"When a white man speaks to you down here, always answer him 'sir!'" he advised.
"I most assuredly will, if I meet any more like him," said Sidney meekly. After a moment of silence as they stumbled along, he said thoughtfully: "I hate this. I've never been arrested before in my life. Will they lock us up?"
"Oh, sure!" the other laughed.
"M-m-m-m—m!"
"Jes' lemme go this time, Mister," whined the chauffeur ahead, "'n' I won' neve' be out late no mo'."
"I'm sorry, son," said the bull-cop a little kindly, "but it's impossible. I o'n' think you are bad 'tall, but that other nigger's crooked, 'n' I know he is," he said, pointing back at Wyeth. He was overheard, and despite the precarious condition Wyeth realized he was in, he smiled.
"He's sho got a bad 'pinion a-you, son," laughed Wyeth's cop.
"I'll go t' bed eve' night at nine 'clock—eight 'f you say so," begged the chauffeur, as they neared the patrol box.
While they were waiting for the "wagon," the copper with the chauffeur in charge turned that worthy over to the other cop, and ran across the street to intercept another Negro. That one happened to be a waiter who worked at night, and was, accordingly, allowed to go his way; but he had been off work since ten o'clock. Wyeth and the chauffeur had left him at the palm garden when they departed, but that was no argument now. The other went his way, whistling cheerfully, while they stood prisoners of the law.
It was a dreadful experience for Sidney Wyeth.