"Shut up!" said the apostrophized colonel, sudden and fretful. "Get out!"
The orator paused, disconcerted, in the midflow of his figures; and unaccustomed arrogance struggled with habitual servility. "Gentleman," he repeated, "in a corposity of souls high above all narrow malignations"
Elim Meikeljohn took his revolver from its holster and laid it before him on the table. 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
