The Goodness of St. Rocque and Other Stories by Alice Ruth Moore Dunbar
page 61 of 109 (55%)
page 61 of 109 (55%)
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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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