the fierce rays of the sun would kindle
tiny blazes in the cotton and splinter-mixed dust underfoot.

Mr. Baptiste wandered in and out among the groups of men, exchanging a
friendly salutation here and there. He looked the picture of
woe-begone misery.

"Hello, Mr. Baptiste," cried a big, brawny Irishman, "sure an' you
look, as if you was about to be hanged."

"Ah, mon Dieu," said Mr. Baptiste, "dose fruit ship be ruined fo' dees
strik'."

"Damn the fruit!" cheerily replied the Irishman, artistically disposing
of a mouthful of tobacco juice. "It ain't the fruit we care about,
it's the cotton."

"Hear! hear!" cried a dozen lusty comrades.

Mr. Baptiste shook his head and moved sorrowfully away.

"Hey, by howly St. Patrick, here's that little fruit-eater!" called the
centre of another group of strikers perched on cotton-bales.

"Hello! Where--" began a second; but the leader suddenly held up his
hand for silence, and the men listened eagerly.

It might not have been a sound, for the levee lay quiet and the mules
on the cotton-drays dozed languidly, their ears pitched at varying
acute angles. But the practiced ears of the men heard a familiar sound
stealing up over the heated stillness.

"Oh--ho--ho--humph--humph--humph--ho--ho--ho--oh--o--o--humph!"

Then the faint rattle of chains, and the steady thump of a machine
pounding.

If ever you go on the levee you'll know that sound, the rhythmic song
of the stevedores heaving cotton-bales, and the steady thump, thump, of
the machine compressing them within the hold of the ship.

Finnegan, the leader, who had held up his hand for silence, uttered an
oath.

"Scabs! Men, come on!"

There was no need for a further invitation. The men rose in sullen
wrath and went down the levee, the crowd gathering in numbers as it
passed along. Mr. Baptiste followed in its wake, now and then sighing
a mournful protest which was lost in the roar of the men.

"Scabs!" Finnegan had said; and the word was passed along, until it
seemed that the half of the second District knew and had risen to
investigate.

"Oh--ho--ho--humph--humph--humph--oh--ho--ho--oh--o--o--humph!"

The rhythmic chorus sounded nearer, and the cause manifested itself
when the curve of the levee above the French Market was passed. There
rose a White Star steamer, insolently settling itself to the water as
each consignment of cotton bales was compressed into her hold.

"Niggers!" roared Finnegan wrat