From across the thoroughfare a small chocolate-colored woman, with her wool done in outstanding spikes, thrust her head out at the door and called:
“Whut's de matter, Ofeely?”
The girl lifted a high voice:
“Oh, Miss Nan, it's that constable goin' th'ugh the houses!” The girl veered across the street to the safety of the open door and one of her own sex.
“Good Lawd!” cried the spiked one in disgust, “ever', time a white pusson gits somp'n misplaced—” She moved to one side to allow the girl to enter, and continued staring up the street, with the whites of her eyes accented against her dark face, after the way of angry negroes.
Around the crescent the dogs were furious. They were Niggertown dogs, and the sight of a white man always drove them to a frenzy. Presently in the hullabaloo, Peter heard Dawson Bobbs's voice shouting:
“Aunt Mahaly, if you kain't call off this dawg, I'm shore goin' to kill him.”
Then an old woman's scolding broke in and complicated the mêlée. Presently Peter saw the bulky form of Dawson Bobbs come around the curve, moving methodically from cabin to cabin. He held some legal-looking papers in his hands, and Peter knew what the constable was doing. He was serving a blanket search-warrant on the whole black population of Hooker's Bend. At almost every cabin a dog ran out
