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“May be that, Parson, but hit's easier to come up before the J.P. and pay off than to fight it through the circuit court.”

Siner pushed his way through the crowd. “How much do you want, Mr. Bobbs?” he asked briefly.

The constable looked with reminiscent eyes at the tall, well-tailored negro. He was plainly going through some mental card-index, hunting for the name ​of Peter Siner on some long-forgotten warrant. Apparently, he discovered nothing, for he said shortly:

“How do I know before he's tried? Come on, Tump!”

The procession moved in a long noisy line up Pillow Street, the white residential street lying to the west. It stopped before a large shaded lawn, where a number of white men and women were playing a game with cards. The cards used by the lawn party were not ordinary playing-cards, but had figures on them instead of spots, and were called “rook” cards. The party of white ladies and gentlemen were playing “rook.” On a table in the middle of the lawn glittered some pieces of silver plate which formed the first, second, and third prizes for the three leading scores.