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“If you are going to object,” shouted Lawrence M. Keitt [Preston Brooks' friend] who was sitting near, “return to your own side of the House. You have no business over here, anyway.”
“This is a free hall,” I responded, “and everybody has a right to be where he pleases.”
At that Keitt, whose seat was in the second aisle from me, sprang to his feet, strode down into the area, and advanced up the aisle in which I was standing, closely followed by Reuben Davis, of Mississippi.
“I want to know,” demanded Keitt, “what you meant by such an answer as that.”
“I mean just what I said,” I replied; “this is a free hall, and everybody has the right to be where he pleases.”
“Sir,” said Keitt, attempting to seize me by the throat, “you are a damned, black, Republican puppy!”
“Never mind what I am,” I retorted, knocking up his hand. “No negro-driver shall crack his whip over me.”
Keitt again attempted to grasp me by the throat; I struck out from the shoulder and he fell to the floor. In an instant John F. Potter, of Wisconsin, closely followed by Elihu Washburn, of Illinois, and a number of others who were standing in the area in front of the Speaker’s desk, came rushing up the aisle, Potter striking right and left.
Lovejoy, of Illinois, and Lamar, of Mississippi, were pawing each other in the area, each seeking to persuade the other to be still. Mott, a gray-haired Quaker from Ohio, was seen in the melee, his hand bleeding, but he afterward declared that he intervened in the interest of peace. Covode, of Pennsylvania, grabbed a heavy stone spittoon by his desk and marched down the broad aisle into the area in front of the Speaker. In the end he placed the cuspidor on a desk and returned to his seat, but, his attention being called to it, he took it back with him. Questioned later as to his purpose he said he thought that some one might draw a weapon, and if so he intended to tag him.
As [Potter] reached me he hit Davis with one hand, and [Tennesseean William] Barksdale, who had hold of me — in no angry mood but in way of friendly restraint — with the other.
Barksdale, not knowing where the blow came from, turned to Elihu Washburn and asked if the latter had struck him. Washburn replied that he had not.
“You are a liar,” said Barksdale, and letting go of me caught hold of Washburn. Cadwalader Washburn, coming up just then and seeing Barksdale and his brother, Elihu, in a clinch, struck out for Barksdale and hit him a glancing blow on the forehead which knocked off his wig. Barksdale, picking it up, put it on backside first, which gave him such a grotesque appearance that everybody nearby broke out in a loud guffaw.