cotton, I'll give you work."

The Boy flushed and looked at his father keenly. It was no joke. He
meant exactly what he had said, and a boy with any sand in his gizzard
couldn't back down.

"All right, sir," was the firm answer. "I'll begin in the morning."

He went forth to his task with grim determination. The sun of early
September had just risen and it was already hot as he bent to work.
Cotton picking looked easy from a distance. When you got at it, things
somehow were different. A task of everlasting monotony, this bending
from boll to boll along the endless rows! He never realized before how
long the cotton rows were. There was a little stop at the end before
turning and selecting the next, but these rows seemed to stretch away
into eternity.

Three hours at it, and he was mortally tired. His back ached in a dull
hopeless pain. He lifted his head and gazed longingly toward the school
he had scorned.

"What a fool!" he sighed. "But I'll stick to it. I can do what any
nigger can."

He looked curiously at the slaves who worked without apparent effort.
Not one of them seemed the least bit tired. He could get used to it,
too. After all, this breath of the open world was better than being
cooped up in a stuffy old schoolhouse with a fool to set impossible
tasks.