“I was wondering, Mr. Killibrew,” began Peter feeling his way along, “I was wondering if you would mind talking over a little matter with me.  It’s considered a delicate subject, I believe, but I thought a frank talk would help.”

During the natural pauses of Peter’s explanation Mr. Killibrew kept up a genial series of nods and ejaculations.

“Certainly, Peter.  I don’t see why, Peter.  I’m sure it will help, Peter.”

“I’d like to talk frankly about the relations of our two races in the South, in Hooker’s Bend.”

The grocer stopped his running accompaniment of affirmations and looked steadfastly at Peter.  Presently he seemed to solve some question and broke into a pleasant laugh.

“Now, Peter, if this is some political shenanigan, I must tell you I’m a Democrat.  Besides that, I don’t care a straw about politics.  I vote, and that’s all.”

Peter put down the suspicion that he was on a political errand.

“Not that at all, Mr. Killibrew.  It’s a question of the white race and the black race.  The particular feature I am working on is the wages paid to cooks.”

“I didn’t know you were a cook,” interjected the grocer in surprise.

“I am not.”

Mr. Killibrew looked at Peter, thought intensely for a few moments, and came to an unescapable conclusion.

“You don’t mean you’ve formed a cook’s union here in Hooker’s Bend, Peter!” he cried, immensely amazed.

“Not at all.  It’s this,” clarified Peter.  “It may seem trivial, but it illustrates the principle I’m trying to get at.  Doesn’t your cook carry away cold food?”

It required perhaps four seconds for the merchant to stop his speculations on what Peter had come for and adjust his mind to the question.

“Why, yes, I suppose so,” he agreed, very much at sea.  “I—­I never caught up with her.”  He laughed a pleasant, puzzled laugh.  “Of course she doesn’t come around and show me what she’s making off with.  Why?”

“Well, it’s this.  Wouldn’t you prefer to give your cook a certain cash payment instead of having her taking uncertain amounts of your foodstuffs and wearing apparel?”

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?”