This declaration was received with an outburst of applause, not unmingled with laughter, for his audience had some appreciation of humor.
“Lands will only stand so much tax,” insisted his interlocutor; “if you raise taxes beyond this point you will defeat your own purpose, for the lands will be forfeited. We cannot pay them. We are already flat of our backs.”
“That’s where we want you,” retorted Leech, and there was a roar of approval.
The old gentleman remained calm.
“Then what will you do?” he persisted.
“Then we will take them ourselves,” asserted Leech, boldly. He looked around on the dusky throng behind him, and up at the gallery, black with faces. “We will make the State give them as homes to the people who are really entitled to them. They know how to work them.” A great shout of applause went up from floor and gallery. Only the old gentleman, gray and pallid, with burning eyes stood unmoved amid the tumult.
“You cannot do this. It will be robbery.”
The crowd, somewhat disturbed by his earnestness, looked at Leech to hear how he would meet this fact. He was equal to the emergency.
“Robbery, is it?” he shouted, waving his arms, and advancing down the aisle. “Then it is only paying robbery for robbery. You have been the robbers! You robbed the Indians of these lands, to start with. You went to Africa and stole these free colored people from their happy homes and made them slaves. You robbed them of their freedom, and you have robbed them ever since of their wages. Now you say we cannot pay them a little of what you owe them? We will do it, and do it by law. We have the majority and by —! we will make the laws. If you white gentlemen cannot pay the taxes on your homes, we’ll put some colored ones there to get the benefit.” He shook his hand violently in the vehemence of his speech. And again the crowd roared.
“Don’t shake your finger in my face,” said the old man so quietly that only Leech heard it. He backed off.