“Mann Harris, where do you live?” asked a maimed relic of the confederate service.
“I live right on the corner opposite Dan Lemfield’s.”
“Well, you go on home.”
“I can’t do it.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I’m afeard to go through them men by myself.”
“Come on, I’ll go with you.” So that one-armed white man sat upon his horse, and the great muscular negro walked beside it, holding upon the saddle for protection. They passed from Market into Cook street, and wended their way among the slowly dissolving crowd.
Nearing Mercer street, the escort began to converse. “Well, Mann, now you see what the result is when niggers vote against the white people.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied the colored man.
“Have you always voted?”