By eleven o’clock the entire white population, men, women and children, were crowding the sidewalks of the main street.
Billy Graham passed John’s office with Susie Wilson leaning on his arm. Billy was in high feather and Susie silent and depressed.
“Great Scott, Miss Susie, what’s the matter? This isn’t a funeral. It’s a triumphant demonstration of power to our oppressors.”
“I wish they wouldn’t do it with all these troops in town,” answered the girl, anxiously glancing at the dark window of John’s office.
“Bah! The Ku Klux have been getting pusillanimous of late—haven’t been on a raid in six months. They need a leader. Give me a hundred of those white mounted men and I’d be the master of this county in ten days!”
“It’s a dangerous job, Billy.”
“That’s the only kind of a job that interests me. A dozen wholesome raids would put these scalawags and carpetbaggers out of business. There ought to be five thousand men in line tonight. I’ll bet they don’t muster a thousand. It wouldn’t surprise me if they backed out altogether.”
“I wish they would,” sighed Susie.
“Of course you do, little girl,” said Billy with sudden patronising tenderness. “I know what you need.”
Susie smiled and asked demurely: