t fo' ounce powder an er few cap."
The salesman shook his head.

"Wa fur yo' shake yer hed, you no got um?"

"We are selling nothing of the kind to darkies just now, uncle."

"But how I gwine fer kill duck?"

The salesman made him no answer.

Uncle Ephraim stood, looked about for a moment, then slowly sauntered
into the street, and made his way to Joslins, in South Front street, but
was also refused there. Going again to the corner of Market and Front
Streets, he saw several white men and boys enter Sprague & Company and
came out armed with shot guns and other fire-arms, and walk briskly
away. "De ole boy is gwine to tun heself loose in dis yer town soon; fer
I see um in de bery eye ob dese bocra. I can't buy um, but see how de
bocra go in an git um. Niggah, hit's time ter look er bout,"--and Uncle
Ephraim slowly walked up Front Street towards Morrow's.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER III.

The Meeting In The Wigwam.

Three months have passed since the events narrated in the preceeding
chapters. Chill winds are heralding the approach of winter. Wilmington
is three months nearer its doom. Political warriors are buckling on
their armour for the final struggle on the 8th of November which must
result in complete victory for white supremacy, or indefinate bondage to
Negro Domination (?)

Far out on Dry Pond in an old meeting house known as the Wigwam, the
White Supremacy League has gathered. The old hall is poorly lighted but
it is easy for the observer to see the look of grim determination on the
faces of all present. It is a representative gathering. There is the
Jew, the German, Irishman, Bourbon Aristocrat and "poor bocra." The
deacon, the minister of the gospel, the thug and murderer. No one
looking upon this strangely assorted gathering in a Southern community
would for a moment question its significance. Only when politics and the
race question are being discussed is such a gathering possible in the
South. There is a loud rap: the hum of voices ceases. The individual who
gives the signal stands at a small table at the end of the long narrow
hall. One hand rests upon the table, with the other he nervously toys
with a gavel. He is a tall, lean, lank, ungainly chap, whose cheek bones
as prominent as an Indian's seem to be on the eve of pushing through his
sallow skin. A pair of restless black eyes, set far apart, are
apparently at times hidden by the scowls that occasionally wrinkle his
forehead. His gray