in a newspaper what white people would scarcely acknowledge to themselves in secret was much as though a Russian moujik or a German peasant should rush into print to question the divine right of the Lord’s Anointed.  The article was racial lese-majeste in the most aggravated form.  A peg was needed upon which to hang a coup d’etat, and this editorial offered the requisite opportunity.  It was unanimously decided to republish the obnoxious article, with comment adapted to fire the inflammable Southern heart and rouse it against any further self-assertion of the negroes in politics or elsewhere.

“The time is ripe!” exclaimed McBane.  “In a month we can have the niggers so scared that they won’t dare stick their heads out of doors on ’lection day.”

“I wonder,” observed the general thoughtfully, after this conclusion had been reached, “if we couldn’t have Jerry fetch us some liquor?”

Jerry appeared in response to the usual summons.  The general gave him the money, and ordered three Calhoun cocktails.  When Jerry returned with the glasses on a tray, the general observed him with pointed curiosity.

“What, in h—­ll is the matter with you, Jerry?  Your black face is splotched with brown and yellow patches, and your hair shines as though you had fallen head-foremost into a firkin of butter.  What’s the matter with you?”

Jerry seemed much embarrassed by this inquiry.

“Nothin’, suh, nothin’,” he stammered.  “It’s—­it’s jes’ somethin’ I be’n puttin’ on my hair, suh, ter improve de quality, suh.”

“Jerry,” returned the general, bending a solemn look upon the porter, “you have been playing with edged tools, and your days are numbered.  You have been reading the Afro-American Banner.”

He shook open the paper, which he had retained in his hand, and read from one of the advertisements:—­

“’Kinky, curly hair made straight in two applications.  Dark skins lightened two shades; mulattoes turned perfectly white.’

“This stuff is rank poison, Jerry,” continued the general with a mock solemnity which did not impose upon Jerry, who nevertheless listened with an air of great alarm.  He suspected that the general was making fun of him; but he also knew that the general would like to think that Jerry believed him in earnest; and to please the white folks was Jerry’s consistent aim in life.  “I can see the signs of decay in your face, and your hair will all fall out in a week or two at the latest,—­mark my words!”

McBane had listened to this pleasantry with a sardonic sneer.  It was a waste of valuable time.  To Carteret it seemed in doubtful taste.  These grotesque advertisements had their tragic side.  They were proof that the negroes had read the handwriting on the wall.  These pitiful attempts to change their physical characteristics were an acknowledgment, on their own part, that the negro was doomed, and that the white man was to inherit the earth and hold