The Sins of the Father: A Romance of the South. Thomas Dixon

so, major. I'm a thousand times obliged to you, sir. I'll sleep better to-night after this talk."

      "Would you mind leaving this little gift with me, Peeler?" Norton asked, examining the neat workmanship of the coffin.

      "Certainly – certainly, major, keep it. Keep it and more than welcome! It's a gift I don't crave, sir. I'll feel better to know you've got it."

      The yellow woman waited beside the door until Peeler had passed out, bowed her thanks, turned and followed her master at a respectful distance.

      The editor watched them cross the street with a look of loathing, muttering slowly beneath his breath:

      "Oh, my country, what a problem – what a problem!"

      He turned again to his desk and forgot his burden in the joy of work. He loved this work. It called for the best that's in the strongest man. It was a man's work for men. When he struck a blow he saw the dent of his hammer on the iron, and heard it ring to the limits of the state.

      Dimly aware that some one had entered his room unannounced, he looked up, sprang to his feet and extended his hand in hearty greeting to a stalwart farmer who stood smiling into his face:

      "Hello, MacArthur!"

      "Hello, my captain! You know you weren't a major long enough for me to get used to it – and it sounds too old for you anyhow – "

      "And how's the best sergeant that ever walloped a recruit?"

      "Bully," was the hearty answer.

      The young editor drew his old comrade in arms down into his chair and sat on the table facing him:

      "And how's the wife and kids, Mac?"

      "Bully," he repeated evenly and then looked up with a puzzled expression.

      "Look here, Bud," he began quietly, "you've got me up a tree. These editorials in The Eagle and Phoenix cussin' the Klan – "

      "You don't like them?"

      "Not a little wee bit!"

      The editor smiled:

      "You've got Scotch blood in you, Mac – that's what's the matter with you – "

      "Same to you, sir."

      "But my great-great-grandmother was a Huguenot and the French, you know, had a saving sense of humor. The Scotch are thick, Mac!"

      "Well, I'm too thick to know what you mean by lambastin' our only salvation. The Ku Klux Klan have had just one parade – and there hasn't been a barn burnt in this county or a white woman scared since, and every nigger I've met to-day has taken off his hat – "

      "Are you a member of the Klan, Mac?" The question was asked with his face turned away.

      The farmer hesitated, looked up at the ceiling and quietly answered:

      "None of your business – and that's neither here nor there – you know that every nigger is organized in that secret Black League, grinning and whispering its signs and passwords – you know that they've already begun to grip the throats of our women. The Klan's the only way to save this country from hell – what do you mean by jumpin' on it?"

      "The Black League's a bad thing, Mac, and the Klan's a bad thing – "

      "All right – still you've got to fight the devil with fire – "

      "You don't say so?" the editor said, while a queer smile played around his serious mouth.

      "Yes, by golly, I do say so," the farmer went on with increasing warmth, "and what I can't understand is how you're against 'em. You're a leader. You're a soldier – the bravest that ever led his men into the jaws of death – I know, for I've been with you – and I just come down here to-day to ask you the plain question, what do you mean?"

      "The Klan is a band of lawless night raiders, isn't it?"

      "Oh, you make me tired! What are we to do without 'em, that's the question?"

      "Scotch! That's the trouble with you" – the young editor answered carelessly. "Have you a pin?"

      The rugged figure suddenly straightened as though a bolt of lightning had shot down his spine.

      "What's – what's that?" he gasped.

      "I merely asked, have you a pin?" was the even answer, as Norton touched the right lapel of his coat with his right hand.

      The farmer hesitated a moment, and then slowly ran three trembling fingers of his left hand over the left lapel of his coat, replying:

      "I'm afraid not."

      He looked at Norton a moment and turned pale. He had been given and had returned the signs of the Klan. It might have been an accident. The rugged face was a study of eager intensity as he put his friend to the test that would tell. He slowly thrust the fingers of his right hand into the right pocket of his trousers, the thumb protruding.

      Norton quietly answered in the same way with his left hand.

      The farmer looked into the smiling brown eyes of his commander for a moment and his own filled with tears. He sprang forward and grasped the outstretched hand:

      "Dan Norton! I said last night to my God that you couldn't be against us! And so I came to ask – oh, why – why've you been foolin' with me?"

      The editor tenderly slipped his arm around his old comrade and whispered:

      "The cunning of the fox and the courage of the lion now, Mac! It was easy for our boys to die in battle while guns were thundering, fifes screaming, drums beating and the banners waving. You and I have something harder to do – we've got to live – our watchword, 'The cunning of the fox and the courage of the lion!' I've some dangerous work to do pretty soon. The little Scalawag Governor is getting ready for us – "

      "I want that job!" MacArthur cried eagerly.

      "I'll let you know when the time comes."

      The farmer smiled:

      "I am a Scotchman – ain't I?"

      "And a good one, too!"

      With his hand on the door, the rugged face aflame with patriotic fire, he slowly repeated:

      "The cunning of the fox and the courage of the lion! – And by the living God, we'll win this time, boy!"

      Norton heard him laugh aloud as he hurried down the stairs. Gazing again from his window at the black clouds of negroes floating across the Square, he slowly muttered:

      "Yes, we'll win this time! – but twenty years from now – I wonder!"

      He took up the little black coffin and smiled at the perfection of its workmanship:

      "I think I know the young gentleman who made that and he may give me trouble."

      He thrust the thing into a drawer, seized his hat, strolled down a side street and slowly passed the cabinet shop of the workman whom he suspected. It was closed. Evidently the master had business outside. It was barely possible, of course, that he had gone to the galleries of the Capitol to hear the long-expected message of the Governor against the Klan. The galleries had been packed for the past two sessions in anticipation of this threatened message. The Capital city was only a town of five thousand white inhabitants and four thousand blacks. Rumors of impending political movements flew from house to house with the swiftness of village gossip.

      He walked to the Capitol building by a quiet street. As he passed through the echoing corridor the rotund figure of Schlitz, the Carpetbagger, leader of the House of Representatives, emerged from the Governor's office.

      The red face flushed a purple hue as his eye rested on his arch-enemy of the Eagle and Phoenix. He tried to smile and nodded to Norton. His smile was answered by a cold stare and a quickened step.

      Schlitz had been a teamster's scullion in the Union Army. He was not even an army cook, but a servant of servants. He was now the master of the Legislature of a great Southern state and controlled its black, ignorant members with a snap of his bloated fingers. There was but one man Norton loathed with greater intensity and that was the shrewd little Scalawag Governor, the