"Tempest is out for argument," said the druggist.
"No argument, when almost every large city in the north—and some not as large as this town—have a Y.M.C.A. for its black population. And more than half that have such, have not nearly the colored population that this town has, and positively have not nearly the need."
"Tempest has been worrying about a library, a park, and everything else for this town, in the months he has been here," the druggist said, looking almost amused. Wyeth took exception.
"I am interested in this town, and in another, where I see and read of more crime and murder, than I ever dreamed was possible."
"Then, Tempest," said the druggist, naively, "you ought to get one. Or, at least, you ought to awaken, by some initiative on your part, some enthusiasm to that end. You see all we need, you do, a globe trotter, and you have certainly criticised to that end, and now," his voice took on a cold, hard tone, "I say: Do something to prove this criticism worth the while, or I'll brand you as a faker—a frost, with all your premeditated ideas!"
Every one about was silent, while their eyes turned and regarded Sidney Wyeth. About the corners of their mouths a smile that spelled of a sneer, played subtly. If Sidney Wyeth didn't see it, he at least felt it. And in that moment, he realized that he would not dare show his face about this place, lest he be scorned henceforth, if he didn't take the stand the druggist had taken.
"Very well, Dr. Randall," he said, rising. "I shall do so." He regarded them all for a moment, with a firm sweep of his eyes, and, next, he turned and left the store.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Arraignment