"Go ahead," he concurred.
"You can depend on Taylor, of course?" added the lawyer.
"Of course," answered Cresswell. "But why prolong the thing?"
"You see, she's got your cotton tied by injunction."
"I don't see how she did it."
"Easy enough: this Judge is the poor white you opposed in the last primary."
Within a week the case was called, and they filed into the courtroom. Cresswell's lawyer saw only this black woman—no other lawyer or sign of one appeared to represent her. The place soon filled with a lazy, tobacco-chewing throng of white men. A few blacks whispered in one corner. The dirty stove was glowing with pine-wood and the Judge sat at a desk.
"Where's your lawyer?" he asked sharply of Zora.
"I have none," returned Zora, rising.
There came a silence in the court. Her voice was low, and the men leaned forward to listen. The Judge felt impelled to be over-gruff.