The crowd which had fought and been defeated by Hitch Diamond was in no mood to listen to the explanations of another negro. A long, wailing cry was Dude Blackum’s answer, and the mob moved on. Suddenly there was a whoop, a clatter of pistol shots, a howling mob swarming over the levee, a splash of water, and a number of voices: “Catch him! Head him off there! Kill him!” A number of flash-lights whipped the water, and one big lantern shot a broad, blinding, dangerous streak. That flare of light caught the round, black head, swimming, struggling in the current, and held it. “Now, men!” a voice called. “There’s your mark--shoot straight!” There was a fusillade--Hitch Diamond noted with elation that the black, woolly head bobbed on. “Fer Gawd’s sake!” Hitch murmured. “Why don’t dat coon dive an’ float?” Suddenly an authoritative voice cried: “Stop shooting, men! Get in your skiffs and row out there and catch that negro! It’ll take him half an hour to swim the river!” “My Lawd!” Hitch Diamond moaned. “Little Hitchie is shore up ag’in it now!” “Hurry, men!” the same authoritative voice called. There was the sound of running feet along the levee, then a moment of breathless silence while the flash-lights lashed the water. Then far out into the stream there was a loud scream, a loud splash, and silence! “Dar now!” Hitch mourned. “De water cramps got him! He’s dead!” The lights of the lanterns searched everywhere. No black object floated, nothing at all was seen. The same clear, authoritative voice spoke again, and a tone of sadness softened it: “I guess that’s all, men! We may as well go home now!” “I’s gwine home, too!” Hitch Diamond whimpered piteously. VII GOING HOME. He climbed down the levee, after battling his way across the river, found a public highway on the other side, and stepped into the middle of the road. Looking about him cautiously, he inflated his lungs with air. After that he dropped his hands to his sides and began a steady and persistent trot, his feet striking the sand with the monotonous regularity of a ticking clock, each stride carrying him away from the scene of his adventure. Hour after hour, as persistent as a desert camel, Hitch moved ahead, his breath like a husky bellows, his body pain-shot from his many wounds. By early dawn he was miles away, tortured by hunger and compelled to face the fact that he could not go to a house and beg for food, nor could he forage in the daylight for lack of clothes. “Lawd,” Hitch mourned. “Ef I ever git back to Tickfall, I’s gwine git on de water-wagon, an’ cut out de booze. I’ll cut out prize-fightin’, cussin’, an’ trabelin’ aroun’. I’ll git me a good, easy job ’thout much work to do, an’ rest my bones till I die!” As the first faint streaks which marked the rising of the sun shot across the sky, Hitch left the road and walked toward the river.