“Something’s in the wind, I know. I could smell it, too—all the way up in Asbury Park.” It surely had a stink.

“Let it cool awhile, Alex. Hear what I’m saying? Give the man time to forget about us and get distracted by something else.”

Alex thought, we are the only Negro daily newspaper in the country, but he’s right. He wished Frank were wrong. It could’ve been worse—should’ve been worse. Next time, it would be. It stung his pride. It felt all wrong, against fairness, against everything he stood for as a journalist and reformer, but he said, “All right, Frank. We won’t go to press for a while longer. But let’s keep the staff together.” Sometimes, you just had to hold onto your anger, let it burn in your belly. Sometimes, you said the most by saying nothing.

Frank relaxed. It was all right now, Alex was home. Everything was going to work out fine.

The buggy was among the outlying houses now, scattered kerosene lanterns flaring yellow lights across the dirt road. The electric lines didn’t come out this far. Off to the left, in the darkness, lay Oakdale Cemetery, where the dead of seven generations of the best white families in the county rested in peace: Rose Greenhow, the Confederate spy who, weighted down by gold, drowned while swimming ashore from a foundering side-wheeler; Captain John Maffitt, the blockade runner; George Davis, attorney general of the Confederacy; generals, tycoons, planters, and their women. Alex had made a pilgrimage out there one rainy Monday just to read all the names.

Out of sight across the river, they could hear the rumble of a night freight laboring along the Seaboard Airline.

They passed through Brooklyn. There were no gas street lamps in this part of town. Through the thin clapboard walls, they could hear the clatter of pans and spoons, the husky murmur of sleepy voices. The sun wouldn’t be up for another two hours. The dirt track under the buggy wheels turned to sand. The mare was tiring with the effort of pulling. She leaned forward and cut the sand with her hoofs, digging for traction. The tires made a soft whoosh.

Frank was dozing at the reins. No trouble would come to them here, among their own people. In a way, it was lucky they’d been chased away from downtown. Free Love Hall was across Market Street, half a dozen blocks up from the river, in a mixed working-class neighborhood. A Negro newspaper out there would be ignored. It was only six blocks, but in the right direction.

“Frank,” Alex said. “One thing I don’t understand.”

Frank stirred and cleared his throat. “Only one thing? You a lucky man.”