Soon after they had thus started, a single buggy occupied by two young men, turned from Main street into Market street, entering it two or three streets in front of them and approached the advancing Militia-men at a slow trot. The horse was old and steady, and neither the glittering guns, nor flag, nor fife and drum disturbed his equanimity; and, urged by his driver, he did not pause nor turn aside till in the very face of the soldiers, who had already halted. The road was broad and level, but the travel had been confined mostly to one track, and the remainder of the surface was overgrown with grass and May weeds. Just at the place of their meeting, a well occupied a few feet in the centre of the street; and a shallow ditch crossed the half of the street at the right of the vehicle. Yet fully fifteen feet of the level highway was unoccupied at the right of the Militia, and the driver could easily have passed around the Company, had he chosen to do so, instead of urging his horse directly upon the advancing column. The discourtesy of this act was aggravated by the fact that the young men had, during a half-hour previously, been driving leisurely from one bar-room to another, or sitting in their carriage and watching the movements of the Company in common with a large number of other citizens, both white and colored, during which time frequent opportunities had occurred in which they might have driven up the then totally unoccupied street. These young men were Tom Baker and his sister’s husband, Harry Gaston, who, like his father-in-law, had often expressed his aversion to “the Nigger Militia Company.” Captain Doc left his position, and approaching them said: “Mr. Gaston, I do not know for what reason you treat me in this manner.” “What manner?” “Aiming to drive through my company when you have room enough on the outside to drive in the road.” “Well, this is the rut I always travel in,” was the contemptuous reply, made with an oath. “That may be true,” replied the Captain, “but if ever you had a company out here, I should not have treated you in this kind of a manner. I should have gone around, and showed some respect to you.” “Well,” retorted Gaston, “this is the rut I always travel in, and I don’t intend to get out of it for no niggers!” “You don’t intend to break up our drill do you?” asked Lieutenant Watta; his yellow face growing visibly pale. “All I want is to pass through and go home.” “But you want to drive through our ranks.” “No! ——. He can’t go through here,” said another voice. “We will stay here all night before we will give way to them,” said Watta, the conversation with lawyer Elly and Uncle Jesse recurring to his memory. “Never mind,” said Gaston with an oath, “you won’t always be insulting me. You had better stop now, for you’ll find you’ve got to.”