xpense
of--of--I don't know what, but something that I liked better. Down
there at home you were just a plain darky. Up here you are trying to
be like me, and you are colored."

"Of co'se, Mistah Ma'ston," said Silas politely, but deprecatingly,
"the worl' don't stan' still."

"Platitudes--the last straw!" exclaimed Mr. Marston tragically.
"There's an old darky preacher up at Richmond who says it does, and
I'm sure I think more of his old fog-horn blasts than I do of your
parrot tones. Ah! Si, this is the last time that I shall ever fool
with good raw material. However, don't let this bother you. As I
remember, you used to sing well. I'm going to have some of my friends
up at my rooms to-night; get some of the boys together, and come and
sing for us. And remember, nothing hifalutin; just the same old darky
songs you used to sing."

"All right, suh, we'll be up."

Silas was very glad to be rid of his old friend, and he thought when
Marston had gone that he was, after all, not such a great man as he
had believed. But the decline in his estimation of Mr. Marston's
importance did not deter him from going that night with three of his
fellow-waiters to sing for that gentleman. Two of the quartet insisted
upon singing fine music, in order to show their capabilities, but
Silas had received his cue, and held out for the old songs. Silas
Jackson's tenor voice rang out in the old plantation melodies with the
force and feeling that old memories give. The concert was a great
success, and when Marston pressed a generous-sized bank-note into his
hand that night, he whispered, "Well, I'm glad there's one thing you
haven't lost, and that's your voice."

That was the beginning of Silas's supremacy as manager and first tenor
of the Fountain Hotel Quartet, and he flourished in that capacity for
two years longer; then came Mr. J. Robinson Frye, looking for talent,
and Silas, by reason of his prominence, fell in this way.

Mr. J. Robinson Frye was an educated and enthusiastic young mulatto
gentleman, who, having studied music abroad, had made art his
mistress. As well as he was able, he wore the shock of hair which was
the sign manual of his profession. He was a plausible young man of
large ideas, and had composed some things of which the critics had
spoken well. But the chief trouble with his work was that his one aim
was money. He did not love the people among whom American custom had
placed him, but he had respect for their musica