She told him. Of her long struggle, of her decision, of her annoyance at his blindness. They talked eagerly until long past the hour of ten. He heard Mr. Phillips moving chairs and dropping his shoes—obvious hints that the time to go had long since passed. They paid no attention to these danger signals but laughed softly to themselves.
Everything must end eventually. Kenneth walked homewards through the soft light of the September moon. Amusedly, the phrase “walking on air” occurred to him. He laughed aloud. “Walking on air” was as the rheumatic stumping along of old Mrs. Amos compared to the way he felt. …
CHAPTER XV
It was the next night. In the gully on the road leading from that one out of Central City which went northward, there was being held a hastily called meeting of Central City Klan, Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, Realm of Georgia. Before, there had been three hundred robed figures. To-night, three months later, the popularity of organized intolerance was attested to by the presence of fully five hundred. What had happened to Nancy Ware had acted as a powerful incentive to the recruiting of new converts. It was mighty fine to have a strong and powerful organization to shut mouths of those who talked too much about the night-time deeds of loyal Klansmen. And, by gum, if you’re doing anything you don’t want known or stopped, you’d better be on the inside.
A figure whose arms waved excitedly as he talked was haranguing the crowd, which paid close attention to him. Had Tom Tracy been there, he would certainly have recognized the voice of the speaker. Ed Stewart’s wife, had she been there, would also have recognized it and dragged the speaker home by force had he resisted.
“White civilization in the South is tottering on its throne!” he shouted. “We who hold in our hands the future of civilization have been asleep! While we have gone about our ways, the damn niggers are plottin’ to kill us all in our beds! Right now they’re bringing into our fair city great passels of guns and ammunition marked ‘sewin’ m’chines’ and ‘ploughs’! They’re meetin’ ev’ry night in these nigger churches all over the county and they’re plottin’ an’ plannin’ to kill ev’ry white man, woman an’ chile in this county and take the lan’ for themselves! They’re led by a damn nigger doctor right here in Central City named Harper! I know it’s so, ‘cause another nigger doctor named Williams tol’ me yestiddy mornin’ all about it and said that this nigger Harper was leadin’ this vile plot! He’s been goin’ all over the county stirrin’ up the damn niggers and incitin’ them to murder all of us! What’re you men goin’ to do?” he challenged in a voice that shrilled in pretended rage and terror.
A deep-throated roar answered him. Cries of “Kill the bastards!” “Lynch ’em!” “Kill every black bastard befo’ mornin!” It was the age-long voice of the mob bent on murder—the pack in full cry. But it was more than the voice of the mob of the Roman Colosseum, for that ancient cry was one of pleasure at the death of a single Christian. This was the shout of those intent on a wild, murderous rampage that spared neither man, woman, nor child.
“Klansmen!”
A voice like that of a bull roared until the tumult had subsided. It was the Exalted Cyclops of the Central City Klan. He stood in silence until the group of hooded figures was still.
“The noble order of the Ku Klux Klan don’t handle situations such as this like a mob!” The figures stood expectantly, eagerly waiting to hear what would come next.