She spoke in a loud voice, and her words rushed one upon the other as if she were in the habit of saying much in a short space of time.  This is a trick of speech frequently acquired by those who visit public men.  Miss Kirkman’s whole manner indicated bustle and hurry.  Even her attire showed it.  She was a plump woman, aged, one would say about thirty.  Her hair was brown and her eyes a steely grey—­not a bad face, but one too shrewd and aggressive perhaps for a woman.  One might have looked at her for a long time and never suspected the truth, that she was allied to the colored race.  Neither features, hair nor complexion showed it, but then “colored” is such an elastic word, and Miss Kirkman in reality was colored “for revenue only.”  She found it more profitable to ally herself to the less important race because she could assume a position among them as a representative woman, which she could never have hoped to gain among the whites.  So she was colored, and, without having any sympathy with the people whom she represented, spoke for them and uttered what was supposed by the powers to be the thoughts that were in their breasts.

“Well, from the way you’re tossing the papers in that bag I know you’ve got some news for me.”

“Yes, I have, but I don’t know how important you’ll think it is.  Here we are!” She drew forth a paper and glanced at it.

“It’s just a memorandum, a list of names of a few men who need watching.  The Afro-American convention is to meet on the 22d; that’s Thursday of next week.  Bishop Carter is to preside.  The thing has resolved itself into a fight between those who are office-holders and those who want to be.”

“Yes, well what’s the convention going to do?”

“They’re going to denounce the administration.”

“Hem, well in your judgment, what will that amount to, Miss Kirkman?”

“They are the representative talking men from all sections of the country, and they have their following, and so there’s no use disputing that they can do some harm.”

“Hum, what are they going to denounce the administration for?”

“Oh, there’s a spirit of general discontent, and they’ve got to denounce something, so it had as well be the administration as anything else.”

There was a new gleam in Mr. Hamilton’s eye that was not one of pleasure as he asked, “Who are the leaders in this movement?”

“That’s just what I brought this list for.  There’s Courtney, editor of the New York Beacon, who is rabid; there’s Jones of Georgia, Gray of Ohio—­”

“Whew,” whistled the boss, “Gray of Ohio, why he’s on the inside.”

“Yes, and I can’t see what’s the matter with him, he’s got his position, and he ought to keep his mouth shut.”

“Oh, there are ways of applying the screw.  Go on.”

“Then, too, there’s Shackelford of Mississippi, Duncan of South Carolina, Stowell of Kentucky, and a lot of smaller fry who are not worth mentioning.”