In his room, Robert flung his coat across a chair and threw himself upon the bed, exhausted. His chest was heaving, he was wet with perspiration. Race riots in Chicago. God! In Corinth they would burn the colored population! He wondered what would happen here.
The door suddenly flew open.
“H’lo, Ham. What the devil! Are you sick?” It was McCall.
“No,” he panted, “tired. Doing some sprinting.” He untwisted himself and rose shakily. “But where have you been? Gee, it’s great to see you again.”
“You must have got a bump,” remarked McCall, as they shook hands. “Oh, I’ve just got back from a trip. I’ve been getting some stuff on the Trick Track Tribe. Trying to connect some atrocities with the Tribe. But what have you been doing, anyway? Playing football?”
Robert laughed.
“Almost.”
He narrated his experiences in the black belt. McCall whistled.
“When I was over in the office a little while ago, they told me something about it. So you were in it? Do you know how it started?”
“Only what a mulatto woman said, and she probably was lying.”