Written for The Observer.
     Jim Reeves, the popular head waiter at the Hotel LaFayette, at Fayetteville, is all negro, and a yard wide. He is a fine individual of the pure-bred Afro-American, being large, robust and black, with spreading lips and chalk-white teeth. Had he been born and reared in Africa, he would be a ruler of many peoples, and one that his subjects would be proud to look upon. But it is a great deal better that Jim should be here in North Carolina, at the head of Col. Malcolm Matthews' dining-room force, for his life is sweeter, made so by the tingle of the silver tips that drop into his strong, sturdy, grasping hand; he is a favorite with the traveling public, is trusted and appreciated by his employer, and respected and feared by those who work under him. None but the chronic kickers dislike Jim Reeves. Like the Hindoo, Jim does the best he kin doo.
     I think that Jim owes much to Miss Kate Stewart of Southport, who had charge of him when a boy. Miss Kate is one of the well-known boarding-house keeprs of the State. From Southport Jim went to Wilmington, and from there to Fayetteville; he is partial to Wilmington, but the riot of 1898 gave him such a fright that he has never quite recovered. Although a powerfully built man, Jim could not be a soldier. He has the kind of courage that would make him, if hungry, face a well-cooked steer, but no the kind that would carry him in range of a bullet hot from the muzzle of a rifle. Abject fear takes hold of him--the fear that makes one's muscles tremble, knees smite together and hair stand on end. This may seem strange, but it is true; the whole of the 225 pounds of flesh that Jim carries went back on him. Is he ashamed of it? No: he looks upon honor as did Jack Falstaff, the portly character with the chicken heart that Shakespeare sends out to do battle in "Henry the Fourth." The readers of that famous dissertation on honor will recall it. In the face of danger Falstaff said: "Well, 'tis no matter, honor pricks me on. Yea, but how if honor pricks off when I come on? How then? Can honor set to a leg? No. Or an  arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honor hath no skin in surgery, then? No. What is honor? A word. What is in that word? honor. What is that honor? Air. A trim reckoning? Who hath it? He that died on Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. Is it insensible, then? Yes, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it, therefore, I'll none of it. Honor is a mere escutcheon, and so ends my catechism."
     Jim Reeves was the Jack Falstaff of the Wilmington riot. Like fat Falstaff, he believes that the better part of valor is discretion.
     When the riot broke out, Jim was at work for the Sprunts, the cotton compressers and exporters. The Sprunts liked Jim: he is a good cotton weigher. He was at the scales when the red-shirts of New Hanover began to wage war on the negro office-holders and their white allies. But I shall let Jim tell the story. Jim can use good, clear English, but when reciting the details of his experience on that historic occasion, he drops from the dignity of "this" and "that" and "was" and "aren't" to "dis" and "dat" and "wuz" and "ain't."
     In order to get Jim off on the right foot, I asked:
     "Jim, how long have you been here with Mr. Mack?"
     "Since November, 1898, the time of the riot in Wilmington, boss," was the ready reply.
     "What about that riot--were you in it?
     "In it? Not any mo' den I coul' help. I was de wust skeered nigger dat you ever seed in yo' life. I ain't gut over it yit!"
     "Well, go on, Jim, and tell me something about it," I said.
     "Say, boss, you ain't goin' to publish nothin' dat'll hurt me?"
     "No, you know I won't."
     "Well, it wuz in de mornin', an' I wuz weighin' cotton for Mr. Sprunt's sons. De fust thing dat looked suspicious to me wuz when Mr. Henry Peschau, the ticket collecter, come out to de warehouse where we all wuz at work. I saw him whisper somefin' in the year of Mr. James D. Smith, my boss. Den the fire bell rang, an' kept on ringin'. I knowed somefin' wuz the matter.
     "It sho' wuz a pretty day; de sun wuz shinin' an' a gentle sea breeze swept about de city. I remember it des as well; de niggers wuz singin' 'Carry Me Back to Ole Virginny.' But, boss, de singin' stopped short when a wild coon come flyin' along, yellin' "Oh, my Gawd! De red shirts is done killed one man, an' dey ill git us all.
     "I never seen a nigger make tracks faster than dat nigger.He went to'ads de wharf, an' ain't never been seen since. Some say he jumped in de river an' wuz drowned. I can't tell, for I left dat place putty soon myself.
     "De look of dat nigger skeered de truckers. All but de weighers quit work. De boss men had to shut the presses down. Soon de stevedores on de big boats knocked off. We weighed en for a while. Mr. Willie Sprunt told us to stay at our posts, dat nobody would bother us, but I got so nervous I couldn't pull a bale of cotton on de scales. My boss saw me shakin' an' said, 'Jim, I'll get you a toddy;' but I declare, boss, it wouldn't do me no good.
      "He wuz so sorry for me dat he asked: 'Well, what kin I do for you? Where you want to go?'
     "I mus' go home, boss. Won't you go wid me?' I wuz almos' skeered to death. My boss went with me to Red Cross an' Second streets--two blocks--but when I saw de guards, with their guns, on every corner, I got so nervous in the knees dat I couldn' walk. I des whispered: 'Boss, for Gawd sake, let me go back to the office.' He said: 'All right,' and I went back. Mr. Smith promised to bring me my dinner. But des as I got in de office door I saw a drove of men with guns comin' down de street. I made a rush and jumped clear over de railin' into de paymaster's room. I didn't stop, but run through de private secretary's office to Mr. Willie's desk. I thought I would be safer there, but when I turned roun' I coul' see everybody in de streets. Lots of mens looked at me through the glass. I wuz so skeered dat I didn't know what to do. All the bosses had gone. I started up-stairs to de sample room. As I gut to the steps I heard a volley of shots. I thought the men with the guns wuz hot after me. I flew up de steps an' made a dive into a big pile of samples. I went clean to de bottom, an' de cotton closed over me. Dat wuz 10 o'clock in de mornin', an' I lay there till de middle of de afternoon. I never saw or heard a thing, for I wuz fifteen feet deep in cotton. I didn't git no breath of air--des thought I wuz gittin' some.
     "My bosses hunted for me for a long time, but couldn't find me. They didn't look in dat cotton, for they didn't think I could live in there. It was pretty poor livin', boss, but it wuz lots better than bein' shot at.
     "The first person I saw wuz Mr. Burgwyn, de boss buyer, an' he offered to go with me home. He said he woul' signal me past de first guards, an' they woul' signal me on. I lived on Eighth between Red Cross an' Warren streets. Dat wuz eight blocks from the compress.
     "I gut on all right till I gut to Five-Point alley, where two 15-year-old boys wuz stationed. Them boys stood back in the alley a little, an' I didn't see 'em until they hollered: 'Halt! Throw up your hands!'
     "I come putty nigh fallin', but I stopped on my knees an' threw up my hands. I began to pray to de Lawd to save me, for I knowed dat them boys didn't have no better sense than to shoot me dead. My heart wuz in my mouf. I thought my time had come. De boys asked: 'You gut a pistol?' I sid: 'Yes, sir; no, sir; yes, sir; no, sir;' an' the boys laughed an' told me to get on. I wuz too skeered to shoot if I had wanted to.
     "I traveled on to Fifth street, where I passed de last guards. De last three blocks I went at full speed. I wuz goin' home. I gut inside of my yeard an' went to de well for a drink; I hadn't had any water since mornin'. Well, sir, des as I let down de bucket I heard somebody say: 'Jim, dat you?' I lak to fell in dat well. It wuz Col. Walter Taylor. He said: 'Come here, Jim.' He sent me on a short errand. Then I went in my house an' shut de door. I stayed there three days an' nights without anything to eat or drink. The riot wuz goin' on, but I didn't hear much of it. I saw enough through de cracks to make me know dat de house wuz de best place for me. When I come out, my landlord, a nigger policeman, had run clear away. My white folks had hunted me for forty-eight hous, but couldn't find me. An' des as soon as I coul' leave without creatin' 'spicion I left dat town. Dat's what I done, I'm here now, do, an' dis's where I'm goin' to stay."
     This is a true story. Jim is a real negro.

RED BUCK.