Robert turned. Perhaps fifty blacks, men and boys, brandishing clubs and rocks, started at a dog trot up the street, whooping and yelling.
“They’ve got us cut off from the station. Hamilton, come on!”
“Why should we? They can’t be after us.”
Through an open window a mulatto, thrust her head.
“Hey, you white men,” she called. “They’s trouble and you betta all beat it while de beating’s good. I know you just come, so you ain’t done nothing.”
“What’s the matter?”
Other heads appeared in windows, all talking and shouting at once. A black child had been drowned by a white man and the blacks were retaliating.
“Follow me!” yelled Freeman. “Around the corner to the car line.” They set off and as they did so, the blacks in their rear set up a cry and broke into a run. A stone whistled through the air and hit the sidewalk two feet ahead.
As they turned the corner a Negro darted out of a door with a yell, a stick in his hand. Hamilton, for the first time in months, felt the old pain in his chest. A few more steps and Freeman was drawing away. Robert suddenly whirled around and struck out with all his force. It was his only chance. The Negro stopped and ducked. The blow shot over his head, but Robert’s shoulder crashed into his chin and both fell. Robert felt the Negro wriggling beneath him, even before he opened his eyes, and attempted to regain his feet. He heard the shouts of the mob. He tried to rise. The black man clutched at his coat. Robert yanked it away and kicked himself loose and went staggering backward. Some one was clutching him by the arm. The cries of the mob grew louder.
“Automobile, c’mon!” It was Freeman pulling him forward and shouting hoarsely. They ran into the road and the speeding car suddenly slid to a halt trembling, its brakes set.