“How about Grant? You know he’s President.”
“By——! we’ll have him too.”
“Take care, that is treason,” said another.
Harrison Baker and Watta proceeded, each with his harangue, and paid no heed to each other, till the plaintiffs and their friends crowded out of the building, pistols in hand, ready for instantaneous use.
A frightened old mammy bawled out, with great eyes rolling, and great hands waving, “See the pistols and guns! See the pistols and guns! Oh, Lor’! they ort to be shot down theirselves!” but the next instant she cowered under the same fierce gaze of the “old man Baker,” which had made many a stalwart runaway stand tamely after the dogs were taken off and while the shackles were put on.
“Uncle, Uncle, let me go,” said Gaston impatiently, striving to free himself from that worthy’s grasp. “I want to shut that yellow chap’s mouth with this little bit of lead. The judge ought to arrest him, but I’ll take his case if you’ll let me go, I’ll give him a mouthful to chaw!”
“Shut my mouth, would you?” retorted Watta, who had caught the words as the two men approached the door. “You’ll find that hard business before you are through with it, if you try. The whites have ruled us long enough. Two hundred and fifty years they bought and sold us like cattle, till the United States set us free; and since then, colored citizens have been tied and whipped, and shot, and murdered in cold blood, and driven from their homes, and their property destroyed, to this day. But it is all no matter here before this white-livered judge. It’ll take a regiment to tie and whip me, or spill what black blood I have.”
“Do not speak to him, my nephew,” said the Rev. Mr. Mealy.
“A regiment!” cried Gaston, with a sneer. “Let me go and whip him myself;” but the readiness with which he yielded to the pressure of his uncle’s hands, was amusingly in contrast with his words.