“The slaveholders, with a craftiness peculiar to themselves, encourage enmity of the poor labouring white man against the blacks, and succeed in making the white man almost as much a slave as the black slave himself. The difference is this: the latter belongs to one slaveholder, the former belongs to the slaveholders collectively. Both are plundered, and by the same plunderers.” Afterward Jack tried to go forward and ask some questions of the amazing orator, but the press of the crowd stopped him. He gave up and returned to the inn. And the next day they had gone back to Boston, he was told. Thomas Dorr, through his timidity and caution, had lost the people. When the new Rhode Island constitution was finally adopted the word _white_ had been struck out. Jack Haley returned to Washington and handed in his account of the “rebellion.” The editor blue-penciled most of it. He said they had thrown away money on a wild-goose chase. But Gamaliel Bailey studied the closely written pages Jack laid on his desk. True, he could not now publish the material in his _National Era_; but he drew a circle around the name “Frederick Douglass” and slipped the sheets into his file for future reference. Every drop of blood slowly drained from Amelia’s face while Jack talked. Mrs. Royall dropped the stick of type she had been clutching--Jack had interrupted them at work in the shed--and stared at her helper. “She’s sick!” But Amelia shook her head. She leaned against the board, struggling to speak while into her white face there came a glow which changed her blue eyes into dancing stars. “You said his name was Frederick, didn’t you? About how old would you say he was?” “What?” asked Mrs. Royall. “_How old?_” asked Jack. “Yes.” Amelia was a little impatient. “The one you’re talking about--that slave who spoke. I’m sure I know who he is!” “Oh, my goodness, Amelia! That’s impossible!” The idea made Jack frown. Mrs. Royall snorted. “Describe him to me, Jack,” Amelia insisted, “every detail.” She kept nodding her head while Jack rather grudgingly complied with her request. It seemed such a waste of time. He shook his head as he finished. “There couldn’t possibly have been such an extraordinary slave around any place where you’ve been. All of us would have heard of him!” Amelia smiled. “I remember how he came walking up the road that day in a swirl of dust. He was little more than a boy then. Now he’s a man. It is the same.” Then she told how that morning at dawn she had leaned from her attic window and watched a young buck slave defy a slave-breaker, how he had sent the overseer moaning to one side with his kick, how he had thrown the master to the ground. This was the first time she had ever told the story, but she told it very well. “His name was Frederick--the same color, the same powerful shoulders and the same big head.” “But this man--he looked older--he’s educated! If you had heard him!” Jack could not believe this thing. Amelia only smiled.