§ 43 What Might Be Called an Active Man
The wharf at New Orleans was crowded with foot travelers, vehicles and freight piles. A brawny Irishman, driving a truck, locked wheels with another truck operated by a negro.
As the trucks jammed the negro opened his mouth in profane and highly disrespectful protest. But before he had uttered six words unconsciousness shut off further speech from him.
For the Irishman, with one flying leap, had reached the earth. His left hand closed on the negro’s ankle, and as the latter was jerked violently into space the enemy’s right fist landed a wing shot squarely on the point of his jaw, and for the time being he knew no more.
Ten minutes later the victim half opened his eyes. A policeman was bending over him.
“What’s the matter with you?” demanded the officer.
“A w’ite man hit me,” said the darky, “an’ I wants him arrested.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know whut his name is, boss—never seed him befo’ in my life.”
“Well, then, what does he look like?”
“I don’t rightly know dat, neither. Hit all happen’ so quick-lak I didn’t got a good look at ’im.”
“Then how do you expect me to find him if you can’t describe him?” asked the puzzled policeman.
“Boss, dat ain’t goin’ be no trouble,” stated the negro. “You jest go lookin’ for the doin’est man they is in Newerleans!”