trouble. 'Coz ef he succeeds, or ef he doan' succeed, hit's all de same. Fo' de wite folks will sholy put dat republic down in blood, lots of it, an' hit means dat hundreds of po' cullud folks an' po' wite folks dat ain't nevah hahm'd nobody in dair lives is gwine git murdered. Dat's jes' wot hit means. Yes, suh."
"Say, nigger," retorted the sergeant with heat, "how do ye get that way? You leave that moonshine alone. It's whisky that's shpakin' in ye. If your Great Panjoobers is such a punkins that he thinks he can set up a nigger republic, why don't you help him? You're a fine nigger, you are!"
The coppers laughed again. George Washington felt sick at heart. But he threw back his shoulders and looked the desk sergeant squarely between the eyes.
"Yes, suh," he said, "I'se cullud. I'se black. Ah ain't no mulatto, neithah. But I'se an American citizen, an' ah ain't gwine stan' fo' no fumadiddles. Ah doan' want to see no race riots in dis yeer town, but I'se tellin' you right now, dat ef you doan' go an' get de Great Panjandrum an' lock him up in a good safe jail dat he cain't git out of, dey's gwine be de worstes' an' bloodies' race riot dat you evah heared tell of. Yes, suh. Fo' de Great Panjandrum done been gwine give de signal at 2 dis aftahnoon, an' den de po' fools dat believes in him is gwine attack de parade an' staht de fightin'. Dey aims to set up a republic an' kill de wite people. Yes, suh."
"D'ye get that?" asked the desk sergeant sarcastically, talking to the coppers, and screwing his fiery eyebrows into a fierce scowl. Then, turning his attention to George Washington again:
"Clear out o' this, now, with yer moonshine about the Great Pajamas, or I'll book ye fer bein' drunk. Why don't ye arrest him yerself, if ye can find him? The Great Pajamas! Ha, ha! That's good!"
"Dat's jes' wot ah'm fixin' fo' to do," retorted George Washington. "De good Lawd knows ah done tried mah bestes' to get you to stop dis race riot, an' now I 'se got to stop it all by mahse'f."
He beat a hasty retreat from the station, and wandered along the streets, his mind working at fever heat. The officers of the law had refused to aid him, and his race was in terrible danger. There were three million people in Chicago. What could the less than half-million negroes of the South Side do against all those white men? It would mean a bloody war, in which he visioned the extermination of his race, the death of Martha Washington (he shuddered at the suggestion), and the end of everything.
TORMENTED with these thoughts, and with his own helplessness, he walked for what seemed a very long time, tracing and retracing his steps. Martha Washington and his argument with her were both forgotten. Forgotten, also, was his rheumatism. The only thing that mattered was to stop the impending trouble.
He looked at the clock in a barber shop as he passed, and started in terrified alarm. He had been wandering for hours. It was already a quarter past one. For a minute he thought of appealing to the mayor, but there was no time for that. The Great Panjandrum would give the signal at 2 o'clock, and the uprising would be on.
George looked about him, and found himself at the corner of Federal street and Thirty-third. He was only one block away from the fountain-head of the revolt.
Hardly daring to express in definite form the resolve that flashed across his mind, for fear he would reject it if he
