hily.

"Niggers! niggers! Kill 'em, scabs!" chorused the crowd.

With muscles standing out like cables through their blue cotton shirts,
and sweat rolling from glossy black skins, the Negro stevedores were at
work steadily labouring at the cotton, with the rhythmic song swinging
its cadence in the hot air. The roar of the crowd caused the men to
look up with momentary apprehension, but at the over-seer's reassuring
word they bent back to work.

Finnegan was a Titan. With livid face and bursting veins he ran into
the street facing the French Market, and uprooted a huge block of
paving stone. Staggering under its weight, he rushed back to the ship,
and with one mighty effort hurled it into the hold.

The delicate poles of the costly machine tottered in the air, then fell
forward with a crash as the whole iron framework in the hold collapsed.

"Damn ye," shouted Finnegan, "now yez can pack yer cotton!"

The crowd's cheers at this changed to howls, as the Negroes, infuriated
at their loss, for those costly machines belong to the labourers and
not to the ship-owners, turned upon the mob and began to throw
brickbats, pieces of iron, chunks of wood, anything that came to hand.
It was pandemonium turned loose over a turgid stream, with a malarial
sun to heat the passions to fever point.

Mr. Baptiste had taken refuge behind a bread-stall on the outside of
the market. He had taken off his cap, and was weakly cheering the
Negroes on.

"Bravo!" cheered Mr. Baptiste.

"Will yez look at that damned fruit-eatin' Frinchman!" howled McMahon.
"Cheerin' the niggers, are you?" and he let fly a brickbat in the
direction of the bread-stall.

"Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" wailed the bread-woman.

Mr. Baptiste lay very still, with a great ugly gash in his wrinkled
brown temple. Fishmen and vegetable marchands gathered around him in a
quick, sympathetic mass. The individual, the concrete bit of helpless
humanity, had more interest for them than the vast, vague fighting mob
beyond.

The noon-hour pealed from the brazen throats of many bells, and the
numerous hoarse whistles of the steam-boats called the unheeded
luncheon-time to the levee workers. The war waged furiously, and
groans of the wounded mingled with curses and roars from the combatants.

"Killed instantly," said the surgeon, carefully lifting Mr. Baptiste
into the ambulance.

Tramp, tramp, tramp, sounded the militia steadily marching down Decatur
Street.

"Whi