While settling his bill at the livery stable, he made further
inquiries.
"Lord, yes," said the liveryman in answer to one of them, "I can tell
you all you want to know about that mill. Talk about nigger
slavery--the niggers never were worked like white women and children
are in them mills. They work 'em from twelve to sixteen hours a day
for from fifteen to fifty cents. Them triflin' old pinelanders out
there jus' lay aroun' and raise children for the mills, and then set
down and chaw tobacco an' live on their children's wages. It's a sin
an' a shame, an' there ought to be a law ag'inst it."
The conversation brought out the further fact that vice was rampant
among the millhands.
"An' it ain't surprisin'," said the liveryman, with indignation
tempered by the easy philosophy of hot climates. "Shut up in jail all
day, an' half the night, never breathin' the pyo' air, or baskin' in
God's bright sunshine; with no books to read an' no chance to learn,
who can blame the po'r things if they have a little joy in the only
way they know?"
"Who owns the mill?" asked the colonel.
"It belongs to a company," was the reply, "but Old Bill Fetters owns a
majority of the stock--durn, him!"
The colonel felt a thrill of pleasure--he had met a man after his own
heart.
"You are not one of Fetters's admirers then?" he asked.
"Not by a durn sight," returned the liveryman promptly. "When I look
at them white gals, that ought to be rosy-cheeked an' bright-eyed an'
plump an' hearty an' happy, an' them po' little child'en that never
get a chance to go fishin' or swimmin' or to learn anything, I allow I
wouldn' mind if the durned old mill would catch fire an' burn down.
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