The door opened. Alex Manly appeared, looking drawn and groggy. “Mr. Clawson? Why didn’t you say so? Come on in.”

“No need. I just came to warn you—this time, they mean business.”

“What exactly was it they meant last time?”

“You’re smart enough to know the difference. I’m telling you, get out while you can. Get gone and stay gone.”

Alex Manly was buttoning his shirt. He hadn’t put out the newspaper in days and had been sleeping at the office for some time now, trying to make up his mind about the future. “But the printing press, we can’t just—”

“Leave it behind. I’ll come collect it, by and by. When all this blows over.”

Alex Manly laughed. “You must have me mixed up with another gentleman. Gentleman who doesn’t know business. I own more than half of that press now.”

“And I still own the other half. And the half you do own won’t be much good to you when you’re hanging from a lamppost.”

“That what your whitefolks committee going to do to me?”

“It’s a thought. Look, this has gone far enough. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“You just don’t want to lose your investment.”

“I’m telling you for your own good. I must be crazy even to try and talk sense to you.” He turned and stalked back to the buggy.

“Wait a minute, Mr. Clawson.” Manly came outside, and the two stood next to the buggy. “All I’m saying is, I’ve got an investment to protect.”

Clawson pushed him away. “You just don’t get it, do you? This town’s all worked up. There’s a mob down at city hall getting the ropes ready, and they’ve got your lamppost all picked out. Don’t hold me responsible—I wash my hands.”

“You wash your hands?” Alex Manly shouted furiously. Sam tensed, expecting him to strike Clawson. Then Sam would have to intervene. But Manly didn’t—he wasn’t that kind of fighter. Sam relaxed. “That trash you’ve been printing? Driving a wedge between white and black? Just what do you call that?”

“Don’t forget who sold you your printing press. Who got you started in this business so you could tell your side of the story. Don’t forget that.”

“Lot of good that’s doing me now.”

“Just out of curiosity,” Clawson said, “who wrote that editorial?”

“What makes you so sure I didn’t?”

Clawson shook his head. “Not your style. Come on, for the record. Who wrote it?”

Alex was still angry. “A black man.”

Sam wanted to get out of there. He said, “Mr. Clawson, he has a point about the money.”

Clawson dug in his pocket. “Here. Twenty-five dollars—it’s all I’ve got.”

“Ought is an ought, and a figure is a figure,” Alex Manly said, sighing in disgust.