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For the committee on decorations was to come with evergreens to begin to deck the Tombs parsonage the moment the aged pair should get out of sight of it. Three persons were prompt to the moment at the meeting of stockholders: Garnet, Gamble, and Jonas Crickwater, the new clerk of Swanee Hotel and a subscriber for one share face value one hundred dollars, cash payment ten.
The test was a speeded-up simulation of the natural course of the disease, where painkiller would take time to get for most people here, but would then be used generously. Precisely at nine in the morning, Chris began to inject Swanee and Doc with plasma. Now there was no thought of cards. They waited, trying to talk, but with most of their attention on the clock.
To keep conditions more closely alike, they were to stay there until the tests were finished, not even eating for fear of upsetting the conditions. Swanee dug out a pack of worn cards and began to deal while Doc dug out some large pills to use as chips. It was an hour later when the pain began. Doc had just won the pot of fifty pills and opened his mouth for the expected gloating.
So again Polly sang, beginning with "My Old Kentucky Home," and then charming the Doctor with one of his favorites, "'Way down upon the Swanee Ribber." "Annie Laurie" came next, then "Those Evening Bells," and other old songs which her grandmother had taught her. "I'm afraid you're getting too tired," Dr. Dudley told her; but she smilingly shook her head, and sang on.
I tried to think of "something in a lighter vein," and inquired, "How would 'Swanee River' be?" "First-rate," said the kind director; "just the thing good" emphasizing the word good by slapping his hands together. Thus encouraged, I started off again in the melancholy wake of the melodion. Alas! this fared no better than "Home, Sweet Home."
Then to scare away the hooters they put silence to flight with choruses, and the old bush echoed to "Way Down Upon the Swanee River" and more modern songs, which aren't half so sweet as the old Christy Minstrel ditties.
About eight o'clock, the evening of our first day on the Swanee, the heat broke in a tropical downpour. We heard it coming from a long distance, like the roar of a great wind. The velvet blackness, star hung, was troubled by an invisible blurring mist, evidenced only through a subtle effect on the subconsciousness.
They met and passed three horsemen armed to the teeth and very tipsy. "Why, if to-morrow ain't election-day ag'in! Why, I quite fo'gotten that!" At the edge of the town two more armed riders met them. "Judge March, good mawnin', seh." All stopped. "Goin' to Suez?" "We goin' on through into Blackland." "I don't think you can, seh. Our pickets hold Swanee River bridge. Yes, sah, ow pickets.
We reached the top of the pass and began to rattle down the descent on the further side, and we kept our spirits up, in the growing gloom, by singing choruses: "The old Swanee river" and "Uncle Ned." We pulled up at dusk at a dismal hovel, on piles, with rickety wooden stairs leading to a dimly lighted balcony over which fell deep wooden eaves.
But how if men's politics, asking no leave of their owners, change themselves, and he who does not change ceases to be steadfast? Behold! All the way down the Swanee River, spite of what big levees of prevention and draining wheels of antiquated cure, how invincibly were the waters of a new order sweeping in upon the "old plantation."
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