nstantly appointed me as judge,
and the other side selected a redheaded fellow belonging to one of
Dillard Fant's herds. Between the two of us we selected as the third
judge a bartender whom I had met the night before. The conditions
governing the contest were given us, and two chuck wagons were drawn
up alongside each other, in one of which were seated the contestants
and in the other the judges. The gravity of the crowd was only broken
as some enthusiast cheered his favorite or defiantly offered to wager
on the man of his choice. Numerous sham bets were being made, when the
redheaded judge arose and announced the conditions, and urged the
crowd to remain quiet, that the contestants might have equal justice.
Each fiddler selected his own piece. The first number was a waltz, on
the conclusion of which partisanship ran high, each faction cheering
its favorite to the echo. The second number was a jig, and as the
darky drew his bow several times across the strings tentatively, his
foreman, who stood six inches taller than any man in a crowd of tall
men, tapped himself on the breast with one forefinger, and with the
other pointed at his dusky champion, saying, "Keep your eye on me,
Price. We're going home together, remember. You black rascal, you can
make a mocking bird ashamed of itself if you try. You know I've swore
by you through thick and thin; now win this money. Pay no attention to
any one else. Keep your eye on me."

Straw, not to be outdone in encouragement, cheered his man with
promises of reward, and his faction of supporters raised such a din
that Fant's man arose, and demanded quiet so the contest could
proceed. Though boisterous, the crowd was good-tempered, and after the
second number was disposed of, the final test was announced, which was
to be in sacred music. On this announcement, the tall foreman waded
through the crowd, and drawing the darky to him, whispered something
in his ear, and then fell back to his former position. The dusky
artist's countenance brightened, and with a few preliminaries he
struck into "The Arkansaw Traveler," throwing so many contortions into
its execution that it seemed as if life and liberty depended on his
exertions. The usual applause greeted him on its conclusion, when Nat
Straw climbed up on the wagon wheel, and likewise whispered something
to his champion. The little, old, weazened mendicant took his cue, and
cut into "The Irish Washerwoman" with a great flourish, and in t