“You see, we want to do the job legally and above board, so there won’t be any misunderstanding of our motives.”
For a long time Judge Stevenson said nothing, nor did he give any indication that he was aware Kenneth had stopped speaking. In fact he seemed oblivious even of Kenneth’s presence. Knowing better than to interrupt him, Kenneth awaited somewhat anxiously the judge’s opinion. When the silence had lasted nearly five minutes, a vague alarm began to creep over Kenneth. Suppose the judge wasn’t as friendly towards coloured people as he had supposed? A word from him could start serious trouble before they got started. He wondered if he had acted wisely in revealing so much of their plans. He felt sure he had done wrong when he saw a look of what appeared to be anger pass over the judge’s face.
At last the old lawyer cleared his throat, his usual preliminary to speech. But when he did talk he began on another subject.
“What’re the folks out your way saying about these Kluxers? Any of you getting worried about these fools parading ’round like a bunch of damn fools?”
“To tell you the truth, Judge, I don’t really know yet what the coloured people are thinking.” He felt that on this subject he could speak frankly to the judge, as he was too sensible a man to take much stock in the antics of the Klan. Yet, he was not too sure—coloured people must always keep a careful watch on their tongues when talking to white people in the South.
“You ain’t getting scared out there, are you?” the judge pressed the point.
“No, I wouldn’t call it scared. Most of those with whom I’ve talked don’t want any trouble with anybody—they want to attend to their own business and be let alone. But if they are attacked, I’m afraid there will be considerable trouble and somebody will get hurt.” He paused, then went on: “And that somebody won’t be entirely composed of Negroes, either.”
“I reckon you’re right, Ken. These fools don’t know they’re playing with dynamite.” His voice took on a querulous tone. “We’ve been getting along all right here, ‘cept when some of these po’ whites out of the mill or from the tu’pentine camps or some bad nigras tank up on bad liquor or moonshine.” He did not say “Negro” nor yet the opprobrious “nigger,” but struck somewhere between the two—“nigra.” “And now these fools are just stirring up trouble Lord knows where it’ll end.”
He ran his hand through his hair—a favourite trick of his when excited, and paced up and down the room.
“I’ve been telling some of the boys they’d better stay away from that fool business of gallivanting around with a pillow-slip over their heads. They talk about being against bootleggers and men runing around with loose women—humph!—every blamed bootlegger and blind tiger and whoremaster in town rushed into the Klan ’cause they know’d that was the only way they could keep from getting called up on the carpet! A fine bunch they are!”