CHAPTER XXIII.
JEDGE CRUTCHFIELD'S CO'T Dar's a pow'ful rassle 'twix de Good en de Bad, En de Bad's got de all-under holt; En w'en de wuss come, she come i'on-clad, En you hatter holt yo' bref fer de jolt.
-- UNCLE REMUS.
My companion and I had not traveled far into the South before we discovered that our comfort was likely to be considerably enhanced if, in hotels, we singled out an intelligent bell boy and, as far as possible, let this one boy serve us.

Our mainstay in the Jefferson Hotel was Charles Jackson, No.

144, or, when Charles was "off," his "side partner," whom we knew as Bob.
Having one day noticed a negro in convict's stripes, but without a guard, raking up leaves in Capitol Square, I asked Charles about the matter.
"Do they let the convicts go around unguarded ?" I inquired.
"They 's some of 'em can," said he.

"Those is trustees." This talk of "trustees" led to other things and finally to a strong recommendation, by Charles, of the Richmond Police Court, as a place of entertainment.
"Is it interesting ?" I asked.
"Inter-_resting_?
Yes, _suh_! Judge Crutchfield he suttinly _is_.

He done chahge me twenty-six dollahs and fo'ty cents.