A gang of white teenaged boys whipped a colored boy bloody with willow switches. They claimed he had stolen a wheel belonging to one of them. The colored boy said he didn’t even know how to ride a wheel, so why would he steal one?

As Negro mill workers trooped through the streets to their jobs, bands of jobless white men loitering at tavern doors called, “Nigger!” and “Sambo!”

Every night the jail filled and every morning it emptied, as magistrates dismissed each other’s cases. It wasn’t exactly legal, but nothing seemed to be exactly legal these days. Justice was erratic and political. It was a good time to be a petty criminal, whatever color you were.

Fires broke out mysteriously in buildings all over town. It was rumored that the white firemen themselves were setting the fires to remind the Board of Aldermen just how vital they were. Like many other rumors, it didn’t make much sense—the burned buildings were owned by both Republicans and Democrats, whites and blacks. But the town was mostly wooden. Three times in the last century, it had been razed by fire. Even the rumor of arson panicked sensible citizens. Night watchmen jumped at every shadow. In one week alone, they shot five prowling alley cats.

The weather remained hot and muggy, offering no relief for flaring tempers.

In the midst of the heat wave, organizers from the state Democratic party showed up and started Government Unions—white supremacy clubs. Within a week, they issued a Right-to-Work Resolution: from now on, employers were warned, they were to hire whites only.

Through September, the Daily Record published sporadically. It was no longer a true daily. The news featured church suppers, excursions by boat to Carolina Beach, recipes for summer squash, war news of black regiments fighting in the Philippines, inspirational poetry, pleas for moderation.

“We are one city, and we have got to get along together,” read a typical piece. “The upcoming election makes for heated debates, but let us not forget the many advantages our white neighbors have shared with us.”

Amazingly, most white merchants didn’t pull their advertising. Subscriptions were up, and, for the first time in its six years of operation, the paper was making a reliable profit. Once a week, Alex Manly slipped a five-dollar bill into an envelope and posted it to Tom Clawson at the Messenger—installments on the Jonah Hoe printing press.

Manly, though, became a ghost. He visited his newspaper office at odd hours of the day and night so that no one could predict his movements. He stole through the back alleys of Brooklyn, convinced that if he were spotted in the open on the street, he would be shot down in cold blood. He believed that Pinkertons were following him. He no longer dared go downtown.