"Badly hurt. Poor—poor man! He's k-k-killed" Lida sobbed sympathetically as she thought of and analyzed the struggle, recalling the blows she knew struck his head and shoulders. "I hate mobs!" she exclaimed vehemently. "Mobs are such brutal things. Why do men fight and kill anyway?"
Miss Comstock looked at her companion. "Why, I thought you people in the South were used to mobs" she said.
"Oh, they don't count. Only niggers get hurt in them. Besides my folks don't indulge in those things. Southern mobs are composed of the poor, the rough and the people new to the country. The better class whites are above that sort of thing. I hate those mobs too, she added. A mob's a mob and savage at the heart whether South or North, in America or Timbuctoo."
The girls had now reached the school and were soon detailing the story of their experiences, to the teachers and girls who gathered about them, having noted the disarray of their clothing. Lida's hat had been entirely lost and her hair tumbled about her face, her waist and skirt almost in ribbons and Miss Comstock in almost the same condition.
They were still in the midst of their recital which had been freely interspersed with spasms of weeping as they recalled frightful portions of their experiences. They talked alternately, at the same time and sometimes with a half dozen chattering at once but all being understood
