"No Southern gentleman--" began the Colonel. But Harry shrugged his shoulders.
"Which is better, to be crushed by the trust or to escape at their expense, even if that escape involves unwarranted assumptions on the part of one of them? I tell you, Father, the code of the Southern gentleman won't work in Wall Street."
"And I'll tell you why--there are no Southern gentlemen," growled his father.
The Silver Fleece was golden, for its prices were flying aloft. Mr. Caldwell told Colonel Cresswell that he confidently expected twelve-cent cotton.
"The crop is excellent and small, scarcely ten million bales," he declared. "The price is bound to go up."
Colonel Cresswell was hesitant, even doubtful; the demand for cotton at high prices usually fell off rapidly and he had heard rumors of curtailed mill production. While, then, he hoped for high prices he advised the Farmers' League to be on guard.
Mr. Caldwell seemed to be right, for cotton rose to ten cents a pound--ten and a half--eleven--and then the South began to see visions and to dream dreams.
"Yes, my dear," said Mr. Maxwell, whose lands lay next to the Cresswells' on the northwest, "yes, if cotton goes to twelve or thirteen cents as seems probable, I think we can begin the New House"--for Mrs. Maxwell's cherished dream was a pillared mansion like the Cresswells'.
Mr. Tolliver looked at his house and barns. "Well, daughter, if this crop sells at twelve cents, I'll be on my feet again, and I won't have to sell that land to the nigger school after all. Once out of the clutch of the Cresswells--well, I think we can have a coat of paint." And he laughed as he had not laughed in ten years.
Down in the bottoms west of the swamp a man and woman were figuring painfully on an old slate. He was light brown and she was yellow.
"Honey," he said tremblingly, "I b'lieve we can do it--if cotton goes to twelve cents, we can pay the mortgage."
Two miles north of the school an old black woman was shouting and waving her arms. "If cotton goes to twelve cents we can pay out and be free!" and she threw her apron over her head and wept, gathering her children in her arms.
But even as she cried a flash and tremor shook the South. Far away to the north a great spider sat weaving his web. The office looked down from the clouds on lower Broadway, and was soft with velvet and leather. Swift, silent messengers hurried in and out, and Mr. Easterly, deciding the time was ripe, called his henchman to him.