“Come, Eph,” said Gilbert, who had quickly left the platform. Eph rose at once, whispering as he did so: “I neber mean no harm, Mars Gilbert. I’s jes a feel-in’ de force ob conviction.”
“I know,” answered Gilbert soothingly. “Antoine’s singing was evidently too much for you. You’ll feel better in the open air.”
“’Deed I’ll neber feel any bettah till I knows de Lawd’s forgiben de mis’ble sinnah Eph Blackburn! I’s jes got to be convarted, Mars Gilbert.”
Eph was growing excited again as they neared the door where Red Handed Mike stood among a knot of his fellows. As Gilbert and Eph passed them, Mike exclaimed in a tone loud enough to be heard throughout the hall: “I told Brother Gib he’d better not let them d——d niggers in here.”
Gilbert turned and faced him. “That is not fit language for this place, and I don’t want any more of it.”
“You don’t, eh?” cried Mike with a sneer. “I rather guess I’ve as good a right to say what I please as any d——d nigger.”
“Leave the room at once, or I shall be compelled to have you put out.”
“You will? Take a little of that first, won’t you?” and drawing back the bully, flaming with passion, sent a heavy blow of his fist into Gilbert’s face. With a panther-like leap Gilbert evaded the blow, and instantly closed his fingers in a vise-like grip around his opponent’s throat. Struggling and clutching with the fierceness of a tiger at the long, lithe fingers closing in upon his throat like bands of steel, with his tongue lolling on his chin, his face growing black, and his eyes starting from their sockets, Mike was forced by Gilbert against the wall, who held him there as he cried, “Call the cops, boys!”
“Hold him fast!” “Bully for you, Brother Gib!” “Make him ax yer parding!” yelled the crowd.
“I shall some other day,” answered Gilbert. “Just now I’ll keep my fingers on him till the cops get him.”