Alex drew a folded newspaper out of his inside coat pocket, and Frank realized he’d had it all along. It was still too dark to read the print, but they both knew what it said. “This Mrs. Felton, from Georgia. The congressman’s wife.”

Here we go, Frank thought. He can’t leave it lie. Got to worry it till he lands us in more trouble. “What about her?”

“This whole editorial is on account of her speech, right?”

“That’s the short of it. She some dumb bocra, saying nasty things about the colored man. Just like all the rest of them crackers. Should have let it go by.”

“Frank, there’s just one problem.”

Of course there is, Frank thought: with Alex, there was always one more problem.

Alex said, “That speech is a year old. Why all the fuss now?”

Frank didn’t say anything. A cold wind blew into his belly. He thought, somebody’s messing with us. Somebody is surely messing with us.

Alex said, “Take me to the office. I want to see it.”

“Now? I’ve been up half the night.”

“Now’s as good a time as any.”

Frank sighed. “Whatever you say, brother. You’re the man.”

So instead of stopping at the neat yellow frame house at 514 McRae Street, where their parents and brothers were still asleep, Frank reluctantly clucked the horse on by. The windows were still dark. Alex didn’t even look.

They rode down Red Cross for a block and a half to take advantage of the new paving, turned onto Seventh at Dr. Kirk’s Central Baptist Church, and crossed Market after four blocks. The streetcars weren’t running at that hour, but Frank, ever cautious, reined the mare to listen for the big eight-mule-team mill freighters that came barreling downhill to the wharf without lanterns.

In the glow of the gas street lamps, the street was empty. Up Market on the left, in one of the big houses that kept servants, electric lights were burning behind window shades in the downstairs parlor. Alex wondered who was entertaining at that hour.

Frank clucked the mare across Market. On the oyster shells, she moved at an easy pace. The brothers didn’t talk. The only sounds were the chick-chicking of the mare’s hoofs and the dull crunching of the wheels. Half a block past Williston School, they came to it—a white wood-frame building tucked between a private home and St. Luke’s.

“You hung the sign?” Alex asked. His soft voice carried in the quiet.

Frank pointed. “Can’t see it, but she’s up there.”

Alex nodded, approving. It was good to have a brother you could count on. “I’ll stay here from now on. Sleep on the cot—you brought the cot?”

Frank nodded. Then he said, “What you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You could always retract it.”