The Marrow of Tradition. Charles W. Chesnutt

talked politics when they met at the Chronicle office. Jerry could hear the words “vote,” “franchise,” “eliminate,” “constitution,” and other expressions which marked the general tenor of the talk, though he could not follow it all,—partly because he could not hear everything distinctly, and partly because of certain limitations which nature had placed in the way of Jerry’s understanding anything very difficult or abstruse.

      He had gathered enough, however, to realize, in a vague way, that something serious was on foot, involving his own race, when a bell sounded over his head, at which he sprang up hastily and entered the room where the gentlemen were talking.

      “Jerry,” said the major, “wait on Captain McBane.”

      “Yas, suh,” responded Jerry, turning toward the captain, whose eye he carefully avoided meeting directly.

      “Take that half a dollar, boy,” ordered McBane, “an’ go ’cross the street to Mr. Sykes’s, and tell him to send me three whiskies. Bring back the change, and make has’e.”

      The captain tossed the half dollar at Jerry, who, looking to one side, of course missed it. He picked the money up, however, and backed out of the room. Jerry did not like Captain McBane to begin with, and it was clear that the captain was no gentleman, or he would not have thrown the money at him. Considering the source, Jerry might have overlooked this discourtesy had it not been coupled with the remark about the change, which seemed to him in very poor taste.

      Returning in a few minutes with three glasses on a tray, he passed them round, handed Captain McBane his change, and retired to the hall.

      “Gentlemen,” exclaimed the captain, lifting his glass, “I propose a toast: ‘No nigger domination.”

      “Amen!” said the others, and three glasses were solemnly drained.

      “Major,” observed the general, smacking his lips, “I should like to use Jerry for a moment, if you will permit me.”

      Jerry appeared promptly at the sound of the bell. He had remained conveniently near,—calls of this sort were apt to come in sequence.

      “Jerry,” said the general, handing Jerry half a dollar, “go over to Mr. Brown’s,—I get my liquor there,—and tell them to send me three glasses of my special mixture. And, Jerry,—you may keep the change!”

      “Thank y’, gin’l, thank y’, marster,” replied Jerry, with unctuous gratitude, bending almost double as he backed out of the room.

      “Dat’s a gent’eman, a rale ole-time gent’eman,” he said to himself when he had closed the door. “But dere’s somethin’ gwine on in dere,—dere sho’ is! ‘No nigger damnation!’ Dat soun’s all right,—I’m sho’ dere ain’ no nigger I knows w’at wants damnation, do’ dere’s lots of ’em w’at deserves it; but ef dat one-eyed Cap’n McBane got anything ter do wid it, w’atever it is, it don’ mean no good fer de niggers,—damnation’d be better fer ’em dan dat Cap’n McBane! He looks at a nigger lack he could jes’ eat ’im alive.”

      “This mixture, gentlemen,” observed the general when Jerry had returned with the glasses, “was originally compounded by no less a person than the great John C. Calhoun himself, who confided the recipe to my father over the convivial board. In this nectar of the gods, gentlemen, I drink with you to ‘White Supremacy!”

      “White Supremacy everywhere!” added McBane with fervor.

      “Now and forever!” concluded Carteret solemnly.

      When the visitors, half an hour later, had taken their departure, Carteret, inspired by the theme, and in less degree by the famous mixture of the immortal Calhoun, turned to his desk and finished, at a white heat, his famous editorial in which he sounded the tocsin of a new crusade.

      At noon, when the editor, having laid down his pen, was leaving the office, he passed Jerry in the hall without a word or a nod. The major wore a rapt look, which Jerry observed with a vague uneasiness.

      “He looks jes’ lack he wuz walkin’ in his sleep,” muttered Jerry uneasily. “Dere’s somethin’ up, sho ’s you bawn! ‘No nigger damnation!’ Anybody’d ’low dey wuz all gwine ter heaven; but I knows better! W’en a passel er w’ite folks gits ter talkin’ ’bout de niggers lack dem in yander, it’s mo’ lackly dey’re gwine ter ketch somethin’ e’se dan heaven! I got ter keep my eyes open an’ keep up wid w’at’s happenin’. Ef dere’s gwine ter be anudder flood ’roun’ here, I wants ter git in de ark wid de w’ite folks,—I may haf ter be anudder Ham, an’ sta’t de cullud race all over ag’in.”

      IV.

       Theodore Felix

      The young heir of the Carterets had thriven apace, and at six months old was, according to Mammy Jane, whose experience qualified her to speak with authority, the largest, finest, smartest, and altogether most remarkable baby that had ever lived in Wellington. Mammy Jane had recently suffered from an attack of inflammatory rheumatism, as the result of which she had returned to her own home. She nevertheless came now and then to see Mrs. Carteret. A younger nurse had been procured to take her place, but it was understood that Jane would come whenever she might be needed.

      “You really mean that about Dodie, do you, Mammy Jane?” asked the delighted mother, who never tired of hearing her own opinion confirmed concerning this wonderful child, which had come to her like an angel from heaven.

      “Does I mean it!” exclaimed Mammy Jane, with a tone and an expression which spoke volumes of reproach. “Now, Mis’ ’Livy, what is I ever uttered er said er spoke er done dat would make you s’pose I could tell you a lie ’bout yo’ own chile?”

      “No, Mammy Jane, I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

      “’Deed, ma’am, I’m tellin’ you de Lawd’s truf. I don’ haf ter tell no lies ner strain no p’ints ’bout my ole mist’ess’s gran’chile. Dis yer boy is de ve’y spit an’ image er yo’ brother, young Mars Alick, w’at died w’en he wuz ’bout eight mont’s ole, w’iles I wuz laid off havin’ a baby er my own, an’ couldn’ be roun’ ter look after ’im. An’ dis chile is a rale quality chile, he is,—I never seed a baby wid sech fine hair fer his age, ner sech blue eyes, ner sech a grip, ner sech a heft. W’y, dat chile mus’ weigh ’bout twenty-fo’ poun’s, an’ he not but six mont’s ole. Does dat gal w’at does de nussin’ w’iles I’m gone ten’ ter dis chile right, Mis’ ’Livy?”

      “She does fairly well, Mammy Jane, but I could hardly expect her to love the baby as you do. There’s no one like you, Mammy Jane.”

      “‘Deed dere ain’t, honey; you is talkin’ de gospel truf now! None er dese yer young folks ain’ got de trainin’ my ole mist’ess give me. Dese yer new-fangle’ schools don’ l’arn ’em nothin’ ter compare wid it. I’m jes’ gwine ter give dat gal a piece er my min’, befo’ I go, so she’ll ten’ ter dis chile right.”

      The nurse came in shortly afterwards, a neat-looking brown girl, dressed in a clean calico gown, with a nurse’s cap and apron.

      “Look a-here, gal,” said Mammy Jane sternly, “I wants you ter understan’ dat you got ter take good keer er dis chile; fer I nussed his mammy dere, an’ his gran’mammy befo’ ’im, an’ you is got a priv’lege dat mos’ lackly you don’ ’preciate. I wants you to ’member, in yo’ incomin’s an’ outgoin’s, dat I got my eye on you, an’ am gwine ter see dat you does yo’ wo’k right.”

      “Do you need me for anything, ma’am?” asked the young nurse, who had stood before Mrs. Carteret, giving Mammy Jane a mere passing glance, and listening impassively to her harangue. The nurse belonged to the younger generation of colored people. She had graduated from the mission school, and had received some instruction in Dr. Miller’s class for nurses. Standing, like most young people of her race, on the border line between two irreconcilable