There was, then, the promise, almost the certainty, of a heavy crop on the Horton place.  It was in view of this that the owner completed an arrangement, for months under consideration, in which he increased his working plantation-force by thirteen hands, of whom one was Alston.  It was, too, in view of this promised heavy crop that the overseer, Mr. Buck, harangued the slaves at the opening of the picking-season.  The burden of his harangue was, that no flagging would be tolerated in cotton-gathering during the season.  The figures of the past year were on record, showing what each hand did each day.  There was to be no falling behind these figures:  indeed, they must be beaten, for the heavier bolling made the picking easier.  Any one falling behind was to be cowhided.  As for the new hands, they ought to lead the field, for they were all young, stout fellows.

As has been said, Alston was tall, strong, well-made.  Working in tobacco, to whose culture he had been used, he could hold his hand with the best:  how would it be in this new business of cotton-picking?  He had a strong element of cheerful fidelity in his nature.  The first day he worked steadily and as rapidly as he was able at the unfamiliar employment.  When night came he reckoned he had done well.  With a complacent feeling he stood waiting his turn as the great baskets, one after another, were swung on the steelyard and the weights announced.  He found himself pitying some of the pickers as light weights were called, wondering if they had fallen behind last year’s figures.  When his basket was brought forward, it was by Big Sam, who with one hand swung it lightly to the scales; yet Alston’s thought was, “How strong Big Sam is!” and never, “How light the basket!”

The weight was announced:  Alston was almost stunned.  He had strained every nerve, yet here he was behind the children-pickers, behind the gray old women stiff with rheumatism and broken with childbearing and with doing men’s work.

“Sixty-three pounds!” the overseer said with a threatening tone.  “Min’ yer git a heap higher’n that ter-morrer, yer yaller raskel!  Ef yer can’t pick cotton, yer’ll be sol’ down in Louzany to a sugar-plantation, whar’ niggers don’t git nothin’ ter eat ‘cept cotton-seeds an’ a few dreggy lasses.”

Next to being sent to “the bad place” itself, the most terrible fate, to the negro’s imagination, was to be sold to a sugar-planter.

“Here’s Big Sam,” the overseer continued, “nigh unto three hunderd; an’ Little Lizay two hunderd an’ fawty-seven.—­That’s the bigges’ figger yer’s ever struck yit, Lizay:  shows what yer kin do.  Min’ yer come up ter it ter-morrer an’ ev’ry other day.”

“Days gits shawter ’bout Chrismus-time,” Little Lizay ventured to suggest, “an’ it gits col’, an’ my fingers ain’t limber.”

“Don’t give me none yer jaw.  Reckon I knows ’nuff ter make ’lowances fer col’ an’ shawt days an’ scatterin’ bolls an’ sich like.”