The Colonel cussed out loud, bit his cigar, turned and went into the house, slamming the door, storming to Cora, calling up the stairs where she was working, “What the hell does he think he is, driving off to town in the middle of the morning? Didn’t I tell Bert not to touch that Ford, to stay down yonder in the fields and work?”

“Yes, suh, Colonel Tom,” Cora said. “You sure did.”

“Tell him I want to see him soon as he comes back here. Send him in here. And tell him I’ll skin his yellow hide for him.” The Colonel spoke of Bert as though he were still a child.

“Yes, suh, Colonel Tom.”

VII

The day grew hotter and hotter. Heat waves rose from the fields. Sweat dampened the Colonel’s body. Sweat dampened the black bodies of the Negroes in the cotton fields, too, the hard black bodies that had built the Colonel’s fortune out of earth and sun and barehanded labor. Yet the Colonel, in spite of the fact that he lived on this labor, sat in his shaded house fanning that morning and wondering what made niggers so contrary—he was thinking of Bert—as the telephone rang. The fat and testy voice of his old friend, Mr. Higgins, trembled at the other end of the wire. He was calling from the Junction.

Accustomed as he was to his friend’s voice on the phone, at first the Colonel could not make out what he was saying. When he did understand, his neck bulged and the palms of the hands that held the phone were wet with sweat. Anger and shame made his tall body stoop and bend like an animal about to spring. Mr. Higgins was talking about Bert.

“That yellow nigger…” Mr. Higgins said. “One of your yard-niggers sassed…” Mr. Higgins said. “I thought I’d better tell you…” Mr. Higgins said. “Everybody…” Mr. Higgins said.

The whole town was excited about Bert. In the heat of this over-warm autumn day, the hot heads of the white citizens of the town had suddenly become inflamed about Bert. Mr. Higgins, county politician and Postmaster at the Junction, was well qualified to know. His Office had been the center of the news.

It seemed that Bert had insulted the young white woman who sold stamps and made out money-orders at the Post Office. And Mr. Higgins was telling the Colonel about it on the phone, warning him to get rid of Bert, that people around the Junction were getting sick and tired of seeing him.

At the Post Office this is what happened: a simple argument over change. But the young woman who sold the stamps was not used to arguing with Negroes, or being corrected by them when she made a mistake. Bert said, “I gave you a dollar,” holding out the incorrect change. “You gave me back only sixty-four cents.”

The young woman said, counting the change, “Yes, but you have eight three-cent stamps. Move on now, there’re others waiting.” Several white people were in line.