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The Goodness of St. Rocque and Other Stories by Alice Ruth Moore Dunbar
page 61 of 109 (55%)
shirts, and sweat rolling from glossy black skins, the Negro
stevedores were at work steadily labouring at the cotton, with
the rhythmic song swinging its cadence in the hot air. The roar
of the crowd caused the men to look up with momentary
apprehension, but at the over-seer's reassuring word they bent
back to work.

Finnegan was a Titan. With livid face and bursting veins he ran
into the street facing the French Market, and uprooted a huge
block of paving stone. Staggering under its weight, he rushed
back to the ship, and with one mighty effort hurled it into the
hold.

The delicate poles of the costly machine tottered in the air,
then fell forward with a crash as the whole iron framework in the
hold collapsed.

"Damn ye," shouted Finnegan, "now yez can pack yer cotton!"

The crowd's cheers at this changed to howls, as the Negroes,
infuriated at their loss, for those costly machines belong to the
labourers and not to the ship-owners, turned upon the mob and
began to throw brickbats, pieces of iron, chunks of wood,
anything that came to hand. It was pandemonium turned loose over
a turgid stream, with a malarial sun to heat the passions to
fever point.

Mr. Baptiste had taken refuge behind a bread-stall on the outside
of the market. He had taken off his cap, and was weakly cheering
the Negroes on.
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