“And every bald head that sits there will have a nice cold in his head,” Ruth declared.
However, Nettie had her way in every particular. The next evening the auction of “reserved seats and boxes” was held in the upper hall. Mr. Jimson officiated as auctioneer and for an hour or more the party managed to extract a great deal of wholesome fun from the affair.
The deputy sheriff was made to subscribe for the two lower tiers of seats on the stair at a good price, because, as Mr. Jimson said, “he was the bigges’ an’ fattes’ man in dis hyer destitute community.” The other seats sold merrily. No one hesitated over paying the admission fee. There is nobody in the world as generous both in spirit and actual practice as these Southern people.
Almost two hundred dollars was raised for Curly’s benefit. The concert was held the afternoon following the auctioning of the seats, and the chums covered themselves with glory.
The piano was rolled out into the hall and the negroes knocked together a platform on which Ruth and Helen could stand and play, while Nettie perched herself on the piano bench to accompany them, and kept her feet out of the water.
They sang the old glees together—all three of them, for Nettie possessed a sweet contralto voice. Ruth’s ballads were appreciated to the full and Helen—although the instrument she used was so poor a one—delighted the audience with her playing.
When she softly played the old, sweet harmonies, and Ruth sang them, the applause from Curly’s couch at the end of the hall to the foot of the stairs where the deputy sheriff sat with his boots in the water, was tremendous.
The concert ended with the girls standing in a row with clasped hands and for the glory of Briarwood giving the old Sweetbriar “war-cry:”
“S. B.—Ah-h-h! S. B.—Ah-h-h! Sound our battle-cry Near and far! S. B.—All! Briarwood Hall! Sweetbriars, do or die—— This be our battle-cry—— Briarwood Hall! _That’s All!_”
During all the time it had rained intermittently, and the river did not show any signs of abating. But the morning following the very successful “chamber concert,” a large launch chugged up to the submerged steps of the hotel on Holloway Island. In it was Mrs. Rachel Parsons, and with her was the negro from the warehouse who had been swept down the river on the log when Mr. Jimson’s bateau made its landing at the island.