Hurry up the soup and fish." Joe and Fuz were looking as if they were dreadfully ashamed of something; but poor Dick was sitting up as straight as a ramrod, under the influence of a glance that he had taken at the face of Dab Kinzer.
"I isn't goin' back on him and Ford," he said to himself.

"I'd foller dem fellers right fru' dis yer eatin'-house." Frank Harley seemed to be getting some information.

In the country he had lived in nearly all his life, "colored people" were as good as anybody if they were of the right sort; and a man's skin had little to do with the degree of respect paid him, although even there it was an excellent thing to be "white." As for the mulatto waiter, after a moment more of hesitation, he took Ford's order, and walked dignifiedly away, muttering,-- "Nebber seen de like afore.

Reckon I isn't g'wine to tote soup and fish for no nigger: I'll see de boss." That meant an appeal to the lordly and pompous but quite gentlemanly "head waiter," a man as white as Ford Foster.

A word or two to him, a finger pointed towards the upper end of the hall, and the keen eyes of the "man in authority" took it all in.
"Six of them,--five white and one black.