He was silent a moment. “Did a white man ask you to sell these papers?” he asked. “No, sir,” I answered, puzzled now. “Why do you ask?” “Do your folks know you are selling these papers?” “Yes, sir. But what’s wrong?” “How did you know where to write for these papers?” he asked, ignoring my questions. “A friend of mine sells them. He gave me the address.” “Is this friend of yours a white man?” “No, sir. He’s colored. But why are you asking me all this?” He did not answer. He was sitting on the steps of his front porch. He rose slowly. “Wait right here a minute, son,” he said. “I want to show
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