Then, glancing around, he spied Blanche at the other table.
“Say, there’s my crazy sis, Blanche,” he said, pointing to her. “In the red pleated skirt, two tables down by the railing. See her, Jack?”
“Yeh ... she’s a good looker, Harry,” Compton replied.
“Say, I know the fellow with her,” one of the woman broke in. “He works here—he’s public’ty-man for the joint. Name’s Starling—Eric Starling. I met him down here about a week ago. What’s your sister doing out with a nigger, Harry? She seems to be mighty thick with him from the way she’s cutting up.”
“Go o-on, he looks damn white to me,” Harry answered, intently scowling toward the other table.
“Well, he is a nigger just the same,” the second woman said. “It’s known all around here—he don’t deny it any. I’ve seen them like him before. They’re only about one-eighth black, I guess.”
“Can’t your sister get any white fellows to go around with?” Compton asked. “She must be hard up, trotting around with a shine.”
“Yeh, she’s sure crazy about dark meat, I’ll say,” the first woman commented, with a laugh.
The taunts pierced Harry’s thick skin, and a rage grew within him. He’d stood for her going with Jews, and wops, and dopey weak-sisters, but a nigger was too much! It affronted his family-pride and erectness, and made him feel that his friends had been given a chance to ridicule him in an indirect way. For all he knew, Blanche might be having intimate relations with this coon, or might be even fixing to marry him. The thought was like a red-hot iron. His own sister, acting like a slut, in a black-and-tan dive, and consorting with a nigger there, or maybe with more of them.... By God, he wouldn’t stand for that!
“I’m gonna go over an’ bust him in the nose,” he said, half rising from his chair. “He’ll be leavin’ white girls alone after I’m through with him!”