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Updated: May 3, 2025
The Captain's suspicions came to a point like a setter. He began sniffing about for Cissie's motives in choosing so queer an ornament. He wondered if it had anything to do with Peter Siner. All his life, Captain Renfrew's brain had been deliberate. He moved mentally, as he did physically, with dignity.
Cissie gave Peter a single wide-eyed glance, and then attempted to ignore the bodiless comment. "Here are some cookies, Mr. Siner," began the girl, rather nervously. "I thought you and Ahnt Carolin' " "Yeah, I 'magine dey's fuh me!" jeered the spectral voice. "Might like them," concluded the girl, with a little gasp.
He suddenly broke into violent profanity. "Hot damn you! shut yo black mouf! Whut I keer whut-chu done! You weaned her away fum me. She won't speak to me! She won't look at me!" A sudden insanity of rage seized Tump. He poured on his victim every oath and obscenity he had raked out of the whole army. Strangely enough, the gunman's outbreak brought a kind of relief to Peter Siner.
At the extreme end of the dark line a tall cream-colored girl wept silently. As Peter Siner stood blinking his eyes, he saw the octoroon's shoulders and breasts shake from the sobs, which her white blood repressed to silence.
Against a broad murmur of hurrying feet, moving trucks, and talking there stood out the thin, flat voice of a Southern white girl calling good-by to some one on the train. Peter could see her waving a bright parasol and tiptoeing. A sandwich boy hurried past, shrilling his wares. Siner leaned out, with fifteen cents, and signaled to him.
When Siner opened the door, the vague resemblance of the slender, creamy girl on the threshold to Ida May again struck him; but Cissie Dildine was younger, and her polished black hair lay straight on her pretty head, and was done in big, shining puffs over her ears in a way that Ida May's unruly curls would never have permitted.
The sight of the food brought Peter a realization that he was keenly hungry. As a matter of fact, he had not eaten a palatable meal since he had been evicted from the white dining-car at Cairo, Illinois. Siner served his own and his mother's plate. The old woman sniffed again. "Seems to me lak you is mighty onobsarvin' fuh a nigger whut's been off to college." "Anything else?"
You jes as much a nigger as I is, Peter Siner, de brightes' day you ever seen!" Peter began a conciliatory phrase. Old Rose banged the platter on the table and then threatened: "Dis is de las' time I fetches a moufful to you, Peter Siner, or any other nigger. You ain't no black Jesus, even ef you is a woods calf." Peter paused in drawing a chair to the table.
"Sick o' yo' deal, Peter?" inquired Bobbs, smiling and shifting the toothpick. He bit down on it. "Well, whut-chu want done, Henry?" "Oh," hesitated the cashier in a quandary, "nothing, I suppose. Siner was excited; you know how niggers are. We can't afford to send every nigger to the pen that breaks the law." He stood studying Peter out of his close-set eyes. "Here's your deed, Peter."
Siner staggered back with flames dancing before his eyes. The soldier lunged after his toppling man with gorilla-like blows. Hot pains shot through Peter's body. His head roared like a gong. The sunlight danced about him in flashes. The air was full of black fists smashing him, and not five feet away, the bullet head of Tump Pack bobbed this way and that in the rapid shifts of his attack.
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