m. The girl of twelve had rushed the growler to the corner saloon.
The negro had never tasted beer before and he couldn't drink it. The
stuff was horrible. It reminded him of a dose of quinine his mistress
had once made him take when he had a chill.

He worked harder than usual next day to forget the fear that haunted
him. At night he was ill. He had caught cold and had a fever. He dropped
on his pallet without dinner and didn't get up for three weeks.

He owed his landlady so much money now, he felt in honor bound to board
with her and give her all his earnings. He felt himself sinking into an
abyss and he didn't have the strength to fight his way out.

The thing that hurt him more than bad food and air when he got to his
work again was the look of death in the faces of the children. Their
eyes haunted him in the dark as they slept on the same floor. He would
get out of there when he was strong again. But these children would
never go except to be hauled in the dead wagon to the Potter's Field.
And he heard the rattle of this black wagon daily.

In a mood of desperation he walked down Water Street past the boarding
house. In front of the place he met a boarder who had spoken to him
the last day of his stay. He seized Sam by the coat, led him aside and
whispered:

"Has ye heard 'bout de old man, name John Brown, dat come ter lead de
niggers ter de promise' lan'?"

"No, but I'se waitin' fur somebody ter lead me."

"Come right on wid me, man. I'se a-goin' to a meetin' to-night an' jine
de ban'. Will ye jine us?"

"I jine anything dat'll lead me to de promise' lan'."

"Come on. Hit's over in Brooklyn but a nigger's gwine ter meet me at de
ferry and take me dar."

Sam felt in his pocket for the money for the ferry. Luckily he had
twenty cents. It was worth while to gamble that much on a trip to the
promised land.

An emissary of the prophet met them on the Brooklyn side and led them to
a vacant store with closed wooden shutters. No light could be seen from
the street. The guide rapped a signal and the door opened. Inside were
about thirty negroes gathered before a platform. Chairs filled the long
space. A white man was talking to the closely packed group of blacks.
Sam pressed forward and watched him.

He was old until he began to talk. And then there was something strange
and electric in his tones that made him young. His voice was vaulting
and metallic and throbbed with an indomitable will. There was contagi