and stayed during this time of strain, and whipped into fury bitterness between white and black. Some crimes against women were reported, others were not chronicled. A man named Turnadge committed a crime terrible in detail but little was said of it. Turnadge was white. Other white men committed other crimes and the press said little of it. Twelve or more Negroes were charged with rape or attempted rape. Circulation-seeking newspapers brought out “extra” after “extra,” screaming in twelve-inch headlines, “ Third Assault ,” “ Fourth Assault ,” “ Negro Attempts to Assault Mrs. Mary Chafin Near Sugar Creek Bridge ,” “ Angry Citizens Pursue Black Brute .” It meant little at the time that later it was to be discovered that all but two of these reports were without foundation in truth.
To most of the citizens he encountered, Jean found, the tenseness meant little. It was considered variously as a bit embarrassing, rather unfortunate, and mostly as the slightly aggravated condition of the usual state of affairs. But to him, unused to the ominous rumbling which terrified him, the situation seemed grave, very grave indeed. In the few contacts he had with white people, on his daily visits to the bank uptown, in his contacts with tradesmen and men and women on the streets, he saw with troubled eyes the glances of suspicion, of hostility, of hatred. Once on entering the bank he stood near the desk of the cashier, who had always had a smile and cheery word for Jean, whom he liked. Now he looked grimly at Jean and demanded, in what was almost a snarl: “What do you want, Daquin?”
“I came to see you about some notes, Mr. Stewart,” Jean answered, troubled, “but—I wonder why you’ve changed—you’re usually so pleasant and today you’re—why, you’re—”
“There’s reason enough, Daquin. You’ve read the papers. Why don’t you better-class Negroes do something to stop your criminals from attacking our women?”