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 The merchant leaned forward in his chair.

“Did old Becky Davis send you to me with any such proposition as that, Peter?”

“No, not at all. But, Mr. Killibrew, wouldn't you like better and more trustworthy servants as cooks, as farm-hands, chauffeurs, stable-boys? You see, you and your children and your children's children are going to have to depend on negro labor, as far as we can see, to the end of time.”

“We-e-ell, yes,” admitted Mr. Killibrew, who was not accustomed to considering the end of time.

“Wouldn't it be better to have honest, self-respecting help than dishonest help?”

“Certainly.”

“Then let's think about cooks. How can one hope to rear an honest, self-respecting citizenry as long as the mothers of the race are compelled to resort to thievery to patch out an insufficient wage?”

“Why, I don't suppose niggers ever will be honest,” admitted the grocer, very frankly. “You naturally don't trust a nigger. If you credit one for a dime, the next time he has any money he'll go trade somewhere else.” The grocer broke into his contagious laugh. “Do you know how I've built up my business here, Peter? By never trusting a nigger.” Mr. Killibrew continued his pleased chuckle. “Yes, I get the whole cash trade of the niggers in Hooker's Bend by never cheating one and never trusting one.”

The grocer leaned back in his squeaking chair and