To a red-faced person who sat in a tilted chair, Reading a paper, his feet cocked up on his desk. He looked at Spade and his feet came down with a slam. “Take that God damn smile off,” he said. “Who let you come in? You contraband niggers think that you own this town And that all you’ve got to do is cross over here For people to feed you free the rest of your lives. Well it don’t go down with me⁠—just understand that.”

Spade brought out his paper, dumbly. The man looked at it. “Hell, this ain’t for me,” he said. Spade started to go.