“There’s Williams!” cried Robert.
“Who?”
“Williams. You know, Mac, the hospital—France.”
It was Williams and suddenly, somehow, Robert found himself shaking his hand—the first time in his life that he had ever grasped the hand of any colored man, except George, the chauffeur, and Sam, the gardener.
“You’ve changed.” The colored man was smiling.
“Yes, I’ve got a new view of things. I—I’ve read your articles in The Torch and I want to tell you that I agree with your stand against the Trick Track Tribe. It must be fought through education, not by stirring up a new and stronger prejudice against it, even if we are stronger.”
Williams was pleased. He paid off the driver and explained that he was attending a meeting of state officials, of representative white and black citizens to discuss the race riots.
The taxi pulled away. And suddenly Williams, Ph.D., Harvard, wearer of the Croix de Guerre and editor of The Torch, stood revealed to the white world. The hated color had suddenly reappeared.
“Yeh, look at the nigger! Skunk! Skunk!” the shrill voice of an office boy, a pink-cheeked lad of perhaps thirteen, cried out, as he darted across the crowded street. A stone struck the black man on the arm. Robert saw what was coming. The world which had drifted by a moment before had suddenly become electrified. “Nigger! Get the coon! Get the damn murderer! Nigger! Nigger!” A hundred angry voices, cursing.
A broker’s clerk came yelling. A bank teller followed. Two law students. Salesmen. Shop managers. Men. Boys. Women. Men in work shirts. Men in jazz ties. Men in silk shirts. Black! Black! Black! Black raged through their hearts. They screamed and whooped and ran forward with faces distorted and arms raised.