Look yonder," he pointed across the square to the court-house.
It was an old square brick-and-stucco building, sombre and stilted and
very dirty. Out of it filed a stream of men--some black and shackled;
some white and swaggering and liberal with tobacco-juice; some white and
shaven and stiff. "Court's just out," pursued Mr. Caldwell, "and them
niggers have just been sent to the gang--young ones, too; educated but
good for nothing. They're all that way."
Miss Taylor looked up a little puzzled, and became aware of a battery of
eyes and ears. Everybody seemed craning and listening, and she felt a
sudden embarrassment and a sense of half-veiled hostility in the air.
With one or two further perfunctory questions, and a hasty expression of
thanks, she escaped into the air.
The whole square seemed loafing and lolling--the white world perched on
stoops and chairs, in doorways and windows; the black world filtering
down from doorways to side-walk and curb. The hot, dusty quadrangle
stretched in dreary deadness toward the temple of the town, as if doing
obeisance to the court-house. Down the courthouse steps the sheriff,
with Winchester on shoulder, was bringing the last prisoner--a
curly-headed boy with golden face and big brown frightened eyes.
"It's one of Dunn's boys," said Bles. "He's drunk again, and they say
he's been stealing.
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