McDonald pushed through and whispered to Zack: "Give 'em plenty; you have four times as much fish as you need."
"Yas suh, Mister Bim, ef you say so; but tain't no way to treat niggers. You'll sho spile 'em."
"Oh, McDonald! McDonald!" Colonel Spottiswoode shouted from quarters. "Come over here, quick!"
At this very palpable calling away of Mr. Bim, Old Reliable grinned. "Cunnel's de onlies' white man on dis place what's got sense like a nigger."
Left to his own devices, the Black Effendi proceeded to swap fish for piasters, serving the exact number that had followed the plows. "No work, no fish," was his motto, and receipts from the catfish stand tallied accurately with the amount which Mr. Bim had paid for labor. Dozens of paisterless negroes, sunk-flanked and hungry, looked on with ravenous eyes and a twitching at the mouth. Many times Zack glanced toward them and his heart softened; but finally he shook his head and muttered: "I kin count ev'y rib you got. But—ef I wuz to begin givin' away fish, I'd spile some mighty good plow-hands. Here," he whistled, taking a piece in each hand and feeding a couple of dogs, "Y'allall ain't had no chance to plow."
McDonald sat jubilant over their diplomatic
