The farmer hesitated, looked up at the ceiling and quietly answered:
"None of your business—and that's neither here nor there—you know that every nigger is organized in that secret Black League, grinning and whispering its signs and passwords—you know that they've already begun to grip the throats of our women. The Klan's the only way to save this country from hell—what do you mean by jumpin' on it?"
"The Black League's a bad thing, Mac, and the Klan's a bad thing——"
"All right—still you've got to fight the devil with fire——"
"You don't say so?" the editor said, while a queer smile played around his serious mouth.
"Yes, by golly, I do say so," the farmer went on with increasing warmth, "and what I can't understand is how you're against 'em. You're a leader. You're a soldier—the bravest that ever led his men into the jaws of death—I know, for I've been with you—and I just come down here to-day to ask you the plain question, what do you mean?"
"The Klan is a band of lawless night raiders, isn't it?"
"Oh, you make me tired! What are we to do without 'em, that's the question?"
"Scotch! That's the trouble with you"—the young editor answered carelessly. "Have you a pin?"
The rugged figure suddenly straightened as though a bolt of lightning had shot down his spine.