The blacks moved uneasily, like
a herd of cattle, at the sound of his voice. But not one spoke. All
eyes, however, were staring at him in certitude of expectancy. Something
was about to happen, and they were waiting for it, waiting with the
unanimous, unstable mob-mind for the one of them who would make the first
action that would precipitate all of them into a common action. Sheldon
looked for this one, for such was the one to fear. Directly beneath him
he caught sight of the muzzle of a rifle, barely projecting between two
black bodies, that was slowly elevating toward him. It was held at the
hip by a man in the second row.
"What name you?" Sheldon suddenly shouted, pointing directly at the man
who held the gun, who startled and lowered the muzzle.
Sheldon still held the whip hand, and he intended to keep it.
"Clear out, all you fella boys," he ordered. "Clear out and walk along
salt water. Savvee!"
"Me talk," spoke up a fat and filthy savage whose hairy chest was caked
with the unwashed dirt of years.
"Oh, is that you, Telepasse?" the white man queried genially. "You tell
'm boys clear out, and you stop and talk along me."
"Him good fella boy," was the reply. "Him stop along."
"Well, what do you want?" Sheldon asked, striving to hide under assumed
carelessness the weakness of concession.
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