When Lane had paused for breath, Kenneth bade him good morning and left the room. As he went down the steps, he heard Lane shouting after him:
“You’d better not lemme hear o’you doin’ any talkin’ ‘bout this. If y’ do, you’ll fin’ yo’self bein’ paid a visit one o’ these nights by the Kluxers!”
Hardly had Kenneth left the court house before Lane rushed as fast as his natural indolence would permit him into the office of Sheriff Robert Parker—known throughout the county as “She’f Bob.” Lane was so indignant he spluttered in trying to speak. The sheriff looked at him amusedly and counselled:
“Ca’m yo’self, Henry. What’s eatin’ you?”
“Bob, d’you know George shot and killed a nigger buck over in ‘Darktown’ yestiddy mornin’ named Ware?” Lane finally managed to get out.
“Yeh. What about it? George tol me about it las’ night,” was the sheriff’s easy reply.
“Well, that nigger doctor Harper who’s been up No’th studyin’ and come back here las’ fall, come into my office this mornin’ to repo’t it, and he had the gall t’ tell me George done it.”
“Th’ black bastard! What th’ hell’s he got to do with it?”
“Said it was his duty. You bet I tol him good an’ plenty where he got off at. Guess he won’t come in here repo’tin’ no more ‘accidents’ like George run into.”
Sheriff Parker’s face had assumed the colour of an overripe tomato as he jumped to his feet and banged his right fist on the table with a resounding thwack.