"Na-sah. I ain't er takin' orders f'um er skeercrow."
Aleck ignored his insolence, secure in his power.
"You doan b'long ter no sassiety, what yer git in dat line ter vote for?"
"Ain't I er nigger?"
"But yer ain't de right kin' er nigger. 'Res' dat man fer 'sturbin' de peace."
They put Jake in jail, persuaded his wife to leave him, and expelled him from the Baptist Church, all within the week.
As the troopers led Jake to prison, a young negro apparently about fifteen years old approached Aleck, holding in his hand one of the peddler's rat labels, which had gotten well distributed among the crowd. A group of negro boys followed him with these rat labels in their hands, studying them intently.
"Look at dis ticket, Uncle Aleck," said the leader.
"Mr. Alexander Lenoir, sah—is I yo' uncle, nigger?"
The youth walled his eyes angrily.
"Den doan' you call me er nigger!"
"Who yer talkin' to, sah? You kin fling yer sass at white folks, but, honey, yuse er projeckin' wid death now!"
"I ain't er nigger—I'se er gemman, I is," was the sullen answer.
"How ole is you?" asked Aleck in milder tones.
"Me mudder say sixteen—but de Buro man say I'se twenty-one yistiddy, de day 'fo' 'lection."
"Is you voted to-day?"
