Part 2

“Tite, he take it an’ hide it under a rock. I seed him lookin’ at it, des lak he coul’ read, when he know he don’t know B fum bull-foot. One day, while Tite wuz in Charlotte, I slip de deed out fum under de log where he hid it, an’ took it over to Miss Jane an’ she say it read lak dis: ‘Es Samson lifted de serpent out uv de wilderness so I lifted dis po’ nigger out uv $5.’

“Tite done giv’ de man $5 fur drawin’ de deed, an’ he sho’ did think it wuz er deed fur de mill place, an’, ’cordin’ly, he an’ another nigger sneak down one day, while Ole Marster wuz in Souf Careliny, an’ lay off whut he want an’ put up rocks to mark de corners. Soon after de ’lection Tite an’ de yudder niggers uv de Robinson settlement wuz to go to town an’ git de mules an’, bein’ as Tite wuz a leader, he wuz gwine to have a fine hoss to boot. De cearpet-baggers done tell dem dat dey woul’ have several thousan’ mules fur de niggers in de county. ’Fo’ dat, one night, Tite done come in wid a long coat wid shiny buttons, an’ a stovepipe hat. You orter seed dat nigger how he swell ’roun’ ’fo’ me, but de mo’ he git fur nuthing de mo’ trouble I seed fur him. I ’spect’d trouble every day. It des look to me lak de worl’ wuz comin’ to de een. All de time Miss Jane kep’ tellin’ me ’bout de Kluxes comin’ nigher. An’, bless yo’ soul, honey, one mornin’ all de niggers ’long de big road wuz stirred up ’bout er percession dey had seed de night befo’. Dey say dat de bigges’ men dey ever see come ’long ridin’ camels lak dey have in de show. Whutever it wuz didn’t make no fuss but move easy des lak a cat after er rat. De mens coul’ stretch deyer necks way up in de trees, an’ drink a whole bucket uv water at a time.

“’Fo’ de day passed we heerd ’bout de same crowd goin’ to ole Joe Grier’s home an’ takin’ him out an’ beatin’ his back wid a buggy trace. Yes, sir, dey say it wuz a shame de way dey do dat nigger, but he’d been medlin’ des lak Tite. Dey kotch him makin’ a speech at one uv dem nigger meetin’s an’ dey bus’ his high hat (one lak Tite’s) all to flinders. An’ dey say when dey lef’ dere dat ole Tite Robinson wuz de nex’ nigger dey woul’ git. When Tite hear’ dat he git sorter shaky, but ’low, big lak, dat dey wuz foolin’ wid de wrong nigger. He make out lak he’s gwine to fite.

“Dat very night Tite wuz gwine to have a big meetin’, de las’ ’fo’ de ’lection, at Pineville chuch. It wuz to be de bigges’ uv all but when de niggers hear ’bout de Ku Kluxes dey gut skittish ’bout gittin’ out after dark. Tite an’ de rest uv de ringleaders went but dey didn’t have much uv a crowd. De pews uv de chuch wuzn’t full lak dey had been. Yes, sir, de audience wuz rather slim fur de ’casion. But Tite wuz dere in all his glory, an’ de boss dog uv de yard. Howsomever, when he lef’ home dat night he wuz sorter quiet lak. He ’peered to be a little oneasy. I wuz monstrous anxious ’bout him fur I knowed de Kluxes wuz in de lan’. I didn’t want Tite to git hurt but I didn’t care much ef de Kluxes skeered dem fool idees out uv his haid, so he coul’ have some sense once mo’.”

“Did they get him, Aunt Matt?” asked a small boy who had become thoroughly interested.

“Honey, dat’s de night de devil broke loose,” said Matt. “I des felt lak somefin’ wuz gwine to drap, an’ sho’ nuff it did.

“Soon after Tite lef de house de elements gut wrong. De clouds gather’d thick an’ hang mighty low in de Wes’. I coul’ hear de thunderin’ an’ see de lightnin’. I never seed sich a dark night. But, after de bigges’ rain dat I ever seed fell, de clouds ’clare ’way an’ de moon come out.

“When Tite wuz gone an’ de rain wuz over I went to sleep an’ knowed no mo’ till I heerd peoples talkin’ an’ cussin’, an’ it soun’ des lak dey wuz outside my do’. It wuz den after midnight, I spec’. I coul’ hear de low whisperin’ voices on fust one side uv de house, den de tuther. I heerd horses movin’ ’bout, an’ den I knowed dat it wuz de Ku Kluxes. I heerd one man say: ‘Well, we’ll go in here an’ see ef de black rascal’s come yit. But I don’t see how he coul’ uv haided us off.’

“’Bout dat time dere wuz a tap on de do’, an’ a call, ‘Matt, open de do’. We want to see if Tite’s in dere. We won’t hurt you ef you let us in, an’ ef you don’t we are comin’ in anyhow. We’ll break de do’.’

“I wuz wide awake but say nuthin’.

“‘Matt! Matt! Don’t you hear?’ I coul’n’t tell de voice but I knowed ef I didn’t open de do’ dey woul’ break it down; so I open it an’ git back in bed. When de do’ come open it peered to me lak I seed a whole lot uv hosses in de road an’ lots uv men in de yard, dressed in red shirts an’ had on dese here false faces. I wuz skeered an’ den I wuzn’t, fur de man whut do de talkin’ had a mighty fermilyer lak voice to me, but I des coul’n’t say who’s it wuz. Dey peered to b’lieve me when I told ’em dat Tite wuzn’t dere, but dey searched anyhow to make sartin’.

“After dey can’t find him an’ dey start out de man what spoke befo’ say: ‘Well, Matt, we give de ole devil a good run, an’ would’ve swung him up ef we’d ketched him, but it’s late now an’ we’d better go.’

“Den I say: ‘Please, marster, don’t kill him fur he’s des gone crazy ’bout dis here ’lection bizness what dem strange white foks put in his haid. Don’t, boss man, fur my sake, kill de ole nigger. He’ll come right. I’s tried to git him to stay at home. Now des let me try him one mo’ time. Ax Marse John Robinson an’ Marse Jeems Walkup ’bout Matt. Dey knows me. I’s been good since s’render, an’ I’s tried to make Tite behave hissef. So, Mister, won’t you let him off dis time?’

“De same man what spoke befo’ ’low: ‘Well, boys, I b’lieve dis is a good nigger, an’ on her ’count we’ll let de Parson ’lone fur a few days an’ see. Ef we hear uv any mo’ uv his doin’s, ’citin’ de niggers an’ makin’ speeches, we’ll do him des lak we did Ole Joe Grier, or wuss. Ef he hadn’t run lak er deer t’night, we’d broke his neck. Let’s go back to Souf Careliny, an’ res’.’

“Dis said, dey rode off. I wuz skeered dat Tite wuz daid, an’ coul’n’t sleep no mo’ dat night, but wuz too bad ’frighten’ to git up.

“Way in de mornin’, toge day, when all gits quiet, I heered a soft knock at de do’. I knowed it mus’ be Tite, so I gits up an’ opens it, an’ sho’ nuff it wuz him.

“Honey, you woul’n’t knowed dat nigger. He wuz wet an’ muddy fum de bottom uv his feets up. He wuz bare haided an’ his clothes all tore. But, bless yo’ soul, chile, he wuz glad to git home. When I open de do’ he say, ‘Let me in, ole ’oman, fur I’s mos’ daid. De Ku Kluxes is been runnin’ me all night. Don’t make no fuss, but lem’me in.’

“Skeered as I wuz when I seed him I had to laugh. He look’ des lak a frizzly chicken wid de feathers turned de wrong way, an’ wuz des tremblin’ lak a leaf. Ever time I move my foot he jump lak he wuz hit, but when I tell him what de Kluxes say to me he ’clare, ‘Thank Gawd, Matt, ef dat be so I’s yo’ nigger so long as I live. You ain’t gwine to ketch me foolin’ wid po’ white foks an’ politics no mo’. Dis is my las’ time. I’s never been so skeered since de Lawd made me.’

“Yes, sir, an’ dat wuz his las’ meetin’, an’ when dem cearpet-baggers come sneakin’ ’roun’ at night he made me drive dem way des es same as ef dey had pizen. He went straight to wuck an’ fum dat day to dis he’s been quiet on politics.

“But it wuz a long time ’fo’ I knowed what happened at de chuch dat night. Tite woul’n’t never talk ’bout it. Miss Jane heered all de fac’s an’ tell me.

“It wuz lak dis. You’s been to Pineville chuch--I mean de col’ud chuch--de one dat sets on de big hill. At de time when Tite wuz flyin’ so high no white pusson lived close to de chuch. All de lan’ ’bout dere wuz in woods. De chuch is gut two do’s, one in de side an’ one at de een where de pulpit is. It wuz a good thing fur Tite dat de een do’ wuz dere. Dat’s all dat saved his life.

“Tite an’ his niggers wuz at de chuch dat night an’ had de meetin’ gwine at nine. De onlies’ lamp in de house wuz on de pulpit. Tite wuz de fust speaker fur de ’cassion. He wuz to stir up de niggers fur de ’lection day. Dem cearpet-baggers done told him what to say.

“De niggers all holler fur Parson Robinson an’ Tite step up in de pulpit an’ take off his stovepipe hat, set it on de table, button up his long coat, an’ start off lak dis: ‘Gents an’ Feller Citizens: I’s come here to-night to tell you dat de nigger’s ’bout to git what b’longs to ’em. De white foks is been on top long ’nuff. Ef de ’Publikins wins dis time ever nigger in dis house is gwine to git forty acres uv de bes’ lan’ in dis kermunity an’ a mule to wuck it wid.’

“‘Fur nuthin’, Mr. Robinson?’ ’low’ Ole Tom Moore.

“‘Yes, Mr. Moore, fur nuthin’, fur it b’longs to ’em. Dat’s de truf. I’s done gut de deed fur mine, an’ all I’s gut to do is to move on after de ’lection, an’ go to town an’ git my mule.’

“‘Dat’s de truf,’ shouted Ole Bill Davis, a deekin in de chuch.

“‘Tell it to ’em, brother! Come on wid some mo’ lak dat!’

“‘Dat’s whut we wants to heer,’ said de crowd.

“Tite went on: ‘But on de yudder han’, ef de Demmycrats gits back in power, de las’ one uv you will go bac’ in slav’ry. De overseer wid his whup will be back. Mark whut I say fur it’s de truf!’

“‘We know it, Parson, tell it des lak it is!’

“But, bless yo’ soul, honey, dis is where de speakin’ wuz out. While Tite wuz soarin’ high ’mong de clouds, ’bout a dozen great big mens, wid masses on deyer faces, an’ red shirts on deyer bodies, sprung up des lak fum de yearth an’ march down de middle aisle uv de chuch an’ take seats on de long bench in front uv de pulpit. Nobudy but Tite say nuthin’, an’ he chatter des lak he’s crazy. His voice trem’le so it almos’ shake de house. At fust his tongue mos’ stop, but when he seed de strange men cross deyer legs an’ look up at him, he say dat he’s gut nuthin’ ’ginst de white foks, an’ he seed no use in freedum nohow.

“Dere wuz a little shufflin’ in de back uv de buildin’. It wuz Tom Moore, Bill Davis an’ other niggers pilin’ out.

“’Bout dis time come de straw dat broke de camel’s bac’. De big mens uncross deyer legs, all at one time, an’ each one pull out a long knife an’ a whit rock an commence to sharpen de blades, des lak dey wuz fixin’ to kill hogs. De shinin’ steel dumbfounded Tite. Big draps uv sweat come out on his haid. When de red shirt mens see how skeered de po’ nigger is dey soun’ deyer blades on de rocks an’ Tite mos’ jump out uv his skin. He fust look at de mens an’ den at de bac’ do’. His tongue done stick to de roof uv his mouf, but he muster up courage to say: ‘I see dat you darkies didn’t fetch no water fur me to drink. I can’t speak widout water, so I’ll des git a little at de well.’

“Dis said, Tite dash out de back do’ widout his hat an’ de Ku Kluxes give a wild Injin yell an’ charge out de side do’.

“But, chile, you can’t ketch a skeered nigger, an’ it’s no use to try. ’Fo’ de Kluxes git started Tite wuz gone.

“Tite never did git de forty acres an’ de mule. Ef he did I never seed it, an’ I’s been livin’ wid him ever since.”

Later, when Grover Cleveland ran for President, Tite rode in a Democratic procession, mounted on an ox, and wearing a Cleveland hat.

THE SPANIEL AND THE COPS

“Come here, Judge,” said Col. Tom Black, the big, blonde policeman, of the Charlotte force, as a black, sleek, shaggy water spaniel started across Independence Square. “You’ve got no business over there; come here.”

Officer Will Pitts, who was by Col. Black’s side at the time, volunteered: “That is an affectionate pair--Col. Black and Judge--they like each other; they tramp the same beat together every night the colonel is on duty.”

“That’s no lie,” put in Col. Black, “that dog is as regular as a clock. He comes to headquarters just before twelve and patrols with the boys till they go off in the morning. He has sense like a man; I never saw such an intelligent animal.

“Look at that large head, those big, bright eyes and that splendid nose! Judge’s no fool!

“He’s got sense enough to vote for mayor. That’s the gospel truth.”

Pitts acquiesced in everything the colonel said, and moved around like a caged animal while Judge was being discussed. He is very fond of the dog.

Judge is a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde dog. During the day, when all honest beings go about and care not who observes them and their manners, Judge plays the part of Dr. Jekyll, serving as a watchdog for his rightful master, Dr. George W. Graham, and enlivening the premises by a cheerful bark or warning growl. All friends of the family are as welcome to the place as the gentle south winds of summer, but an enemy is driven out.

Who, that strolls about the town, viewing the pretty homes, has not seen Judge, trotting about the Graham yard, at the corner of Seventh and Church streets, switching his bushy tail and smiling out of his great brownish mellow eyes at all attractive persons as they pass?

That is his best side.

But, at that very moment, Judge is playing the hypocrite, just as well as a deceitful man would do. All is fair and bright, and Judge greets you with a hearty shake of the tail, beaming face and dancing eyes, delighted to please one and all, knowing that his proud master is watching him through the window. If his behavior is excellent, his dinner will be something out of the ordinary; a rare slice of beef, or a bit of cake, and Pussy will not get all the cream.

Judge comes to just conclusions. He fools the folks at home seven days in the week, being a past master at wool-pulling. When Dr. Graham goes home at night, tired and depressed from a hard day’s work, Judge, tactful dog that he is, rushes out to meet him.

Such capers he does cut, barking, cutting somersaults, and jumping around like wild; his joy unconfined. Dr. Graham tarries for a few minutes to play with him, and if you chance to hear the racket, you think that two gay school children have taken possession of the lawn. If Judge has an axe to grind--an extra large cavity in his bread-basket, or desires to slip away unnoticed earlier than usual--he romps all the harder, and barks more boisterously. He is a shrewd politician. His love for Dr. Graham is sincere, but not as intense as he would make him believe. He is not unlike the girl who marries one fellow for his money while she loves another; Judge prefers Col. Black, Pitts, Sergeant Jetton and other members of the police force to his home people.

For five years he has spent his nights with the night officers of the city. He knows the ins and outs of the police department better than one or two of the billy-toters that pass for policemen. For patrol duty he is first-class. He can run with the flying thief, or jump fences with the light-footed crap-shooter, and is always handy and willing. If a call comes for Black Maria, Judge is the first to mount the front seat. He likes an exciting race--the faster the better. On raids, he is the first to enter the house and the last to quit it. While the search or investigation is being made, he sits quietly by, a visiting onlooker, interested but not active. If the officers are compelled to run a foot-race, Judge takes the lead, and it is a wiry culprit that can out-distance him. The prisoner securely fixed in the wagon, Judge takes his seat in front, turns his back to the horse, and faces the unfortunate one. He seems to delight in bringing offenders to justice, not cruel, but in full sympathy with the blue-stocking laws of the city.

Once outside of his own yard, Judge assumes a dignified, stiff air, except when playing with his favorite officers. Some people would say that he is haughty, and at times he is, but if he turns up his nose at a fellow, that means that he considers himself superior to that particular wart on society, and there is generally a good reason for his contempt.

Dogs do not concern Judge. He pays but little attention to their friendly advances or threatening growls. If some vicious cur snarls and snaps at his heels, he curls his fuzzy tail over his back and ignores the common whelp; while, on the other hand, if some soft-coated, gentle-mannered, pedigreed dog tries to make up to him, he goes to Col. Black, rubs against his legs, looks up into his face, and declares: “What fools these canines be! I don’t care one whit for any of them.”

From what has already been said, one might conclude that Judge is a coward. Well, dear reader, you may disabuse your mind of that conclusion, for it is wrong. Judge is a true North Carolinian--slow to anger, but fearfully courageous when in trouble. He fears no dog in town. The common herd like to snap at him from inside a secure fence, as he trots by in the wake of Col. Black, but none would dare go near the open gate. Judge just ignores everything that keeps its distance. He has frequently said to the patrolmen something like this: “Did you see that contemptuous scamp charging at me? I would not lower myself to fight him if he were out. I should like to sick old Puss on him if he’d call at my home.”

In order to get Judge to do battle, a dog must assault him. Being an officer of the law, he lives up to the letter. If attacked, he fights in self-defense. It will be recalled that he put the little speckled bull-terrier, that loafed around the Gem Restaurant a few years ago, clear out of business for good. Old Speck lingered between life and death for two days after the affray, and then died from his wounds. Other dogs have fared as badly. Judge is slow to take hold, but when he does, Pitts says it’s good night, Isum, for death will creep over the prostrate form of the other dog before he can stop the fight. That is the kind of scrapper Judge is. Like the man who says little, but hangs on like grim death.

I have always heard it said in Providence that it was well to stay out of a row with the laughing fighter. Such a one is Judge. He winks his eyes and grins in the midst of the fight.

Col. Black has one thing against Judge. As Mr. Hyde he is all right, but as Dr. Jekyll he is high-headed and arrogant. If Judge goes up street with any of Dr. Graham’s family, he refuses to recognize any police officer. He carries himself far above common people and soars in an aristocratic atmosphere. If Col. Black or Mr. Pitts calls to him on the sly, he lifts his saucy tail a bit higher and gets closer to his young mistress or master, as the case may be, as if he feared contamination of some sort. In other words, Col. Black and his associates on the police force are proper company after dark, but not in daylight.

Judge does not recognize them in a social way. As conclusive evidence on this point, I relate the following incident:

The joke is on Col. Black or Pitts. Col. Black claims that it is on Pitts, and Pitts that it is on the colonel.

One day, several years ago, one of these worthy officers was sent to notify Dr. Graham that a certain committee, of which he was a member, would meet that night. The officer went to Dr. Graham’s gate, opened it, and started to the porch. Judge, the faithful friend of the early morning, rushed around the house, with bristles raised and teeth shining, growling viciously. The officer, seeing the threatening attitude of the dog, stopped, and said: “Why, Judge, don’t you know me?” Instead of making up, after this, Judge became more determined to stop the officer. He hurried to the walkway, fixed himself, and made ready for a stubborn resistance.

“Judge! Judge!” said Col. Black or Pitts, which ever it was. But Judge heard him not.

Dr. Graham, seeing the predicament of the officer from within the house, came out and assured Judge that all was well, and he dropped his tail, and went toward the kitchen, carrying an ugly case of the sulks, seeming badly put out because he did not get to bite the caller.

At midnight of the same day, Judge joined Col. Black and Pitts on their rounds, as bright and cheerful as ever.

The two men reasoned it out after this fashion: “Well, I guess he is right. We are the stuff when it comes to beating around the city, keeping out burglars and thieves, but must stay in our places. Judge thought we were going to make a social call.”

Judge grew greater in their estimation. They cursed him at first, but finally came to the conclusion that as Mr. Hyde he is on an equality with policemen, but as Dr. Jekyll out of their class.

A HOUND OF THE OLD STOCK

“Is dem putty fas’ houn’s, Marse Lawrence?” asked Uncle Simon Bolick, as Mr. L. A. Williamson, of Graham, Alamance county, came up with his pack of noted fox dogs.

“Yes, Uncle Simon, they are the best in the country,” was the answer.

“Yes, sir; I spec’ dey is now, since ole marster’s stock ’s all died out. But when Marse Billy wuz livin’ he had de steppin’ dogs. Dey wuz de swiftes’ in de lan’. Yo’ daddy’ll tell you dat. Dey don’t have houn’s lak his’n now. Ef I coul’ git some uv de ole Bolick breed I sho’ would git on ole Beck an’ go wid you arter Big Sandy, dat sly ole red dat uses in de Big Crick woods. But de las’ uv de stock’s gone. When Marse Tim lef’ here he sont Buck an’ Bell, de onlies’ ones livin’, to ole man Bob Bolick, his no ’count uncle, up in de Souf Mountins. Ole Bob he never know’d how to care for nothin’, much less er fine houn’. All my fo’ks is lef’ dis section. De war broke dem up an’ mos’ uv dem’s in de fur Wes’, unless dey’s all daid. But ef I had one uv dem old Bolick houn’s I woul’ show you how to ketch ole Sandy. Dat’s de gospel truf!”

The old darkey was in earnest. His memory carried him back and he lived in days gone by, and scoffed at the things of the present. Life was not as sweet to him as it had been when he served his owner, Colonel William Bolick, the famous old farmer-sport of Piedmont, North Carolina, for then every day was a holiday. He hunted and traveled with his master, who kept fine wines, blooded horses and fast dogs. Truly, those were glorious days for Simon, and he has never become reconciled to the prosaic life of freedom. The Bolicks were prominent in North Carolina, and came from a good old English family. Robert, however, never did well and, to get rid of him, his father purchased a fertile mountain valley farm and sent him there to live. That suited him, for he had no pride and but little ambition.

Colonel William Bolick did well until the civil war. Like many men of his class and day, however, he could not change with the times. The freeing of the negroes destroyed him financially, and he was never able to rally his fortunes. He died soon, leaving an encumbered estate and a family of boys; the former was sold and the boys went West.

Old Simon, the aristocratic ex-slave, took up the burden of life, and went from place to place doing odd jobs here and there until two years ago, when he moved to Graham to live with a daughter who had saved money and bought a home. There he made the acquaintance of Mr. Williamson, and never tired of telling him about the Bolick hounds.

A fortunate thing happened for Simon last fall. He was wrong in his conjecture about the passing of the Bolick stock. It had not all perished. The breed had been kept pure and improved by the sons of Bob Bolick. Some profitable crosses had been made, and the Bolick hounds of South Mountain were even better than the ones formerly owned by Colonel William Bolick. They had not been hunted after foxes, but had run deer, bear, coons and wild cats.

Zeb Bolick, the most promising son of Bob, heard of the old family negro at Graham. He found out that the Bolick hound was the hobby of Uncle Simon, and determined to box up one of the best young ones in his pack and send her to the old darkey. Therefore, on a fine day in October, he shipped Dinah, a well-built bitch, to Graham, at the same time sending the following letter to Simon: