with them cocktails? I'm so
thirsty I could swallow blue blazes."

"Here's yo' drinks, gin'l," announced Jerry, entering with the glasses
on a tray.

The gentlemen exchanged compliments and imbibed--McBane at a gulp,
Carteret with more deliberation, leaving about half the contents of his
glass.

The general drank slowly, with every sign of appreciation. "If the
illustrious statesman," he observed, "whose name this mixture bears, had
done nothing more than invent it, his fame would still deserve to go
thundering down the endless ages."

"It ain't bad liquor," assented McBane, smacking his lips.

Jerry received the empty glasses on the tray and left the room. He had
scarcely gained the hall when the general called him back.

"O Lawd!" groaned Jerry, "he's gwine ter ax me fer de change. Yas, suh,
yas, suh; comin', gin'l, comin', suh!"

"You may keep the change, Jerry," said the general.

Jerry's face grew radiant at this announcement. "Yas, suh, gin'l; thank
y', suh; much obleedzed, suh. I wuz jus' gwine ter fetch it in, suh,
w'en I had put de tray down. Thank y', suh, truly, suh!"

Jerry backed and bowed himself out into the hall.

"Dat wuz a close shave," he muttered, as he swallowed the remaining
contents of Major Carteret's glass. "I 'lowed dem twenty cents wuz gone
dat time,--an' whar I wuz gwine ter git de money ter take my gal ter de
chu'ch festibal ter-night, de Lawd only knows!--'less'n I borried it
offn Mr. Ellis, an' I owes him sixty cents a'ready. But I wonduh w'at
dem w'ite folks in dere is up ter? Dere's one thing sho',--dey're
gwine ter git after de niggers some way er 'nuther, an' w'en dey does,
whar is Jerry gwine ter be? Dat's de mos' impo'tantes' question. I'm
gwine ter look at dat newspaper dey be'n talkin' 'bout, an' 'less'n my
min' changes might'ly, I'm gwine ter keep my mouf shet an' stan' in wid
de Angry-Saxon race,--ez dey calls deyse'ves nowadays,--an' keep on de
right side er my bread an' meat. Wat nigger ever give me twenty cents in
all my bawn days?"

"By the way, major," said the general, who lingered behind McBane as
they were leaving, "is Miss Clara's marriage definitel