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earlier marches. “It doesn’t tell the truth of what happened.”
    At about ten o’clock, the last of the marchers crossed the highway back to camp. Shortly afterward, a fleet of cars drove up to the service station and a group of white boys got out. Two of the boys were from Georgia, two were from Texas, one was from Tennessee, one was from Oklahoma, one was from Monroeville, Alabama, and one was from Selma. The Reverend Arthur E. Matott, a white minister from Perth Amboy, New Jersey, who was a member of the night patrol, saw them and walked across the highway to where they were standing. “Can I help you fellows?” Mr. Matott asked.
    “We’re just curious,” the boy from Monroeville said. “Came out to see what it was like.”
    “How long are you planning to stay?” said Mr. Matott.
    “Until we get ready to leave,” the boy said.
    A black member of the night patrol quietly joined Mr. Matott.
    “I cut classes,” said the boy from Tennessee. “Sort of impulsive. You hear all these stories. I wondered why you were marching.”
    “Well, you might say we’re marching to get to know each other and to ease a little of the hate around here,” Mr. Matott said.
    “You don’t need to march for that,” said one the boys from Texas. “You’re making it worse. The hate was being lessened and lessened by itself throughout the years.”
    “Was it?” asked the black member of the guard.
    “It was,” the Texas boy said.
    “We never had much trouble in Nashville,” said the boy from Tennessee. “Where you have no conflict, it’s hard to conceive  . . .”
    “Why don’t you-all go and liberate the Indian reservations, or something?” said the boy from Monroeville. “The Negroes around here are happy.”
    “I don’t think they are,” said Mr. Matott.
    “I’ve lived in the South all my life, and I know that they are,” the boy from Georgia said.
    “I’m not happy,” said the black guard.
    “Well, just wait awhile,” said the boy from Monroeville.
    An attractive blond girl in a black turtleneck sweater, denim pants, and boots now crossed the highway from the camp. “Do you know where I can get a ride to Jackson?” she asked the black guard.
    “This is Casey Hayden, from SNCC. She’s the granddaughter of a Texas sheriff,” said the minister, introducing her to the group.
    A battered car drove up, and three more white boys emerged.
    “I don’t mean to bug you,” the black whispered to the girl, “but did you realize we’re surrounded?”
    “You fellows from Selma?” Miss Hayden asked, turning to the three most recent arrivals.
    “Yeah,” said one, who was wearing a green zippered jacket, a black shirt, and black pants, and had a crew cut.
    “What do you want?” Miss Hayden asked.
    “I don’t know,” the boy answered.
    “That’s an honest answer,” Miss Hayden said.
    “It is,” the boy said.
    “What do you do?” Miss Hayden asked.
    “Well, Miss, I actually work for a living, and I can tell you it’s going to be hard on all of them when this is over,” the boy said. “A lot of people in town are letting their maids go.”
    “Well, I don’t suppose I’d want to have a maid anyway,” Miss Hayden said amiably. “I guess I can do most things myself.”
    “That’s not all, though,” said another boy. “It’s awfully bad down the road. Nothing’s happened so far, but you can’t ever tell. Selma’s a peace-loving place, but that Lowndes County is something else.”
    “I guess some of these people feel they haven’t got that much to lose,” Miss Hayden said.
    “I know,” said the boy.
    “Do you understand what they’re marching about?” Miss Hayden asked.
    “Yeah—fighting for freedom, something like that. That’s the idea, along that line. It don’t mean nothing,” the boy said.
    “And to make money,” the third young man said. “The men are getting fifteen dollars a day for marching, and the girls are really making it big.”
    “Is that so?” said