Black Boy

by Richard Wright

I felt how close I had come to being slashed. Had I come suddenly upon Harrison, he would have thought I was trying to kill him and he would have stabbed me, perhaps killed me. And what did it matter if one nigger killed another? “Look here,” I said. “Don’t believe what Mr. Olin says.” “I see now,” Harrison said. “He’s playing a dirty trick on us.” “He’s trying to make us kill each other for nothing.” “How come he wanna do that?” Harrison asked. I shook my head. Harrison sat, but still played with the open knife. I began to doubt. Was he really angry with me? Was he waiting until I turned my back to stab me? I was in torture. “I suppose it’s fun for white men to see niggers fight,” I said, forcing a laugh. “But you might’ve killed me,” Harrison said. “To white men we’re like dogs or cocks,” I said. “I don’t want to cut you,” Harrison said. “And I don’t want to cut you,” I said.