The weapon produced an electrical effect on the
figure nodding in a drunken stupor. He rose abruptly and uncertain.
"I'm going," he asserted; "come on, Spout. You can be free and equal
better somewheres else."
The negro hesitated; his hand, Elim saw, moved slightly toward a knife
lying by his plate. Elim's fingers closed about the handle of his
revolver; he gazed with a steady cold glitter, a thin mouth, at the
black masklike countenance above the hectic tie and neat gray suit.
The latter backed slowly, instinctively, toward the rear door. His
companion had already faded from view. The negro proclaimed:
"I go momentiously. There are others of us banded to obtain equality
irrespectable of color; we shall be back and things will go
different.... They have gone different in other prideful
domestications."
Elim Meikeljohn raised the muzzle lying on the cloth, and the negro
disappeared. Rosemary Roselle did not move; her level gaze saw,
apparently, nothing of her surroundings; her hands were still clenched
on the board. She was young, certainly not twenty, but her oval
countenance was capable of a mature severity not to be ignored. He saw
that she had wide brown eyes the color of a fall willow leaf, a high-
bridged nose and a mouth--at present--a marvel of contempt. Her slight
figure was in a black dress; she was without rings or ornamental gold.
"That talking trash gave me a cold misery," the colored woman admitted.
Pages:
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245