Now William Freeland was on his feet. He spoke to Henry rather than to Frederick, and his voice was hard.
“Take him out back. I’ll come along in a moment.”
Frederick had a crazy impulse to laugh at Henry’s face as he came toward him. The lumbering dark fellow was heavier, perhaps a year or two older, but in a fair fight Frederick knew he could outmarch him. There was no question of resistance in his mind now, however. The timid way Henry took his arm was silly.
The moment the door had closed behind them, Henry’s entire demeanor changed.
“Look-a-hyear, boy,” he whispered, dropping Frederick’s arm, “ain’t you dat crazy nigger what whopped a white man?”
Frederick shrugged his shoulders. His tiny spurt of exaltation had passed. He felt sick.
“I am crazy.” His words were a groan.
“I knowed it!” exulted Henry. “I knowed it! Come on out to tha barn. I gotta tell tha others.” There was no suggestion of whine in his voice, nor was his head cocked to one side.
At Henry’s silent arm-wavings they gathered round—the numerous yard boys and men working in the stables and barns. Frederick dropped on an empty box, but Henry delivered a dramatic account of what had just occurred. They kept their voices low, and when Handy slapped his knee and laughed out loud, John whirled on him.
“Shut yo’ big mouth! Wanta bring tha house down on us?”