White Man, dat I doan' allow yo' to call me Tar Baby."
"Oh, come, now, don't get huffy," yawned Evarts, who had not taken the
trouble to rise. "I'm not afraid of you, Tar."
"Stop dat!" cried the black angrily. "Yo's takin' big chances, yo' is."
"You're big and powerful, I know that," grinned Evarts. "But I have
something with me that makes me just the same size as you are, or perhaps
a little bigger. See this!"
The ex-foreman drew from one of his pockets a formidable-looking automatic
revolver.
"Huh!" grunted the negro, producing a similar pistol, "yo' ain' no bettah
fixed dan Ah be."
"We're quits," laughed Evarts easily, returning his weapon to his pocket.
"Put up your rain-maker."
"Den yo' won't call me Tar Baby no mo?"
"No more."
"All right, den." Ebony put up his weapon.
"Now, what's the programme?" asked Evarts. "You've seen the leader?"
"Yah. Ah's done see de right man. De orders am simple."
"What are they?"
"Misto Reade am to be killed de fust time he show himself," declared Sambo
Ebony. "He to be shot down ez soon ez Ah can lay eyes on him. Maybe Ah
have to shoot from ambush, but in any case he must be daid befo' de sun go
down to-morrow.
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