The finding of the Bible on my person created a speechless pause.
Then--
"Good Gawd! A bum with a Bible!"
Awe and respect held the crowd for a moment.
* * * * *
The march began.
"Where are you taking us to?"
"To the calaboose."
Down a long stretch of peaceful, Sunday street we went--small boys
following in a curious horde, and Sunday worshippers with their women's
gloved hands tucked in timidly under their arms as we passed by. They
gave us prim, askance glances, as if we belonged to a different species
of the animal kingdom.
Buck negroes with their women stepped out into the street, while, as is
customary there,--the white men passed, taking us two tramps to jail. We
came to a high, newly white-washed board fence. Within it stood a
two-story building of red brick. On the fence was painted, in big black
letters the facetious warning, "Keep out if you can." A passage in
through the gate, and McAndrews first knocked at, then kicked against
the door.
The sleepy-faced, small-eyed jailer finally opened to us. The wrinkled
skin of the old man hung loosely from his neck. It wabbled as he talked.
"What the hell's the mattah with you folks?" protested McAndrews, the
night watchman, "slep' late," yawned the jailer, "it bein' Sunday
mawhnin'."
By this time the sheriff, summoned from his house, had joined us.
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