A great shout of "no" accompanied by a yell of blasphemy greeted his challenge.
"All lies, lies, lies," muttered the listening man, and a soft-voiced echo from somewhere behind agreed with him.
"Of course you won't," Leyburn roared, with a harsh laugh. "And that's why I'm right here talking to you, because you're the real grit. You've quit work to-night, and you're going to get your strike pay right away, and when you get it, I'll tell you what you'll do, if you'd beat this skunk into treating you right. There's his crop—worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. You reckon to let it rot at harvest. Will it rot? Mind he's still got his rotten black slaves. Do you know what he'll do? No, you hadn't thought of it. But I'll tell you. He'll set them to work it. While you're making a stand for labor, his black slaves'll rob you of the fruits of your work. See?"
Another fierce shout went up from the audience, and the speaker grinned his delight.
Frank waited breathlessly for what was to follow, and a low sigh, like the breath of the night breeze in the trees, sounded behind him.
"Now, you're going to beat him, and I'll show you how. See this?" Leyburn drew a box of matches from his pocket, and held it up for all to see.
"Fire the damned crop," shouted a voice in the crowd. And in a moment the word "fire" roared from a hundred tongues.
The speaker nodded and laughed.
"That's it," he cried. "Make a big bluff at him, and he's got to weaken. He won't listen without, so he'll have to be made to listen. Fire his crop, and you steal his purse. It's fair game. This is war—labor war. Fire his crop, and he's on his knees, and you can make your own terms. The damned niggers don't amount to a row of shucks. If they butt in, out 'em. Get after 'em with a gun, shoot 'em up—the crowd of you. Then the government'll get busy and stop black labor in a white country. They can't afford to quarrel with the workers. They want their votes. They're yearning for office. Get redhot after the niggers and out 'em. Chase 'em back to the place they belong. Are you on?"
A great cheer rose from the crowd. It was prolonged. And with it was the laugh of mischief Leyburn wanted to hear. He knew that he had tickled their sense of humor, and love of violent horse-play. Firing the crop appealed. But, even more, the routing of the niggers would be a joy not readily missed.