I took up one of the small identification slips which she put into each package, and wrote her name upon the back of it.  The number on the slip—­for the purpose of identifying the girl who packed the tin—­was 220.  Let the reader, therefore, be informed that if he smokes Edgeworth Ready Rubbed, and finds in a tin a slip bearing that number, he has been served by no less a person than Miss Katie Wise, of the astonishingly speedy fingers.

CHAPTER XXIII

JEDGE CRUTCHFIELD’S CO’T

    Dar’s a pow’ful rassle ’twix de Good en de Bad,
      En de Bad’s got de all-under holt;
    En w’en de wuss come, she come i’on-clad,
      En you hatter holt yo’ bref fer de jolt.

    —­UNCLE REMUS.

My companion and I had not traveled far into the South before we discovered that our comfort was likely to be considerably enhanced if, in hotels, we singled out an intelligent bell boy and, as far as possible, let this one boy serve us.  Our mainstay in the Jefferson Hotel was Charles Jackson, No. 144, or, when Charles was “off,” his “side partner,” whom we knew as Bob.

Having one day noticed a negro in convict’s stripes, but without a guard, raking up leaves in Capitol Square, I asked Charles about the matter.

“Do they let the convicts go around unguarded?” I inquired.

“They ’s some of ’em can,” said he.  “Those is trustees.”

This talk of “trustees” led to other things and finally to a strong recommendation, by Charles, of the Richmond Police Court, as a place of entertainment.

“Is it interesting?” I asked.

“Inter-resting?  Yes, suh!  Judge Crutchfield he suttinly is.  He done chahge me twenty-six dollahs and fo’ty cents.  My brothah, he got in fight down street, heah.  Some niggers set on him.  I went to he’p him an’ p’leeceman got me.  He say I was resistin’ p’leece.  I ain’t resisted no p’leece!  No, suh!  Not me!  But Judge Crutchfield, you can’t tell him nothin’.  ’Tain’t no use to have a lawyer, nuther.  Judge Crutchfield don’t want no lawyers in his co’t.  Like ‘s not he cha’ge you mo’ fo’ havin’ lawyer.  Then you got pay lawyer, too.

“Friend mine name Billy.  One night Billy he wake up and heah some one come pushin’ in his house.  He hollah:  ‘Who thar?’

“Othah nigger he kep’ pushin’ on in.  He say:  ‘This Gawge.’

“Billy, he say:  ‘Git on out heah, niggah!  Ain’t no Gawge live heah!’

“Othah niggah, he say:  ‘Don’t make no diff’unce Gawge live heah o’ not.  He sure comin’ right in!  Ain’t nobody heah kin stop ol’ Gawge!  He eat ‘em alive, Gawge do!  He de boss of Jackson Ward.  Bettah say yo’ prayehs, niggah, fo’ yo’ time—­has—­come!’