the boot-leggers and crap-shooters and women-chasers who filled
Niggertown with their brawls. As a matter of simple fact, he had been
fighting with another negro over a woman. That he was subjected to an
attack without warning or cause would never become a factor in the
analysis. He knew that very well.

Two of Peter's teeth were loose; his left jaw was swelling; his head
throbbed. With that queer perversity of human nerves, he kept biting his
sore teeth together as he walked along.

When he reached home, his mother met him at the door. Thanks to the
swiftness with which gossip spreads among black folk, she had already
heard of the fight, and incidentally had formed her judgment of the
matter. Now she looked in exasperation at her son's swelling face.

"I 'cla' 'fo' Gawd!--ain't been home a week befo' he's fightin' over a
nigger wench lak a roustabout!"

Peter's head throbbed so he could hardly make out the details of
Caroline's face.

"But, Mother--" he began defensively, "I--"

"Me sweatin' over de wash-pot," the negress went on, "so's you could go
up North an' learn a lil sense; heah you comes back chasin' a dutty
slut!"

"But, Mother," he begged thickly, "I was simply walking home with Miss
Dildine."