“Well, if you are sure, dear, we’ll go.  But how can we get it up to the house?  It’s too big to tote.”

“I’ll step round to Julius’s cabin and ask him to go down with the wheelbarrow and bring it up,” I replied.

Julius was an elderly colored man who worked on the plantation and lived in a small house on the place, a few rods from my own residence.  His daughter was our cook, and other members of his family served us in different capacities.

As I turned the corner of the house I saw Julius coming up the lane.  He had on his Sunday clothes, and was probably returning from the afternoon meeting at the Sandy Run Baptist Church, of which he was a leading member and deacon.

“Julius,” I said, “we are going out to pull the big watermelon, and we want you to take the wheelbarrow and go with us, and bring it up to the house.”

“Does yer reckon dat watermillun’s ripe yit, sah?” said Julius.  “Didn’ ‘pear ter me it went quite plunk enuff yistiddy fer ter be pull’ befo’ termorrer.”

“I think it is ripe enough, Julius.”

“Mawnin’ ’ud be a better time fer ter pull it, sah, w’en de night air an’ de jew’s done cool’ it off nice.”

“Probably that’s true enough, but we’ll put it on ice, and that will cool it; and I’m afraid if we leave it too long, some one will steal it.”

“I ’spec’s dat so,” said the old man, with a confirmatory shake of the head.  “Yer takes chances w’en yer pulls it, en’ yer takes chances w’en yer don’t.  Dey’s a lot er po’ w’ite trash roun’ heah w’at ain’ none too good fer ter steal it.  I seed some un’ ’em loafin’ long de big road on mer way home fum chu’ch jes’ now.  I has ter watch mer own chicken-coop ter keep chick’ns ‘nuff fer Sunday eatin’.  I’ll go en’ git de w’eelborrow.”

Julius had a profound contempt for poor whites, and never let slip an opportunity for expressing it.  He assumed that we shared this sentiment, while in fact our feeling toward this listless race was something entirely different.  They were, like Julius himself, the product of a system which they had not created and which they did not know enough to resist.

As the old man turned to go away he began to limp, and put his hand to his knee with an exclamation of pain.

“What’s the matter, Julius?” asked my wife.

“Yes, Uncle Julius, what ails you?” echoed her sweet young sister.  “Did you stump your toe?”

“No, miss, it’s dat mis’able rheumatiz.  It ketches me now an’ den in de lef’ knee, so I can’t hardly draw my bref.  O Lawdy!” he added between his clenched teeth, “but dat do hurt.  Ouch!  It’s a little better now,” he said, after a moment, “but I doan’ b’lieve I kin roll dat w’eelborrow out ter de watermillun-patch en’ back.  Ef it’s all de same ter yo’, sah, I’ll go roun’ ter my house en’ sen’ Tom ter take my place, w’iles I rubs some linimum on my laig.”

“That’ll be all right, Julius,” I said, and the old man, hobbling, disappeared round the corner of the house.  Tom was a lubberly, sleepy-looking negro boy of about fifteen, related to Julius’s wife in some degree, and living with them.