all other races under his heel.  For, as the months had passed, Carteret’s thoughts, centring more and more upon the negro, had led him farther and farther, until now he was firmly convinced that there was no permanent place for the negro in the United States, if indeed anywhere in the world, except under the ground.  More pathetic even than Jerry’s efforts to escape from the universal doom of his race was his ignorance that even if he could, by some strange alchemy, bleach his skin and straighten his hair, there would still remain, underneath it all, only the unbleached darky,—­the ass in the lion’s skin.

When the general had finished his facetious lecture, Jerry backed out of the room shamefacedly, though affecting a greater confusion than he really felt.  Jerry had not reasoned so closely as Carteret, but he had realized that it was a distinct advantage to be white,—­an advantage which white people had utilized to secure all the best things in the world; and he had entertained the vague hope that by changing his complexion he might share this prerogative.  While he suspected the general’s sincerity, he nevertheless felt a little apprehensive lest the general’s prediction about the effects of the face-bleach and other preparations might prove true,—­the general was a white gentleman and ought to know,—­and decided to abandon their use.

This purpose was strengthened by his next interview with the major.  When Carteret summoned him, an hour later, after the other gentlemen had taken their leave, Jerry had washed his head thoroughly and there remained no trace of the pomade.  An attempt to darken the lighter spots in his cuticle by the application of printer’s ink had not proved equally successful,—­the retouching left the spots as much too dark as they had formerly been too light.

“Jerry,” said Carteret sternly, “when I hired you to work for the Chronicle, you were black.  The word ‘negro’ means ‘black.’  The best negro is a black negro, of the pure type, as it came from the hand of God.  If you wish to get along well with the white people, the blacker you are the better,—­white people do not like negroes who want to be white.  A man should be content to remain as God made him and where God placed him.  So no more of this nonsense.  Are you going to vote at the next election?”

“What would you ’vise me ter do, suh?” asked Jerry cautiously.

“I do not advise you.  You ought to have sense enough to see where your own interests lie.  I put it to you whether you cannot trust yourself more safely in the hands of white gentlemen, who are your true friends, than in the hands of ignorant and purchasable negroes and unscrupulous white scoundrels?”

“Dere’s no doubt about it, suh,” assented Jerry, with a vehemence proportioned to his desire to get back into favor.  “I ain’ gwine ter have nothin’ ter do wid de ‘lection, suh!  Ef I don’ vote, I kin keep my job, can’t I, suh?”

The major eyed Jerry with an air of supreme disgust.  What could be expected of a race so utterly devoid of tact?  It seemed as though this negro thought a white gentleman might want to bribe him to remain away from the polls; and the negro’s willingness to accept the imaginary bribe demonstrated the venal nature of the colored race,—­its entire lack of moral principle!