"Oh—ho—ho—humph—humph—humph—ho—ho—ho—oh—o—o—humph!"
Then the faint rattle of chains, and the steady thump of a machine pounding.
If ever you go on the levee you'll know that sound, the rhythmic song of the stevedores heaving cotton-bales, and the steady thump, thump, of the machine compressing them within the hold of the ship.
Finnegan, the leader, who had held up his hand for silence, uttered an oath.
"Scabs! Men, come on!"
There was no need for a further invitation. The men rose in sullen wrath and went down the levee, the crowd gathering in numbers as it passed along. Mr. Baptiste followed in its wake, now and then sighing a mournful protest which was lost in the roar of the men.
"Scabs!" Finnegan had said; and the word was passed along, until it seemed that the half of the second District knew and had risen to investigate.
"Oh—ho—ho—humph—humph—humph—oh—ho—ho—oh—o—o—humph!"
The rhythmic chorus sounded nearer, and the cause manifested itself when the curve of the levee above the French Market was passed. There rose a White Star steamer, insolently settling itself to the water as each consignment of cotton bales was compressed into her hold.
"Niggers!" roared Finnegan wrathily.