“We object!” said he.

“Then why…” I began, but he interrupted.

“We don’t keep niggers,” he said. “We don’t want social equality.”

“Neither do I,” I replied gently. “I want a bed.”

I walked thoughtfully to the train. “I will take a sleeper through Texas. I’m a little bit dissatisfied with this town.”

“Can’t sell you one.”

“I only want to hire it,” said I, “for a couple of nights.”

“Can’t sell you a sleeper in Texas,” he maintained. “They consider that social equality.”

“I consider it barbarism,” I said, “and I think I will walk.”

Walking, I met another wayfarer who immediately walked to the other side of the road where it was very muddy. I asked his reason.

“Niggers is dirty,” he said.

“So is mud,” said I. “Moreover, I am not as dirty as you, yet.”

“But you are a nigger, aren’t you?” he asked.

“My grandfather was so called.”

“Well then?” he answered triumphantly.

“Do you live in the south?” I persisted pleasantly.

“Sure,” he growled. “And starve there.”

“I should think that you and the Negroes should get together and vote out starvation.”

“We don’t let them vote! We?”

“Why not?” I said in surprise.

“Niggers is too ignorant to vote.”

“But,” I said, ‘I am not so ignorant as you.”

“But you are a nigger?”

“Yes, I am certainly what you mean by that.”

“Well then?” he returned with that curiously inconsequential note of triumph. “Moreover,” he said, “I don’t want my sister to marry a nigger.”

I had not seen his sister, so I merely murmured, “Let her say no.”

“By God, you shall not marry her even if she said yes!”

“But I don’t want to marry her,” I answered, a little perturbed at the personal turn.

“Why not?” he yelled, angrier than ever.

“Because I am already married. And I rather like my wife.”

“Is she a nigger?” he asked suspiciously.

“Well,” I said again, “her grandmother was called that.”

“Well then?” he shouted in that oddly illogical way.

I gave up. “Go on,” I said, “either you are crazy or I am.”