He drew near, walking quietly but firmly, and bowed. Under her merciless scrutiny he neither shuffled his feet nor lowered his eyes. It was the master who broke the silence. “Well, Mother--” She waved him to silence with a peremptory gesture. “Do you have a name?” she questioned. “My name is Frederick, ma’m.” His words were respectfully low and distinct. The man nodded his head in approval. His mother did not move for a moment. When she spoke there was a harsh grating in her voice. “Who gave you such a name?” Frederick was conscious of something tightening inside of him. His name always surprised people. He had come to wish that he did know how he got it. From his grandmother? His mother? His father? In Baltimore he and Tommy had talked about it. Then the young master had said to his little slave, “Aw, fiddlesticks! What difference does it make? That’s your name, ain’t it? Just tell ’em!” “Answer me, boy!” this frightening old lady was saying. His back stiffened and he said in the same respectful tone, “Frederick is my name, ma’m.” She struck him, hard, with her cane. The master pushed back his chair and half rose. “Mother!” “Impudence!” Her eyes blazed. “Get out of my sight!” Frederick backed away. He dare not run, he dare not answer. He would not cower. He had no need of asking how he had offended her. He had the fierce satisfaction of knowing. “Impudence” could be committed by a slave in a hundred different ways--a look, a word, a gesture. It was an unpardonable crime. He knew he was guilty. Henry had backed to the wall, eyes popping, mouth open. Now William Freeland was on his feet. He spoke to Henry rather than to Frederick, and his voice was hard. “Take him out back. I’ll come along in a moment.” Frederick had a crazy impulse to laugh at Henry’s face as he came toward him. The lumbering dark fellow was heavier, perhaps a year or two older, but in a fair fight Frederick knew he could outmarch him. There was no question of resistance in his mind now, however. The timid way Henry took his arm was silly. The moment the door had closed behind them, Henry’s entire demeanor changed. “Look-a-hyear, boy,” he whispered, dropping Frederick’s arm, “ain’t you dat crazy nigger what whopped a white man?” Frederick shrugged his shoulders. His tiny spurt of exaltation had passed. He felt sick. “I _am_ crazy.” His words were a groan. “I knowed it!” exulted Henry. “I knowed it! Come on out to tha barn. I gotta tell tha others.” There was no suggestion of whine in his voice, nor was his head cocked to one side. At Henry’s silent arm-wavings they gathered round--the numerous yard boys and men working in the stables and barns. Frederick dropped on an empty box, but Henry delivered a dramatic account of what had just occurred. They kept their voices low, and when Handy slapped his knee and laughed out loud, John whirled on him. “Shut yo’ big mouth! Wanta bring tha house down on us?” “Standin’ up to Ole Missus!”