Silas’s social attainments were lamentably sparse, but being an apt youngster, he began to acquire them, quite as he acquired his new duties, and different forms of speech.  He learned to dance—­almost a natural gift of the negro—­and he was introduced into the subtleties of flirtation.  At first he was a bit timid with the nurse-girls and maids whom the wealthy travelers brought with them, but after a few lessons from very able teachers, he learned the manly art of ogling to his own satisfaction, and soon became as proficient as any of the other black coxcombs.

If he ever thought of Dely Manly any more, it was with a smile that he had been able at one time to consider her seriously.  The people at home, be it said to his credit, he did not forget.  A part of his wages went back every month to help better the condition of the cabin.  But Silas himself had no desire to return, and at the end of a year he shuddered at the thought of it.  He was quite willing to help his father, whom he had now learned to call the “old man,” but he was not willing to go back to him.

II

Early in his second year at the Springs Marston came for a stay at the hotel.  When he saw his protege, he exclaimed:  “Why, that isn’t Si, is it?”

“Yes, suh,” smiled Silas.

“Well, well, well, what a change.  Why, boy, you’ve developed into a regular fashion-plate.  I hope you’re not advertising for any of the Richmond tailors.  They’re terrible Jews, you know.”

“You see, a man has to be neat aroun’ the hotel, Mistah Ma’ston.”

“Whew, and you’ve developed dignity, too.  By the Lord Harry, if I’d have made that remark to you about a year and a half ago, there at the cabin, you’d have just grinned.  Ah, Silas, I’m afraid for you.  You’ve grown too fast.  You’ve gained a certain poise and ease at the expense of—­of—­I don’t know what, but something that I liked better.  Down there at home you were just a plain darky.  Up here you are trying to be like me, and you are colored.”

“Of co’se, Mistah Ma’ston,” said Silas politely, but deprecatingly, “the worl’ don’t stan’ still.”

“Platitudes—­the last straw!” exclaimed Mr. Marston tragically.  “There’s an old darky preacher up at Richmond who says it does, and I’m sure I think more of his old fog-horn blasts than I do of your parrot tones.  Ah!  Si, this is the last time that I shall ever fool with good raw material.  However, don’t let this bother you.  As I remember, you used to sing well.  I’m going to have some of my friends up at my rooms to-night; get some of the boys together, and come and sing for us.  And remember, nothing hifalutin; just the same old darky songs you used to sing.”

“All right, suh, we’ll be up.”