“What for you strike the coolie?” he stammered, angrily; “You come with me! I arrest you,” and he attempted to step into the compartment.
“Oh, rot!” shouted Marten, “you arrest a white man! Get out of here or I’ll break your neck.”
The policeman tumbled out precipitately.
“Don’t let him bother you, Haywood,” went on my partner. “Make him get a white cop if he wants to arrest you.”
“Huh! Don’t imagine for a minute any nigger is going to pinch me,” snorted the New Yorker, settling down and lighting his pipe.
“I’ll get you a white policeman,” screamed the officer, “down at the Beach station, and I’ll ride there with you.”
He stepped up on the running board once more.
“You’ll ride with the rest of the niggers,” roared Marten. “This compartment is reserved for Europeans.”
The officer was fully aware of that fact. He stepped into the next compartment and, ordering the natives who had been peering at us over the top of the partition to sit down, glued his eyes upon us. The train went on. As far as the next station, Haywood laughed at the threat of arrest on so slight a charge. Before we had reached the second, he had grown serious, and, as we drew near the third, he addressed us in an undertone:—
“Say! I’m going to let this fellow pinch me.”