Oscar Micheaux, "The Forged Note" (1915)
NOTES FROM THE JACKET DUSTCOVER OF THE FORGED NOTE:
It is sometimes asked what inspires people to begin to write. Many
reasons may be given, but in this particular instance, a brief statement
of the author's experiences might be of interest.
At the age of twenty-one he was a homesteader on the Rosebud Indian
Reservation, South Dakota, where he was about the only Negro settler. At
twenty-six he was prosperous; and when another strip of the famous
reservation was thrown open to settlement, he helped some of his
relatives to secure land by furnishing money with which to purchase
relinquishments on homesteads and other expenses. He also secured for a
young lady another homestead, upon which she made filings. Six months
later they were married and then went to live on her homestead.
She was the daughter of a minister in one of the leading Negro churches
and was well educated, loved her husband devotedly--to all
appearances--and they were happy.
Her father and husband represented beings with different points of view,
and on this account an enmity grew up between them. The husband had
often publicly criticised some of the leaders in his race as not being
sincere, particularly many of the preachers. A year after the marriage,
the preacher paid his second visit and when the husband was away, to
indicate his dislike for the pioneer, he had his daughter, who was sick
in bed, forge her husband's name to a check for a large sum, secured the
money and took his daughter to his home in Chicago.
The homestead had been contested previous to this, and the minister had
denounced the white man (a banker), who filed the contest, scathingly
for trying to beat his daughter out of her homestead. Left alone after
her departure, with only his ninety-year-old grandmother, who had raised
a family in the days of slavery, for company, Mr. Micheaux wrote his
first book. In the meantime, the case dragged through all the land
courts at Washington, being finally settled by Secretary of the Interior
Lane in her favor. About this time, the book appeared, and was called
"THE CONQUEST".
In this was told anonymously the story of a base intrigue on the part of
the preacher to vent his spite. The white banker, whose bank in the
meantime had failed, read the book, and understood.... He went to
Chicago and sent the preacher money to Cairo to come to Chicago, which
the preacher did. Although unsuccessful in his effort before the
government to beat Mr. Micheaux's wife out of her homestead, which had
cost Mr. Micheaux thirty-five hundred dollars and which at that time was
worth six thousand dollars, the banker succeeded in having the preacher
persuade his daughter to sell him the homestead, giving her in
consideration, only three hundred dollars.[A]
[A] NOTE--Until a homestead is commuted--proved up on--it may be
relinquished by the holder without any person's or persons' consent.
The woman, therefore, in this case could sell the homestead without
her husband's consent.
[Illustration: "Nice,--Hell! How long do you figure those church people
would kite you about, if I told them _what you were_ back in--you know
where?"]
THE FORGED NOTE
[Illustration: They stood together now upon the walkway, and suddenly he
gripped her hand.]
[Illustration: They regarded the clock strangely, and uttered audibly,
"Eighteen minutes left," and in the meantime it tick-tocked the fatal
minutes away.]
THE FORGED NOTE
_A Romance of the Darker Races_
BY
OSCAR MICHEAUX
_Author of_ "The Conquest"
_ILLUSTRATED BY C.W. HELLER_
Lincoln, Nebraska
WESTERN BOOK SUPPLY COMPANY
1915
[Illustration]
COPYRIGHT, 1915
BY
WOODRUFF BANK NOTE CO.
_All rights reserved_
[Illustration: "Has it occurred to you that you have told me nothing,
absolutely nothing, about yourself?" The look she gave him was severe;
but he only regarded her strangely.]
Press of the
Woodruff Bank Note Co.
Lincoln, Nebr.
[Illustration: Murphy conducted a blind tiger in his loft; he also ran a
crap game in connection; and it was his place that "Legs" visited
frequently.]
[Illustration: "I own the L. & N. Railroad."]
TO ONE WHOSE NAME DOES NOT APPEAR
I am leaving you and Dixie land tomorrow. It is customary perhaps to
say, "Dear Old Dixie" but, since I happen to be from that little place
off in the northwest, of which I have fondly told you, the _Rosebud
Country_, where I am returning at once, and which is the only place that
is dear to me, I could not conscientiously use the other term. Still, I
am grateful, and well I should be; for, had I not spent these eighteen
months down here, I could never have written _this_ story. No
imagination, positively not mine, could have created "Slim", "T. Toddy",
"Legs", "John Moore", et al. I really knew them. I haven't even changed
their names, since what's the use? They, unless by chance, will never
know, for, as I knew them, they never read. Only one of them I am sure
ever owned a book. That one did, however, and that I know, for he stole
my dictionary before I left the town. Whatever he expected to do with
it, is a puzzle to me, but since it was leather-bound, I think he
imagined it was a Bible. He was very fond of Bibles, and I recall that
was the only thing he read. He is in jail now, so I understand; which is
no surprise, since he visited there quite often in the six months I knew
him. As to "Legs", I have no word; but since summer time has come, I am
sure "Slim" has either gone into "business" or is "preaching." "T.
Toddy" was pretty shaky when I saw him last, and I wouldn't be surprised
if he were not now in Heaven. And still, with what he threatened to do
to me when he was informed that I had written of him in a book, he may
be in the other place, who knows! I recall it with a tremor. We were in
a restaurant some time after the first threat, but at that time, he
appeared to understand that I had written nothing bad concerning him,
and we were quite friendly. He told of himself and his travels, relating
a trip abroad, to Liverpool and London. In the course of his remarks, he
told that he used to run down from Liverpool to London every morning,
since it was just over the hill a mile, and could be seen from Liverpool
whenever the fog lifted. He advised me a bit remonstratingly, that,
since I had written of him in the book, if I had come to him in advance,
he would have told me something of himself to put into it that would
have interested the world. I suggested that it was not then too late,
and that he should make a copy of it. He intimated that it would be
worth something and I agreed with him, and told him I would give him
fifty cents. He said that would be satisfactory, but he wanted it then
in advance. I wouldn't agree to that, but told him that he would have to
give me a brief of his life, where and when he was born, if he had been,
also where and when he expected to die, etc. first. He got "mad" then
and threatened to do something "awful". Took himself outside and opened
a knife, the blade of which had been broken, and was then about a half
inch long, and told me to come out, whereupon he would show me my heart.
As he waited vainly for me, he took on an expression that made him
appear the worst man in all the world. I did not, of course go out, and
told him so--through the window.
That was the end of it--and of him, so far as I know. But you can
understand by this how near I have been to death in your Dixie Land.
When I come back it will not be for "color"; but--well, I guess you
know.
New Orleans, La., August 1, 1915.
O.M.
[Illustration: He awakened from a strange dream. The Bible had fallen to
the floor, and lay open at a chapter under which was written, "_THOU
SHALT NOT STEAL!_"]
BOOK ONE
WHICH DEALS WITH ORIGINALS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE BARRIER 15
II ATTALIA 31
III NEXT DAY--DISCOVERIES 40
IV AND HE NEVER KNEW 47
V B.J. DICKSON 51
VI "OH, YOU SELL BOOKS!" 59
VII IN THE OFFICE OF THE GRAND SECRETARY 63
VIII HENRY HUGH HODDER 67
IX "SWEET GENEVIEVE" 74
X "DO SOMETHING AND YOU'LL FIND OUT" 78
XI "JEDGE L'YLES' CO'T" 84
XII A JEW; A GENTILE; A MURDER--AND SOME MORE 93
XIII "'CAUSE NIGGA'S 'S GITTIN' SO RICH" 105
XIV AND THEN CAME SLIM 111
XV "SHOO FLY!" 124
XVI "WHY DO YOU LOOK AT ME SO STRANGELY?" 130
XVII "I'LL NEVER BE ANYTHING BUT A VAGABOND!" 140
BOOK TWO
THE BEAST AND THE JUNGLE
CONTENTS
I EFFINGHAM 149
II "THESE NEGROES IN EFFINGHAM ARE NIGGA'S PROPER" 164
III "I HAVE BEEN MARRIED", SAID SHE 173
IV "EIDDER STUCK UP AH SHE'S A WITCH!" 181
V "A BIGGA LIAH THEY AIN'T IN TOWN!" 189
VI "YES--_MISS_ LATHAM!" 196
VII "IT ALL FALLS RIGHT BACK ON SOCIETY!" 202
VIII "WHERE ARE YOU FROM?" 206
IX "BUT SMITH IS NOT HIS REAL NAME" 211
X "WHEN YOU HAVE BEEN GRASS WIDOWED, IT'S DIFFERENT" 224
XI "I'M WORRIED ABOUT MILDRED" 232
XII AND THEN SHE BEGAN TO GROW OTHERWISE 241
XIII ENTER--MR. TOM TODDY! 243
XIV THE DISAPPEARING CHIN 256
XV "WILSON! WILSON! MILDRED HAS GONE!" 268
XVI THE BEAST AND THE JUNGLE 273
XVII "THIS IS MR. WINSLOW, MADAM!" 278
XVIII "THOU SHALT NOT STEAL" 285
XIX THEY TURNED HER OUT OF CHURCH 290
XX "I _LOVE_ YOU" 299
XXI "PLEASE GET D' OLE MAN OUTTA JAIL" 302
XXII "THIS MAN IS LOSING HIS MIND!" 309
XXIII "I'LL BRAND YOU AS A FAKER!" 317
XXIV THE ARRAIGNMENT 324
[Illustration: "A crooked mother can't raise a straight daughter. It's
up to the daughter--and I've failed!"]
BOOK THREE
A MATTER OF TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS
CONTENTS
I "THAT GAL'S CROOKED" 336
II "_IT WAS IN THAT CHURCH LAST SUNDAY!_" 344
III "UH! 'ES GOT 'IM A NIGGA!" 349
IV "PLEASE GO!" SHE CRIED HOARSELY 355
V THE TIME LIMIT 362
VI REMINISCENCES--CHARGE OF THE BLACK CAVALRY 369
VII "PLEASE STOP--AND SAVE ME!" 375
VIII WHAT HER EYES SAW 381
IX "WHA'S Y' MAN?" 386
X "KICK HIGHER DARE GAL!" 392
XI "MY WIFE--SICK--_HELL!_" 397
XII MID-NIGHT DECEMBER THIRTY-FIRST 407
XIII INTO THE INFINITE LONG AGO 412
XIV "GO, BROTHER! IN GOD'S NAME, GO!" 418
BOOK FOUR
THE QUEST ETERNAL
CONTENTS
I "'SCRIMINATIN' 'GINST NIGGA'S" 422
II AT LAST SHE DIDN'T CARE 432
III "THEY KNEW HE HAD WRITTEN THE TRUTH!" 439
IV THE WOMAN WITH THE THREE MOLES 446
V "HELLO BROWN SKIN" 450
VI "_WHO'RE YOU!_" SHE REPEATED 456
VII "AT LAST, OH LORD, AT LAST!" 462
VIII "WELL I'M GOING." AND SHE WENT 468
IX "I HOPE YOU--WON'T--BE--ANGRY" 473
X VELLUN PARISH--JEFFERSON BERNARD 478
XI "MILDRED, I'VE COME BACK" 495
XII THE SLAVE MARKET 504
XIII "RESTITUTION" 515
[Illustration: She had never felt that he would rebuke her, but now she
turned her head away to shut out the scorn in the look he had given
her.]
[Illustration: "Wha's yo' man?" "I--I have no _man_," Mildred replied,
turning her face away. "I am alone--alone in everything."]
[Illustration: "That last woman I married" said Slim, "was such a devil
she almost made me lose my religion."]
THE FORGED NOTE
CHARACTERS
SYDNEY WYETH, An Observer, Who had the Courage of His Convictions.
MILDRED LATHAM, A Girl of Mystery, Whose Fortunes are What We
Follow.
FURGESON AND THURMAN, Originals, Who Possessed some Wit and Humor.
B.J. DICKSON, An Editor, and a Fighter of the Right Sort.
V.R. COLEMAN, (SLIM) A Summertime Professor and "Business Man". (?)
"LEGS", a "Crap Shooter", Who Reformed and Became a Hero.
JOHN MOORE, A Character, Who Read the Bible--and did Other Things.
MISS PALMER, Grasswidow and School Teacher, Who Desired to Remarry.
DR. RANDALL, A Druggist, Who Knew Everybody's Business.
WILSON JACOBS, A Minister, Who Works for Uplift among Black People.
CONSTANCE JACOBS, His Sister, a Friend of the Girl of Mystery.
STEPHEN MYER, With a Heart, but a Sinner, Who Died and Went to----.
THE FORGED NOTE
BOOK I.
CHAPTER ONE
_The Barrier_
He sat at a desk in the small office he had taken. Before him were
papers and bills--unpaid--and letters too, he had not opened, while to
one side were others he had read, and had typed replies thereto. He had
paused in his work, and was gazing stupidly at the litter before him.
His name was Sidney Wyeth, and his home was away off in the great
northwest, in a strip of territory known as the _Rosebud Country_. As we
meet him now, however, he is located on the fifth floor of an office
building, slightly toward the outskirts of the business district of one
of our great American cities. He is by profession an author, which might
explain his presence at a desk. It happens, however, that he is not
there this time as a weaver of dreams, but attending to matter in
connection with the circulation of his work, for he is his own
publisher.
At that moment, however, he was nothing, for he was sick. For days he
had felt a strange illness. Obviously it had almost reached an acute
stage; for, apparently unable to maintain an upright position at the
desk, he presently stretched himself face downward.
He might have been in this position an hour, or it might have been only
a few minutes; but of a sudden he was brought to a position again erect,
with ears alert, since he was sure he had heard a sound without. He
strained his ears in silence.
Outside, a soft rain was falling. As he continued to listen, his gaze
wandered out over the city below, with its medley of buildings that rose
to various heights, and sparkled with electric lights. His gaze, in
drifting, presently surveyed the main street of the city, an unusually
wide thoroughfare, filled with the accustomed traffic. Beyond lay the
harbor, for the city is a great port, and the same was then filled with
innumerable vessels from far and near. A huge man-o-war arrested his
attention for a while, and then his gaze wandered further. A wind had
risen, from the way the water was dashed to spray against the windows.
The sound of a clock striking five resounded through the damp air, and
echoed in stentorian tones. It was late-winter, but, due perhaps to the
overcast skies, twilight was rapidly fading into darkness.
Failing to hear any further sound, he presently resumed his tired
position, and a few minutes later was lost in a sickly slumber.
There could be no mistake now! A step sounded in the hallway. It was a
light step, but firm and brisk and forward. It was unmistakably that of
a young woman. Onward it came in the direction of his small office.
There was a brief pause when the footsteps reached the door, and then a
knock, but without response from within. Presently the door was pushed
open, and the intruder entered the room lightly. Still, Sidney Wyeth,
unconscious of the presence of his visitor, did not move or speak.
The stranger paused hesitatingly, when once inside, and observed him
closely, where he sat with his face buried in his arms.
She was an attractive colored girl, trimly dressed in a striking,
dark-blue tailored suit, cut in the latest fashion. A small hat reposed
jauntily upon her head, while a wealth of dark hair was gathered in a
heavy mass over her ears. Her delicately molded face, set off by a
figure seemingly designed by an artist, were sufficient to captivate the
most discriminating critic.
A thin dark strap extended over one shoulder, at the ends of which a
small case was attached. Presently she drew a book from this same case,
and crossed the room to where the man sat.
"Good evening," she ventured, pausing at his side, and fumbling the book
she had taken from the case, in evident embarrassment. He mumbled
something inaudible, but remained silent. His outwardly indifferent
reception had not a discouraging effect upon his visitor, however, for
no sooner had she caught the sound of his voice, than she fell into a
concentrated explanation of the book.
Soft and low, in spite of the rapid flow of words, her voice fell upon
his ears, and served to arouse him at last from his apparent lethargy;
but it was not that alone which made him rise to a half sitting posture,
and strain his ears. It was a peculiar familiarity in the tone. As he
continued to listen, he became convinced that somewhere, in the months
gone by, he had heard that voice before. "Where was it?" he whispered,
but, in his sluggish thoughts, he could not then recall. There was one
thing of which there was no doubt, however, and which added strangely to
the mystery. She was explaining his own book, _The Tempest_.
At last, in his morbid thoughts, he gave up trying to connect the voice
with a person he had once known, and, with a tired, long drawn sigh,
raised his hand wearily to his head, and grasped it as if in pain. The
flow of words ceased at once, and the voice now cried, with a note of
pain, and plainly embarrassed:
"You are ill and I have disturbed you! Oh, I'm _so_ sorry! Can you
overlook--pardon such an awkward blunder?" She clasped her hands
helplessly, and was plainly distressed. And then, as if seized with a
sudden inspiration, she cried, in a low, subdued voice: "I'll make a
light and bathe your forehead! You seem to have fever!"
Turning nimbly, and before he could object, had he wished to, she
crossed quickly to where a small basin hung from the wall; above this
was an electric button, which could be seen in the semi-darkness.
Touching this, whereupon the room became aglow with light, she caught up
a towel; and, dampening one end, she recrossed to where he sat,
strangely stupid, and, without hesitation, placed the wet end over his
burning forehead, and held it there for possibly a minute.
"Now," she inquired softly, in a tone of solicitous relief, "do you feel
better?"
As she concluded, she stepped where she could see his face more easily,
and sought his eyes anxiously. The next moment, both recoiled in sudden
recognition, as he cried:
"You!"
She was likewise astonished, and, after only a fraction of a moment, but
in which she regarded him with an expression that was akin to an appeal,
she likewise exclaimed:
"And _you_!" Quickly she became composed; and, catching up the book, as
though discovered in some misdemeanor, with a hurried, parting glance,
without another word, she abruptly left the room.
She was gone, but his brain was in a tumult.
And then the illness, that had been hovering over him for some time,
like a sinister ghost, suddenly came into its own, and a moment later,
with a convulsive gasp, he fell forward across the desk, deathly sick.
* * * * *
It had begun in Cincinnati more than a year before. Wyeth, accompanied
by an assistant, had come down from Dayton for the purpose of
advertising his book, _The Tempest_ in that city. It was just preceding
an election, that resulted in a change in the city government. And it
was then he became acquainted with Jackson.
Now, being of an observant turn of mind, Wyeth took an interest in the
state of affairs. He found the city very much worked up on his arrival.
He had not yet secured accommodation, but, while standing on a corner
after checking his luggage in a nearby drug-store, he was gazing up and
down the street taking in the sights.
"Gentlemen," said someone, and turning, Wyeth and his companion looked
upon a man. He was a large mulatto with curly hair, small eyes, a sharp
nose, a firm chin, and an unusually small mouth for a Negro. He was
dressed in a dark suit, the worse for wear, while his shoes appeared
never to have been shined--in fact, his appearance was not altogether
inviting. And yet, there was something about the man that drew Wyeth's
attention, and he listened carefully to what he said. "You seem to be
strangers in the city, and of co'se will requiah lodgin'. He'ah is my
ca'd," he said, extending the bit of paste board upon which Sidney read
at a glance
THE JACKSON HOUSE
FIRST CLASS ROOMS, TRANSIENT OR REGULAR
OPEN DAY AND NIGHT
"I'm the proprietor and the place is at yo' disposal. Supposin' you stop
with me while youah in the city. I'll sho treat y' right."
Sidney believed him, but his appearance made him hesitant. He looked
questioningly at his companion. The other's expression was unfavorable
to Jackson. So, after a pause and a perfunctory nod, they dismissed him
and proceeded to look further in quest of accommodation.
An hour or more was thus lost, and, being unable to find a room that
satisfied them, they at last, with some reluctance, found their way to
_The Jackson House_.
Inspection still left them dissatisfied, but it was getting late, so
they decided to spend the night. Jackson showed them to what he termed
his "best room." Wyeth looked with evident disfavor about the walls that
were heavy with cob webs, while the windowsill was as heavy with dust.
Jackson, following his gaze, hastily offered apology and excuse.
"Eve'thing needs a little dusting up, and the reason you happen to find
things as you do, is because I've been so busy with politics of late,
that I have jes' nach'elly neglected my business".
Ah! That was it, thought Sidney. He had felt this man was in some way
out of the ordinary. "So you're a politician?" he queried, observing him
carefully now.
"You hit it, son," he chuckled. "Yeh; that's my line, sho." Turning now,
with his face wreathed in smiles, he continued: "Big 'lection on in a
few days, too."
"So I understand," said Sidney. "I shall be glad to talk with you
regarding the same at your convenience later," and, paying him for the
room, they betook themselves to the street.
Election day was on, and Jackson was the busiest man in town. He was
what may be called a "good mixer," to say the least, and Sidney and he
had become good friends. So said Jackson that morning.
"Got a big job on t'day, kid; yeh, a big job."
"So...."
"Yeh; gotta vote thirty-five ah fo'ty nigga's, 'n', 'f youah 'quainted
wi' ouh fo'kes, you c'n 'preciate what I'm up ag'inst."
"Indeed...."
"Yeh; nigga's o'nry y' know; and lie lak dogs; but I'm 'n' ole han' at
the bus'ness, cause that's my line. Yeh. Been votin' nigga's in this
precinct now fo' mor'n thi'ty yeahs, so you'n see I autta know what I'm
'bout."
"I'd bet on that."
Jackson chuckled again. "The fust and wo'st difficulty is the dinge's
ig'nance". Drawing a sample ballot from somewhere, he displayed and
explained it at some length. "Now we gotta pu'ty faih line up on this
ticket this trip--'co'se the's a lotta suckers on it that I'd lak t' see
scratched; but we cain' affo'd to take the risk, 'cause it's lak this.
Nigga's so ig'nant 'n' pig headed they'd sho spile it all 'f we tried to
have them do any scratching. So the only sho thing is to instruct them
t' vote straight. Get me, Steve?"
Wyeth, listening carefully, nodded, and for a moment, a picture of the
titanic struggle of a half century before, rose before him; its cause,
its moral and more; it's sacrifice. Jackson was speaking again.
"Now we sho gotta win out this time; this 'lection has _got_ to put in
ouh candidates; 'cause 'f we don't--and this is between me 'n' you 'n'
that can a beah--things sho go'n break bad wi' me! But 'f things slide
through O.K.--'n my candidates walk in, it means a cole hund'd fo' muh;
think of it," he repeated, "a cole hund'd, Ah!" And, smacking his lips
after a long draught of beer, he emitted an exclamation to emphasize
what it _would_ mean to him, that wouldn't look very nice in print.
"What do these _others_ get if your candidates are elected?" asked
Wyeth, when Jackson paused.
"Aw, _them_ suckers gets theahs wether my men's 'lected a' not. That's
always my goal. 'f I could get them t' vote so much ah' nothin' I could
make a who' lot mo'; but we gotta fo'k out two dollahs a piece, win or
lose--and, a co'se, plenty of liquah; but we don' give a damn 'bout
that, as the saloon men furnish that, gratis."
"And you can depend upon them to vote as you wish--rather, instruct?"
ventured Wyeth. At this Jackson gave a low, short laugh as he replied:
"That's whe' I plays the high ca'd 'n' gets a hund'd," and, laughing
again in that peculiar fashion, he would say no more.
* * * * *
The polls had closed. Darkness had settled over the city. The saloons
had opened their doors. From the streets came forth hilarious sounds,
where the many hundreds, now steeped in liquor, reeled about. This
confusion, mingled with the crash of heavy wagons, and horse hoofs
hurrying over the cobblestones, filled the damp air with an almost
deafening noise.
Sidney Wyeth lay stretched across the bed in his room, listening idly to
the sounds that echoed and re-echoed through the frame building.
Presently, his attention was attracted by another noise, familiar, but
more noticeable on this day.
"T-click-i-lick-ilick--ah--ha dice! T-click-ilick-i-lick--ah--ha dice!"
"Aw, shake'm ole nigga, shake'm!"
"Yeh. Roll 'm out. Don' let 'm spin 'roun' on d' en' lak dat! Shake'm
up. Make music!"
"T-click-i-lick-i-lick--ah--ha dice!"
"Trowed eight!"
"Dime he'n make it!"
"Make it a nickel!"
"Ah fate yu'".
"Hu'ry up, ole shine! Git yu' bet down."
"Shoot um!"
"T-click-i-lick-i-lick--ah, ha dice!"
"Two bits 'ell seben!"
"Ah got yu'!"
"T-click-i-lick-i-lick-ah, eighty day-es!"
"Cain' make eight wid a one up!"
"Do'n' try no kiddin'."
"T-click-i-lick-ilick--ah--eighter from Decatur!"
"Make music nigga, make music!"
"Two bits I'n pass!"
"Ah got yu'!"
"T-click-i-lick-i-lick--ah--eighty day-es!"
"Trowed seben!"
"Gimme d' craps!"
"Now, dice; ah-seben ah 'leben!"
"Throwed craps!"
"Hole on! Hole on! You caught dem dice, ole nigga!"
"Caught Hell! You trowed craps, d'y 'e heah! Two big sixes!" A
scrambling, mingled with much swearing, ensued.
"Say, cut out dis awgun' 'n' squabblin'," interposed one.
"'E cain' take mah money lak dat," protested the loser.
"'F you don' git y' rough mit offa dat coin, yuh big lump a dough, I
g'in' finish spreadin' dat nose ovah y' face!"
"I'on lak dis-a-way a messin' wi' mah jingle!"
"Youse a cheap nigga, Bad Eye, 'n' y' know it. You all time buttin' int'
a game wid about a dime, den sta'tin' a big argerment."
"Hush! Ain' dat Jackson a-comin'?"
Silence for possibly a minute. A muttering began to go around as they
schuffled about.
"Ah done ca'ied out mah 'structions 'n' now ah wants muh dough-rine,"
some one spat out ominously.
"Me, too," said another.
"Aw, be patient. Jack's all right," argued one.
"Sho", echoed another.
"Yeh, dat' all right, 's fur it goes; but I'n handle mah money bet'n
anybody else."
A heavy step sounded in the hallway, and presently a door opened into
the room, admitting Jackson.
"All heah, boys, eh!" He said in a voice that revealed high spirits.
"Good--what's this? Havin' a little game already? Say! Looks like y'
might a-waited fo' old Jack, ha ha!"
"Well," he resumed after a general laughing, "Did eve' body vote
straight?"
"Sho", they cried in chorus.
"N' how 'bout you, little breeches."
"Ke-heh! You say. 'Stamp ri' undah da' ole elephant's tail'; so when I
got 'nside da' place wi one a dem ballets, 'n' all dem names ah did'n'
know nothin' 'bout; but I 'memb'd what you say, so I jes' caught hole
that li'l ole thing 'n' went, bim! ri' unda' da' ole elephant's tail,
ya-ha!" The room, for a time, resounded with laughter.
Just then, Wyeth heard someone rap at the street door, enter, and
presently the counting and the clink of coins came to his ears. Then the
door closed, and a moment later, retreating foot steps were heard in the
hall-way. It was the lieutenant. And now the gurgle of throats could be
heard plainly, and the game was resumed, with Jackson in charge.
In the other room, Wyeth stripped himself and retired, and, ere sleep
came to him that night, he again had a vision of that titanic struggle
and its human slaughter--and it had all been to give those black men the
right. (?) Far into the night he thought it over, and when sleep did
come at last, he went into slumberland, at a loss to know whether to
condemn or to pity those poor creatures, who, that day--and before--had
sold their birthright for a mess of pottage.
* * * * *
Weeks had passed. Over all the north country, snowladen fields frowned.
Zero weather was felt in many places. Sidney Wyeth was about to quit it
for a place far to the south, and at that moment, sat in the union
station at Columbus. A man marked with a chalk upon the bulletin board
the following:
TRAIN FOR CINCINNATI AND THE SOUTH, TWO HOURS LATE
And it was only then it occurred to him that a letter might be at the
postoffice for him. Forthwith he betook himself, returning shortly with
a small envelope, with his name written daintily across it in a feminine
hand It was from Mildred Latham, the girl he loved, and the heroine of
our story.
"Mildred, my Mildred!" he whispered softly, as he gazed fondly at the
epistle, and then broke the seal and read it. "Tonight, my dear," he
dreamily whispered, "I shall ask you to become my wife, for I love you,
love you, love you!"
As he sat waiting, his thoughts went back to the time he had met her,
and the place.
It was in Cincinnati, and before the election. He had, while canvassing,
come upon her in the door-way of a house with two stories, and a door
that opened upon the street. She stood in that door-way, and he had
approached her with much courtesy, and after his usual explanation, had
sold her _The Tempest_. He had been struck at once by her appearance,
and something about her expression--her obvious intelligence. She seemed
possibly twenty-one or two. "And such features," he breathed unheard.
She also had, he quickly observed, a wonderful skin--a smooth, velvety
olive, with round cheeks; where, notwithstanding the slight darkness, a
faint flush came and went. As to size, she was not tall; and still not
short; nor was she stout or slender; but of that indefinite type called
medium. Serenely perched, her head leaned slightly back. She had a frank
face and rounded forehead, from under which large, lustrous, soft dark
eyes--somewhat sad--gazed out at him. And as he continued in his subtle
observation, he was pleased to note that her nose was not large or flat,
but stood up beautifully. Her lips were red as cherries. The chin was
handsomely molded and firm, but slightly thin, and protruding. Her hair
was the most captivating of all. Done in the fashion, it was coal black
and wavy. It was of a fine, silken texture, and apparently long, from
the size of the knot at the back of her head. All this he observed with
favor. He had never seen a figure so clear cut. The girl was,
furthermore, dressed in a plain, dark silk dress, with small feet, the
toes of which, at that moment, peeped like mice from beneath the trimly
hanging skirt. Now, before he had gotten far in his dynamic spiel, the
sun, all red and glorious, as its rays slanted in the west, came
suddenly from beneath a cloud, and played hide and seek upon her face.
And, in that moment, he saw that she was exquisitely beautiful.
After this, he had seen her when, and however it was convenient, and
they had talked--they always talked--on so very many subjects. As time
went by, he always felt good cheer, for at last, it seemed--and this
meant much, for Sidney Wyeth had had much experience--he had met the One
Woman.
One day she said to him, and it was in a tone that was very careful:
"You wrote _The Tempest_, didn't you?" She had guessed his secret,
although the book had been published anonymously--and he had always been
guarded as to its author, so he replied somewhat awkwardly that he had.
"I felt it--was sure when I began reading," she said. "Because there is
something in it about you that you never tell--in conversation, but you
did in the book."
He was silent, for he knew not what to say at that moment. She resumed:
"Yes; and it is that which makes the book _so_ interesting--and so sad."
She fell silent then for a time, apparently engrossed in deep thought,
but with worried and sad expression.
There were other times she had appeared sad; times when he felt she
could have been happy and cheerful and gay. And that to him was ever a
mystery. He wished he could help her out of that way--at any time....
Some day he would, too. He was firm in this....
Then came the time when he was to leave, and he passed her way that day.
From across the street she saw him, and came at once with hands
outstretched; but when he made known the fact of his proposed departure,
she was downcast, and sorrowful and sad.
"I'm _so_ sorry," she said--and meant it. He was too, and said nothing.
"I shall miss you--oh, ever so much."
"I will you, too," he whispered. She looked up quickly, but what she saw
in his eyes made her as quickly turn away. They entered the house and
the parlor where it was dark for day-time, and sat together for a long
while in silence. Presently, from the next house came the notes of a
piano, and some one sang _Sweet Genevieve_. O, subtle art! It made them
both feel sad. Impulsively he arose and caught her in his arms, when the
music had changed to _The Blue Danube_. Around then, and around they
waltzed, light-footed to the sweet old tune. And as they danced, both
seemed to become strangely infected with a wild exhilaration. Entranced,
he unconsciously sought her eyes with an awakening passion, and saw that
she had been transformed by the music, and perhaps the dance, into a
wild, elfin-like creature, and he looked away.
Minutes went by like seconds and, after a time, he dared seek her eyes
again, only to see that she had grown more elfin still. And, as abruptly
as it had begun, the music stopped, and their dance ceased. They stood,
however, as though forgetting the embrace, and thus heard each others
hearts thump violently. One moment they stood thus, and then a breath of
wind through the open window, lifted a stray lock of her hair and laid
it against his cheek. He was intoxicated by its effect, and then
suddenly he had lost all composure. He crushed her to him, close,
closer, and, in bold defiance of all conventionality, he kissed her
lips--once, twice, three times! She was not angry, but struggled,
nevertheless, to be free. She heard his voice then, low, strained,
palpitating, and with soul on fire: "Mildred!" Again he cried, "Mildred!
O, my Mildred!" She swayed helplessly. "I----", but she got no further.
He had caught sight of her eyes, helpless; but with a weak appeal, as
her lips faltered:
"Please don't!" And in spite of his mad desire, and the words he could
have then sung like the poets, he hesitated, and for some reason, for
which he could not quite fully account, allowed her to disengage
herself.
Freed now, she took several steps, and when at some distance she paused,
and regarded him with forced defiance; but behind it, he caught again
that sad distraction. "What is it," he uttered, almost aloud. And then,
intuitively, he knew she was unhappy--aye, miserable. "I must help her,"
said he beneath his breath; but before he had decided how, he seemed to
hear a voice saying: "No, not yet because,--well, _you_ can't!"
The strains of music again came floating through the open window. He was
not aware of his gaze; but something in his expression seemed to inspire
her confidence; for, involuntarily she turned and started in his
direction. She took only a step or two, when she abruptly halted; paused
hesitatingly, uncertainly, with her thin lips compressed, hands
clinched, and her head thrown back in an obvious effort. But her throat
swelled almost to choking, as she withheld something she seemed mad to
say. An expression of superhuman effort seemed suddenly to be exerted,
and suddenly whirling, without a word, she silently quit the room.
* * * * *
He was aroused now from his revery by "All a-bo-ar-d: Cincinnati and the
South," and an hour later, he was whirling southward over snowladen
fields to his Arcadia.
* * * * *
Cincinnati rose about him at eight o'clock that evening, as he emerged
from the union station and started on his fateful quest. The snow,
ground to slush by thousands of wheels, made the hard streets filthy. He
scurried across, and caught a car that took him within two blocks of
where she lived. Progress was slow, but only seemingly, for he was so
impatient. It seemed fully an hour before he left it, although it was
not fifteen minutes. Along the poorly lighted street he rushed in
breathless haste. His heart kept up a tattoo that disturbed him, and he
heard himself muttering: "Sidney Wyeth, what's the matter? Why do you
feel this way? Pshaw! You ought surely to be happy, calm and imperious.
Mildred Latham loves you--and she needs you; but much she does with such
nerves!" He braced himself as he neared the house, and pictured himself
in the next hour. She would be in his arms--and all would be over--but
the happiness. This picture became so vivid, that for a time it served
to make him forget his nerves.
And now he had come unto the house, the house of his treasure, and
within all was silent. Strangely, a feeling came over him of an
approaching doom. Before him, shivering in the cold night, sat an old
woman, a hag. She looked at him out of one evil old eye, and he
shuddered noticeably. She was uncouth and unwelcome. "What's she doing
here?" he muttered.
"Does--ah--Miss Mildred Latham live here?" He ventured at last.
"Yes," snapped the hag, and appeared more evil still.
"Thank you," he murmured with forced courtesy, but very uneasy. Drawing
his card, he held it out to her, with: "Kindly take this and inform her
that a gentleman--a friend--would be glad to speak with her." The old
hag crushed it in her bony palm, and spat out five short words.... But,
oh, what mean, cruel, hurting little words!
He reeled in spite of his strength, then stood like a statue, frozen to
the spot.
The night was cold, and dark and dreary; but to Sidney Wyeth it was
hot--suffocating in those next moments. His jaw dropped as he started to
speak, but the words failed to come. After a time, the elements began to
clear, but left him weak. He turned with a savage gripping at his heart,
and stumbled back in the direction from whence he had come.
"Oh, Mildred!" he wailed. "Mildred, Mildred! I can't believe it.... I
can never, oh, never----and I loved you so!" On and on he went; at times
walking, other times stumbling; but always uttering incoherent
sentences. "It can't be true--it _isn't_ true! That old hag--spiteful
creature," he now growled distractedly,--"lied! I'll go back, curse her!
I'll go back and prove her the liar she is." He halted, staggered
drunkenly against a building, and then abruptly turned his face in the
direction from whence he had come. But, 'ere he had gone far, he
desisted. Believe those words or not, something forbade this step.
Weaker than ever, torn, distracted, and mentally prostrated, he paused
and leaned against a building, and for a long time gave up to utter
misery.
Our pen fails here to describe fully those conflicting moments. All that
he had lived for in those days, and all that he had recently hoped for,
seemed to have been swept forever from him in that one moment. After an
interminable spell of mental blankness, a sentence he had once been fond
of quoting, and which he had taken from Haggard's _Pearl Maiden_, came
back to him out of a remote past. It was this: "With time, most men
become used to disaster and rebuff. A colt that seems to break its neck
at the crack of a whip, will hobble at last to the knacker, unmoved from
a thousand blows rained upon him." So, presently, with a tired, wearied
sigh, he gathered himself together, and, with a last despairing look in
the direction of the fateful number, he passed down the dark street, and
disappeared in the direction of The Jackson House.
* * * * *
"Wonder what's the matter wi' d' kid t'night?" said Jackson to his
consort, as she looked up inquiringly when he re-entered the room, after
showing Wyeth to his bed.
"I wonder", she commented thoughtfully. "He's always so cheerful and
pleasant when around. He walked in here like a ghost tonight. Now I
wonder what is the matter?"
It was late the following morning when Jackson chanced to be passing,
and peeped into the room occupied by his friend, who had acted so
strangely the night before. The coverlets had not been turned back,
altho the bed was sunk in the middle, as if someone had tossed
restlessly about over it the night before. Jackson wondered again. But
at that hour, Sidney Wyeth was on a train that was speeding southward
into Dixie.
* * * * *
So it happened that the hero of this story went forth into a land which
is a part of our country.... A part wherein people and environment are
so far different from the rest, that a great problem is ever an issue.
This is the problem of human beings versus human beings. A land wherein
one race vies with the other; that other being a multitude of black
people, and, as one who reads this might know, a people who, once upon a
time had been slaves, chattels, and who for fifty and a few years have
been free. That time, however, has not been, as we might appreciate,
sufficient to eliminate many things hereditary.
* * * * *
And what came to pass upon this journey; the things he discovered, the
one he again met, of what had resulted, due to the machinations of a
pious, evil genius, is the story I have to tell.
CHAPTER TWO
_Attalia_
"Heah! Heah! Don't get on that cah!" cried the conductor the following
morning, as Sidney Wyeth was climbing aboard the Jim Crow car of the
_Palm Leaf Limited_, bound for Attalia. He backed up and looked about
him in some surprise, and than demanded the reason why he shouldn't get
aboard that "cah".
"I thought I tole you once we had an extra heavy train, and no colored
passengers allowed; but since I see yu', now I see you ain't the same
fellah that was here awhile ago." And then, in a few words, he explained
that, owing to the rush of people to the south during those first days
of January, the Jim Crow section of the train had been dispensed with
for that day. He explained further that a second section of the same
train would follow shortly. As it would, in all probability, pass them
at Lexington, Sidney, with a mumble of thanks, gathered up his grips and
returned to the waiting room, catching the same an hour later.
Kentucky soon lay before him. As far as eye could see, a snowy mantle
covered the ground, for it was winter. Presently, countless rows of
frame buildings appeared. A new brick station, which extended for some
length along the track, gave the traveler welcome.
When the train came to a stop, Sidney's attention was arrested by the
sight of a creature that may have been called a man, but gave every
evidence of being an ape.
"I wonder," said he, to a fellow passenger, "do those things grow 'round
here?"
They both enjoyed a laugh.
He was now in a land in which a portion of the people, apparently,
possessed little sense of humor, judging from the way his jokes were
accepted.
On the car were two women, among the half dozen or so colored
passengers. Sidney overheard one of them say to the other:
"I'm from No'th C'lina; but I be'n in Oklahoma two ye's. I'm go'n back
home t' stay. Whe' you from?"
"Tennessee, Knoxville. I'm livin' in Bloomington, Illinois, now."
They looked inquiringly in the direction of Wyeth, and presently he was
drawn into the conversation. The latter possessed fine sense of humor,
and when he found these people so serious, he took delight in joking.
"Whe' you from?" they inquired, with all that is southern and hospitable
in their tone.
"From the _Rosebud Country_, South Dakota," he replied. Their faces were
a study. Somewhere in the years gone by they might have heard of that
state in school, but the _Rosebud Country_ was Greek to them.
"O-oh," they echoed, and then looked at each other and back at him.
Presently one of them inquired: "Where is that?"
"In Africa," he answered, but they did not catch the joke, and to this
day, they speak of the man they met from the Dark Continent.
At that moment, the train was crossing a stream over the highest bridge
Sidney had ever seen, with possibly one or two exceptions. It seemed a
thousand feet to the crystal water below, and every eye was fixed upon
it. The porter, a long, lank, laughing creature, scion of the south and
_some_ porter, seeing an opportunity to draw attention, rushed up in a
Shakesperian pose, and related dramatically, the incident of an
intoxicated man, who, while crossing that very stream, fell, of a
sudden, smack dab over-board, right into it. In concluding, he looked
about him more dramatically than ever, as the many "O-ohs," and "Mys!"
greeted his terrible story. And Sidney Wyeth, with eyes wide open,
inquired if he got wet.
"Jes' listen at that," they cried in chorus, and the joke was lost.
Down, down the train whirled into the bowels of Dixie. Far away to the
east, rising gray and ghostlike above the mists, the pine covered
Cumberland Range appeared and reappeared in the distance. Outlined like
grim sentinels, the scene, to the hero of this story, recalled the many
tragedies of which those mountains were the back-ground. The
moon-shiners, the feudists, the hill-billies and the rough-necks, always
had a haven there.
The puffing of many, many locomotives, the sight of buildings, and the
glare of electric lights gave evidence that they had reached a large
city. Chattanooga, city of southern trunk lines, and railroad center,
now greeted his eye.
He spent one night there, and the next day, resumed his journey toward
that most conspicuous of all southern towns, Attalia. It was a hundred
and fifty miles and more by rail. The train became more crowded as it
neared his destination, while the people grew more cosmopolitan. One of
these, a black man, entered at one of the many stations, and greeted
Wyeth pleasantly, inquiring where he was headed for. Wyeth answered
Attalia, and his companion became very sociable.
"Understand," said Wyeth, after a moment--the other had possessed
himself of a portion of the seat upon which he sat--"that Attalia is one
of the best towns in the south, and has one of the finest stations in
the country."
"La'gest 'n' finest in the wo'ld," said the other, with a show of pride.
He was a resident of the state of which Attalia was the capital, and
was, furthermore, a preacher. Wyeth didn't care to argue, so let it _be_
the largest and said:
"That's wonderful! I hear also, that it is a great commercial center as
well, and that the city is growing like a mushroom."
"Oh, yeh," said he. "Out-side Noo Yo'k, it's the busiest and best town
in the United States. Yes, yeh," he went on thoughtfully, "Attalia is
sho a mighty city. Eve' been theah?"
"Not for more than ten years," replied Sidney.
"Indeed! Well, well, I mus' say you'll ha'dly recognize it as the same."
They were now approaching the embryo city. Clouds of smoke, and the
whistling of innumerable locomotives filled the air. Wyeth began making
preparation to leave the train, when the other touched him, saying: "No
hurry, my deah suh, no hurry. Be's a long time yet befo' we 'rives in de
station, be's a long time yet."
"Well, well!" the other exclaimed, in some surprise.
"Oh, Attalia's a mighty city, a great city. Wait until you see Plum
street 'n' the sky-scrapers."
Meanwhile the train had arrived, and stood outside the station, through
which it had just passed. It was indeed a large and imposing structure.
As it rose behind them, under the bright sunlight, with its many
cornices glittering as so many diamonds, it was truly a city pride. From
where the train stood, the city lay like a great scroll, and vanished in
the distance. Smoke and dust filled the air, and hovered over the medley
of buildings like a dull, red cloud. Rising in uncertain lines, as if to
escape the gloom, a line of sky-scrapers appeared in the background.
"Those must be on Plum street," mused Sidney, as he looked about for a
conveyance.
Besides being the capital of the state, and the greatest commercial city
southeast of the Mississippi, Attalia is the city of conventions, the
southern center for insurance, a progressive journalistic city, and a
uniform town. It is also a center for the education of Negroes, since it
has a number of colleges supported by northern philanthropy. Yet the
city is unable to maintain a proficient and complete course of education
for its many colored children. Unfortunately for the Negroes, when the
white schools are amply provided for, not enough is left for the proper
training of its black population, which constitutes one-third of the
whole.
Sidney did not fail to take note of the fact, as he passed through the
station, that, contrary to previous reports, the colored waiting room
was cleanly kept, almost as well as that of the white race. White-coated
flunkies flitted about nimbly in prompt attention to the weary traveler,
in spite of an air of sleepiness.
Presently, Wyeth made inquiry regarding conveyance. No sooner had he
done so, than he was deluged with solicitations from a score or more
cabmen, who seemed literally to raise out of the floor. They would take
him in jig-time anywhere he wanted to go.
"But that's it," he said in a confused tone. "I don't know exactly where
I want to go."
"Deed, suh, I c'n take yu' any wha', jes' any wha' 'f you'll jes' name
de place."
Not being able, apparently, to make him understand that he was a
stranger, unacquainted with the city, he presently settled on the
charge, bundled in, and ordered to be taken to the best colored
neighborhood, and in a few minutes he was being trundled on his way.
They turned into a street, after a block or two, that happened to be one
end of the leading business thoroughfare. On a corner post, Sidney read
Walthill. The cab took him up this street, surrounded on either side
with the many busy shops and people, and it continued until a viaduct
was reached. Attalia's broadway was just ahead. It was a wide street,
and yet not wide enough. It had been made wider recently, and in making
it so, the sidewalks had perforce been made narrower. They had not been
sufficiently wide before, and now this threw many pedestrians into the
street, where they walked along much slower than in Cincinnati even. As
the cab rolled along, Sidney observed that the street was considerably
wider after some distance, and this was the business section. To the
right and to the left, in fact in every direction, buildings, brick and
stone, concrete, stucco and an occasional frame, stood, here low, there
high, and still higher, even to twenty stories. As he looked, the
setting sun played subtly about the topmost peaks. Presently, the cab
turned into Audubon Avenue.
This street sloped down hill for many blocks, and when the cab had made
its abrupt turn further on, Sidney observed a large, red, brick building
with stone cornices rising skyward. Adjoining this, he caught a glimpse
of the outline of still another building, apparently unfinished.
Strangely enough, he felt this to be the property of black people. On
down the street the cab rolled.
It was a street quite wide enough, and paved in part with cobble
stones, and further on with asphalt. Glancing from right to left, as he
proceeded, he saw that it was given over largely to business conducted
by Negroes, Jews, Italians and Greeks.
Presently, his wandering gaze took in the proportions of a small book
shop, before which stood a tall, lean Negro, whom he surmised rightly to
be the proprietor. In the window, displayed conspicuously and
artistically, were numerous books by Negro authors which he had read,
and, of course, some he had not.
And still he was trundled on. His gaze met the sight of a mammoth stone
church, where he saw many colored men standing about the front. Some
were brown, while others were yellow, and still others were almost
white. They were preachers, he knew, for all were fat. Only preachers
were always so, he recalled, and that's why he knew. Across another
street and on the same side, they came abreast of the structure that had
arrested his attention before. The first portion rose to only two
stories, but was so artistically constructed, that it caught his
attention, and commanded his admiration. Next to this, the other portion
reached to six stories, and, as he came to the front, he viewed it very
carefully. On one side of a wide entry, over which was written many
words which he could not decipher, was a first class barber shop where
black men were being shaved. On the other side, a bank occupied much
space, and this, he observed, for the first time in his life, was
conducted by black people--no, they were between and betwixt, but that
does not matter, they belonged to that race. At the rear he saw
elevators moving to and fro, while the entry was filled with these same
folk. His bosom swelled at the sight, for he was proud of his people.
"Heah's a place you might look ovah, deah brudder," said the cabman at
last, as he halted before an old frame structure, across the front of
which was written in large letters
THE BIXLEY HOUSE
Sidney was not favorably impressed.
"How you lak it?" asked the cabman.
"Nix," he replied. "Try another."
The horse was turned about, and they journeyed back over the same street
from whence they had come. Two blocks were thus covered, and then they
turned into a street that intersected, and stopped before another place
less impressive looking. At this point, the cabman suggested a lady
friend of his, who kept nice rooms, and to this he was straightway
driven. He was satisfied at last, paid his fee, and in due time was
fairly well installed.
Sometime later, Sidney went forth on a tour of inspection. The first
place he decided to visit was the book store, where he had seen the
serious looking man at the front. He turned out to be so, very much so,
as Sidney learned in after months. His name was Tompkins, and he was
very affable, even pleasant.
"A-hem. Glad to know you, Mr. Wyeth," he said, accepting the
introduction. When Sidney stated the nature of his business, he answered
his many questions very pompously, and further said, that the colored
people of the city had an inclination for literature.
Sidney, however, began to feel, after more questioning, that Tompkins
was stretching things, and that his statement, that the colored people
were great readers, was largely exaggerated. It was, as we shall see
later; but for the present, he thanked Tompkins, and promised to drop in
again.
When he had dined at one of the many little restaurants, he wandered
back into the business section of the city. He failed to recognize any
of the places he had once known, which proved conclusively that Attalia
had progressed. He found himself on Plum street again, through which he
walked and reentered Walthill, and, after seeing many of the sights,
entered a large book store, where he inquired for a volume he had long
desired to read--rather, he inquired of a large, fat man, whether he had
it. The other looked around a spell, then replied:
"We sho God has," and stood waiting undecidedly. Presently he held it
toward Wyeth, who, somewhat hesitatingly, looked irrelevantly through
the pages. He was not sure, whether it was customary to take it in his
hands.
"All right," he said, and reached in his pocket for the money.
"Do you-ah--wish it?" the other inquired, still hesitating.
"Sure," Sidney replied. "That's why I called for it." He was obviously
surprised, and expressed the fact in his eyes. The other observed this,
and made haste to apologize:
"Ce'tainly, ce'tainly. Beg yo' pa'don. Not many cullud people buy works
of fiction, or anything besides an occasional Bible, school books and
stationery. That is why I was undecided whether you wanted to buy it or
not."
"Indeed!" echoed Sidney, taken suddenly aback. Then said: "I read a
great deal myself."
The clerk observed him closely for a moment, and then said: "You don't
live in these parts?"
"No."
"And you read a great deal? Where are you from?"
He was told.
"That accounts for it," said the other, proceeding to wrap up the book.
"Accounts for what?" curiously.
"Your being a reader."
"I don't understand.... Don't the colored people down here read a great
deal also?"
"No," said the other simply.
"Well, I declare!" said Sidney in surprise. "I have only two hours or
less ago, been told by a book-seller that they do."
"Lordy me! Who told you that?"
"Tompkins. The--"
"Tompkins is a booster. He's all right, though," said the other, with a
low, amused laugh. But Sidney's curiosity was aroused, and he continued:
"There's a multitude of teachers and preachers, and I should think they
would buy lots of current literature to keep themselves informed for
their work; but perhaps they are not so well paid, and get it from the
library." The other appeared perplexed for a moment, but said
presently, without looking up:
"They have no library of their own, and the city library is not open to
colored people, but they do not seem to be very anxious for books. The
teachers, and the preachers--" He threw up his hands in a gesture of
despair. "You'll find out for yourself. You are, I see, a keen observer,
and you'll find out."
Sidney left the store in a reflective frame of mind. "I didn't believe
Tompkins," he muttered, as he walked back in the direction of Audubon
Avenue. Just then he glanced to his left, into the largest barber shop
he had ever seen. It was for white people, but conducted by a colored
man. It was not only the largest he had ever seen, but the finest, the
most artistic. He forgot, for the time, what he had just been told, and
which was causing him some concern, and again he felt his breast swell.
There was much to be learned about his people that he now realized he
did not know; and yet, surrounding it all was a peculiar mystery that he
decided to solve for himself. He did so, but that remains to be told.
CHAPTER THREE
_Next Day--Discoveries_
At eight-thirty the following morning, Sidney set forth, carrying a
small case containing a half dozen books. His purpose was to feel out
the city from a practical point of view. He had been told that the
better class of Negroes could be found by walking down Audubon Avenue,
as far as the residence section. So he followed it until the business
had been left blocks to the rear. At the end of the paved street he
turned into a house. It was a very sumptuous affair, with an attractive
lawn before it. He was told by a passerby that it was the home of a club
waiter. He ventured up to the front door, and, upon its being opened by
a mulatto woman, apparently the waiter's wife, he turned on his spiel.
She listened to it patiently, even speaking some words in praise, as he
explained the narrative in brief, but he failed to make a sale. He tried
more subtle arts, but in vain. And then she told him frankly that their
finances would not permit her to purchase the volume. This excuse always
made Wyeth desist from further effort.
He turned into the next house, and the next, and the next, until a half
dozen had been made, but with the same result. Since he had invariably
sold to three-fourths of the people whom he approached, he was not
nearly so confident by this time. These people lived in and owned homes
that were a pride, and it was not that they did not wish to buy; people
so easily approached can be expected, in a large part, to fall victim;
but 'ere long it became more clear to him. They were _not_ able. It was
well that he perceived this; for hope of success was small, if it
depended upon purchasers here. Most of the people he found in these
homes were dependent upon a very small salary. The cost of living was as
high here as in the north, in fact, the ordinary commodities were
higher. The sums they were receiving would not be considered sufficient
to care for the same people in the north, therefore, why should it here?
This was contrary again to what Sidney had always been told.
Presently, he happened upon a letter carrier. No time was lost here.
This man was paid for his work, so he forthwith became a victim of the
most artful spiel, and bought the book, cash. This served to spur Sidney
to renew his efforts, and he attacked those he approached more
vigorously. For a time he met with no more success.
He had a lunch at a nearby restaurant, of pigs feet and sweet potato
custard. After an hour, he resumed his efforts. And this began his
discoveries.
Entering a yard, he came up the steps of a house from the back way. He
passed a refrigerator, and crossed the porch to knock at the door.
But--a bottle of Kentucky's John Barleycorn calmly rested upon this same
refrigerator.
The door at which he knocked was opened presently, and he was invited to
enter, which he did; but, when leaving by the same way, after selling
another book for cash, "John" was gone.
At the next house, his customer was a tall woman of middle age and dark
skinned. She drew him adroitly into a prolonged conversation, and then
bought the book.
Now, Attalia is a _prohibition_ town in a southern _prohibition_ state.
Yes, it _is_--and it _isn't_. When Sidney Wyeth left that house that
afternoon, he had spent part of what he received for the book, for beer
and whiskey. Moreover, he was told that more than seventy-five places on
Audubon Avenue were engaged likewise, and in the city all--but that is a
matter for conjecture!
Obviously, _prohibition_ did not _prohibit_--but more of this later in
the story.
* * * * *
That evening, while dining, he became acquainted with Ferguson and
Thurman, who will, for a time, occupy a part in the development of this
plot.
Ferguson was a preacher, but at this time--and for some time--had not
preached. He admitted painting to be more profitable from a financial
point of view. He complained, however, that if the "New Freedom"
continued in power much longer at Washington, and with the way things
"was a-goin'," he would have to give that up and go back to pickin'
cotton.
"They ain' nothin' in preachin' no mo', that's a sho thing."
"I do not agree with you on that score," said Sidney; "for, from what I
have learned already in regard to these parts, there must apparently be
more money in preaching than anything else, judging from the number of
preachers. And how fat they all appear!" Ferguson looked up quickly at
this remark, and as quickly down at himself.
"I didn' get this flesh preachin', I assuah you," he retorted, with
flushed face. And after a pause, he went on with some heat:
"But that's what don' sp'iled preachin'; too many lazy nigga's a-graftin
offa de people!" But Ferguson, as Wyeth learned later, was something of
a pessimist, and predicted all kinds of deplorable things. And it was at
this moment that a dejected creature made his appearance. He was bald
headed, bowlegged, but, notwithstanding these possible deficiencies in
his make-up, aggressive. His name was Thurman, and, said he, between
bites of sweet potato pie:
"Aw, nigga;--youah allus a-p'dictin'--som'thin' awful!--To--heah you
tell it,--since the democrats--has got int' powah--cawse a buncha crazy
nigga's--didn' know how t' vote--at dat aih convention in Chicawgo--the
world is--liable to end tomorra'!"
"It mought!--It mought;--'n' 'f it did--you be one--a d' fust--t' bu'n
in hell--too; but don't you 'dress me lak dat no mo'--in sech
distressful terms! You autta be 'shamed a-yo' se'f."
And he munched pie for a time, uninterrupted by speech.
Thurman only grunted unconcernedly.
"What are the prospects of the colored people down here at the present
time?" inquired Sidney, hoping to relieve the tension; but he could have
rested easily on this score, for, as he learned later, they carried on
that way every night. That was their diversion; but Thurman was now
heard from.
"HELL!" he answered calmly.
"Good Lawd man!" cried Ferguson shocked. "What's comin' ovah you!"
"Lyin' 'n' stealin'; drinkin' cawn liquah 'n' gittin' drunk; bein' run
in, locked up and sent to d' stock-ade 'n' chain-gang;" he resumed,
ignoring Ferguson's shock entirely. Whereupon, Ferguson looked more
distressed than ever; but only wrinkled his face in a helpless frown,
and said nothing.
"Gee!" cried Sidney; "but that's an awful prospect." All this time
Thurman had not smiled, but accepted everything as a matter of course,
from the way he partook of sweet potato pie.
"You must not pay any attention to Mr. Thurman, Mister," said the
proprietress, from across the room. She was a patient-faced, sleepy,
short woman. And now, for the first time Thurman moved in his seat, and
took exception to the words. Said he, somewhat loudly, and emphasizing
his words with a raised hand:
"_Pay no 'tention! Pay no 'tention; wull I reckon yu'd bettah. Hump_,"
he deliberated, pausing long enough to fill his mouth with more potato:
"_Pay no 'tention when yu' know yu'se'f that Jedge Ly'les 's a
sentincin' mo' nigga's to the stock-ade 'n' chain-gang than he's eve'
done befo'. 'N' a good reason he has fo' doin' so too! Lyin', doity,
stinkin', stealin' nigga's_," he ended disgustedly.
Presently, before anyone had time to deny his sweeping assertion, he
resumed:
"Mis' M'coy, yu' know dem taters I got frum you tuther night?"
"I rember them quite well, Mr. Thurman," she replied, resignedly.
"I took them taters home 'n' put 'm in muh trunk, locked it 'n' put th'
key in muh pocket 's I allus do. Now what yu' think happened?" he
halted, and surveyed the atmosphere with serene contempt. "That low down
li'l' nigga in th' room wi' me, sneaks int' that trunk wid a duplicate
key, 'n' steal eve' last one'm! _Jes' think of it!_" he emphasized, with
a terrible gesture. "_Stole eve' las' one uv'm! Then talk about
nigga's!_"
"We did'n' say nothin' 'bout nigga's would'n' steal, man!" complained
Ferguson. "You jes' nache'lly went offa yo' noodle widout 'casion."
During all this conversation, a girl sat opposite Sidney. She was a
dark, sweet-faced maiden, with an expression that was inviting. Sidney,
happening to glance for the first time into her face, smiled and nodded.
She smiled back pleasantly. Ferguson and Thurman continued their
harrangue.
"They are a pair," ventured Sidney, to no one in particular, but the
girl smiled and inquired:
"Who are they?"
"I never saw them before," he replied.
She observed him closely, and said presently, in a very demure voice:
"Indeed. Ah--then--you don't live here?"
"No," he answered, and told her.
"O-oh, my," she echoed tremulously. "It must be fine away up in the
great northwest. And--do you expect to be here--er, some time?"
"For a few months at least." Whereupon she inquired as to his business,
and he likewise inquired of hers.
"I am employed in service," she said.
Now it happened that Sidney had, a few months before, met an agent in
Dayton, who persisted in canvassing nowhere else but among this class.
He thought of this, and made inquiry. He was told in reply, that
practically all the domestics were colored.
"I would like to see the book you sell," she said, presently. "If you
could bring it to the number where I am employed, and if, after seeing
it I am pleased with it, I would buy one." He could not have wished for
anything better, and told her so. Elevating his eye brows in pleased
delight, he said:
"I most assuredly will. Only tell me how I may get there--I'll make a
note of it," and he immediately did so.
"Catch a Plum Street car," she directed, "and get off at West Eleventh
Street, walk a block and a half west until you see a large house
numbered 40. They are Jews, so, should you lose the number, inquire for
Hershes'. You may call any time after two P.M."
"I will be there tomorrow at that hour if the sun rises, and if it
doesn't, I'll be there anyway," he laughed. She was amused.
"All right," she said, and took her leave.
* * * * *
The next day was beautiful; the sun shone brightly, and the air was soft
and fragrant. Plum Street, besides being the leading business
thoroughfare, is likewise the most imposing resident district, at its
extreme end. Large cars, modern and built of steel, thread their way,
not only to the city limits, but they penetrate far into the country
beyond.
And it was aboard one of these modern conveyances that Sidney Wyeth
reclined, observing the size and grandeur of the many magnificent
residences, that stood back from either side of the street in sumptuous
splendor. Magnolias and an occasional palm adorned the yards, while
green grass and winter flowers filled the balmy air with a delightful
odor.
He alighted and found himself very soon in the rear of No. 40. Success
was his, for he sold to the girl, and three more at the same number, and
the next, and the next--and still the next, until darkness came. Thus he
came in touch with people who were more able, and positively, more
likely to buy.
* * * * *
A few days after this he dropped in on Tompkins.
"Hello, my friend!" that worthy one said. "Why haven't you been in to
see me? I've been thinking of you."
"Indeed," said Sidney, in glad surprise. "I've been too busy," he
concluded shortly.
"Too busy!" echoed the other in evident surprise. And then he waited
expectantly.
"Oh, sure," Sidney smiled, looking over Tompkins' supply of books,
mostly Bibles, for such was the most Tompkins sold, as he learned.
"Been selling lots of books?..."
"Hundred and sixty-five orders in eight days."
"Great goodness," Tompkins exclaimed. He dropped all work for a moment,
and stood with mouth wide open. Then he inquired artfully: "Have you
_delivered_ any?"
"Fifty copies last Saturday and Monday."
"_Man!_ Are you telling me the truth!" he exclaimed dubiously.
"I _sell_ books," Sidney replied calmly.
Tompkins resumed his work in a very thoughtful mood. Presently, as
Sidney was leaving he called: "Say, drop in and see me some day when you
have time to talk--a long talk. I'm _interested_ in you."
CHAPTER FOUR
_And He Never Knew_
Weeks had passed. Mildred Latham could be seen sitting dejectedly by the
window of her small bed-room, gazing down a street that led to the
river. Every day since that next day when she had been told that a man
had called to see her, and instinct told her it was Sidney Wyeth, she
had sat thus. On this day, however, things were different. There had
been a change--a great change in her life; for she was today, and
henceforth, free, in a sense, but this is further along in the story.
Presently she picked up _The Tempest_. This was nothing unusual.
Although she had read it in two days after she had received it, she had,
in the weeks that had just passed, picked it up and reread certain parts
of it. But, as a change had come since the last time she held it, she
read it today with unusual interest. After reading for a few minutes,
she laid it aside, took from the table near a map of South Dakota, and
for a time studied the part of it across which was written _The Rosebud
Country_. She allowed her mind to wander meditatively back to the past.
She saw this land as it was when the country was young; when the bison
and the native Indian held sway; when mighty herds roamed across those
plains, molested little by the red man. She picked up the book and read
a little more. For scores of years they had lived and died, and at the
end of this regime, came the inevitable white man, the greatest race of
conquerors the world has ever known, without doubt. And behold the
change of a few short years! Nature in wild profusion, then materialism
in the extreme. They, these conquerors, had almost changed the world.
And among those thousands that crossed the densely settled prairies, and
made conquest of _The Rosebud Country_, were only a few black men.
Judging from this book, they could be counted upon the fingers of one
hand. One of these was Sidney Wyeth.
Yes, he had gone forth, hopeful and happy and gay, and had become a
Negro pioneer. So he began, and did a man's part in the development of
that now wonderful country. Thus she imagined it, and felt it must have
been. It _could_ not have been otherwise, because only _men_ went west,
to the wild and undeveloped--and stayed. _He_ had stayed for ten years.
How he spent those years, Mildred Latham could imagine. Through the
pages of that narrative, she had followed his fortunes to the
climax--the culmination of a base intrigue. What a glorious feeling it
must be, she felt, to be a pioneer; to blaze the way for others, that
human beings ever after, to the end of time, may live and thrive by the
right of others' conquest! He had plowed the soil, turned hundreds of
acres of that wild land into a state of plant productivity, which should
bear fruit for posterity. And if Sidney Wyeth had in the end failed, in
a way it was only after he had done a man's part in behalf of others.
But then came the evil.
In the lives of all men, the greatest thing is to love. Sidney Wyeth had
hoped, at some time, to gain this happiness, the love of a woman. Had he
earned it? Apparently not, from another's point of view. That was all so
singular, she thought, time and again. For the evil creature, evil
genius, was a preacher, a minister of the Gospel. "I can't quite
reconcile myself to that part of it, yet I should," she mused, now
aloud, "for _my_ father is a preacher."
Mildred Latham's thoughts drifted from Sidney Wyeth for a time, and
reverted to her own life, and that of her father, who was a preacher.
Soon, they wandered back to Sidney, to his life of Hell--the work of an
evil power--the torn soul upon its rack of torture--and finally the
anguish--always the anguish, followed by the dead calm of endless
existence.
Yet during their acquaintance, he never spoke of the past. No word of
censure, or of unmanly criticism, passed his lips.
So Mildred Latham could feel in a measure relieved, for she had
secrets,--and she kept them all to herself, too.
Directly, she shook off the depression, and rose to her feet.
"It is all settled," she said half aloud, and, going to her trunk, laid
the book in the tray, lifted the latter out, and, reaching to the
bottom, took up a small steel box and set it on the dresser. She then
inserted a small key, opened it, and took therefrom a heavy, legal
document. Examining it for a time, she put it into her hand bag, locked
the box, returned it to its place, replaced the tray and locked the
trunk again. This done, she slipped into a street suit, and, gathering
up the handbag firmly, left her room, locked the door, stepped into the
street, and caught a car that took her up town, where she alighted
before a mammoth office building. She entered this, took an elevator and
got off on the twentieth floor, entering the office of a prominent law
firm. This visit had been pre-arranged.
An hour later, she left a large bank on the ground floor, returned to
her room, took the box from her trunk, and replaced, not the legal
document, but a long, green slip of paper.
"All is now settled on that score," she whispered drearily, and then
busied herself mechanically about the room. Again she fell into that fit
of meditation. She could not--try as she might--shake off the
despondency. And always, in the background somewhere, lurked Sidney
Wyeth. Was this because she felt she would never see him again? She
couldn't, she knew, as she recalled her secret.
Suddenly she threw herself weakly across the bed, and sobbed for hours.
"Sidney, my Sidney," a careful listener might have heard her lips
murmur. But she was alone. Perhaps that made it so hard, for she was
alone now, always alone.
At last she got up and bathed her face, as she had done many times
before.
Always, too, she had a presentiment down in her heart, that somewhere or
somehow, some day fate would be kind and send him again into her life.
And then would she be ready?
O that persistent question!
Now Mildred Latham was not a weak woman. Far from it. In spite of the
secret, which was ever _her burden_, she was not the kind to give up
without struggle. This was perhaps the cause, in a degree, of the
suffering she endured. It was this sorrow which Sidney Wyeth had
observed, and wished to dispell. "If I could only have permitted him to
do so," she said, so many, many times. But always _The Barrier_.
"I will sell his book henceforth for my living," she said to herself at
the end of that day, as she had often said before. "And in doing that, I
shall ever live with his memory--God bless him!" For Mildred Latham
loved Sidney Wyeth.
And he never knew.
CHAPTER FIVE
_B.J. Dickson_
When Sidney Wyeth's work among the domestics was an assured success, he
decided to rent desk space in the large office building referred to, get
a typewriter, do a little circularizing, and concentrate his efforts
upon securing agents elsewhere, for the purpose of distributing his
work.
Accordingly, one Sunday morning, after being told that the custodian of
the building could be found in his office on the fourth floor, he betook
himself thither.
But let us pause for a moment, and retrace a long span of years, that we
may interest ourselves in the history of this same structure. For it has
a fascinating tale to tell.
* * * * *
Before freedom came to the black people of the south, pious worship had
begun. Despite the fact that it was an offense to teach Negroes during
that dark period, or in any way to be responsible for allowing them to
teach themselves, many, nevertheless, did learn to read; and perhaps
because the slave-owners were inclined to be God-fearing people, they
did not, in a general sense, openly object when they found many of their
slaves worshipping. So it happened that, since men were in the majority
of those who learned to read, the first channel to which they diverted
this knowledge was preaching. And since, as above mentioned, they were
not always forbidden, worshipping the Christ among Negroes had been
practiced long before freedom came. Therefore, after freedom, preaching
became the leading profession among the men.
The reader is perhaps well acquainted with the pious emotion of the
Negro; our story will not dwell at length upon this; but the fact that,
to become a preacher as a professional pursuit, was the easiest and
most popular vocation; and from the fact, further, that Negroes had
become emotionally inclined from fear in one sense and another, so that
it is inherent, preaching and building churches swept that part of the
country like wildfire.
Of the different sects, the Baptist seemed to require the least training
in order to afford the most emotion. All that was required, in a
measure, to become a Baptist preacher, was to be a good "_feeler_" and
the practiced ability to make others _feel_.
History proves that people of all races (when still not far removed from
savagery) are inclined toward display. This is an inherent nature of
Negroes. Indeed, Negroes of today, in many instances those who have
graduated from the best colleges, seem yet largely endowed with this
trait, as this story will show later.
So, shortly after preaching and shouting became the custom, another
feature entered which permitted these people more "_feeling_," and this
was lodges, secret societies and social fraternities. These, like
everything else--omitting possibly the extreme "_feeling_" exercised
during religious worship--was patterned after white custom; but, insofar
as the Negro is concerned, a great deal more stress and effort and
feeling was put into the things mentioned. In a sense, they were the
Negroes all.
Naturally, these many lodges, etc., must have some object. And that
object for years, was irrevocably, to care for the sick and bury the
dead.
Our story will be concerned with the United Order of the AAASSSSBBBBGG,
which, for the purpose of this story, will answer as well as the real
name, and will be much easier to refer to.
The AAASSSSBBBBGG, is one of the oldest lodges in Dixie, having been in
operation among the black people for generations. And its great object
was, until a few years ago, to "ce'h fo' the sick 'n' bu'y the dead."
In the course of events, there had been elected to a very conspicuous
position in this same lodge, a man with a square jaw. He was of medium
height and build, but aggressive, very much so, in fact, a born fighter.
Happily, the latter trait was peculiarly necessary to the one who held
the office of grand secretaryship in this lodge--and to this office
Dickson fell heir.
Now Dickson was no ordinary Negro. He was ambitious, not the kind that
is likely to be satisfied with the past duties of the order. Because,
and it might be well to mention so strange a coincidence: This lodge had
not been able to spend all the money that had come into the treasury for
burial purposes. So the reserve totalled $40,000 cash. It was
confidentially whispered that the officers, a united click, preceding
Dickson, had calmly planned, when this amount reached $50,000, to grab
it all, and start a colony--for themselves, of course, in Africa. But,
alas! enters Dickson, the determined, the ambitious. And if anything can
serve to disturb an order like this, it is ambition. In all the years of
its existence, the slogan had been to crucify ambition religiously, but
Dickson crucified them. At this time, at least, they were relegated to
the scrub timber, where they lay dreaming of a time never to return, for
"the old order changeth."
In addition to the office of grand secretary, Dickson was an editor, and
before the moss-backs had realized it, some years before, he was editing
the official mouthpiece, _The Independent_. They thought little of this,
in fact, they didn't care, because, in the first place, no one else
cared for that job; it required too much thought to edit a paper that
the members would be likely to read. _The Independent_ had come out at
spasmodic intervals, reporting, in detail, the death of Miss Sallie Doe,
"a member in good standing, who had met her Jesus on the altar of
evermore;" or, that Jim Johnson, another member, "had been incarcerated
in the county jail, along with many others, for disturbing the peace;"
or, that at the revival at the Antioch Baptist church, of which Brother
Jasper was the pastor, "a soul stirring revival is going on with scores
'gittin' right with Jesus'," etc., etc., etc. But its greatest ambition,
apparently, had been to come before the people, guaranteed not to be
read.
So fancy, when, after getting control, Dickson "did it all over." _The
Independent_ became "_some_" paper. It fairly ripped and snorted. It
took up the instances of officers that were sluggish and backward and
slow, and made great headlines. "Whew!" the members cried, who had never
read the paper before. While others declared: "Ah allus knowed dat
nigga's crazy!" But everybody began reading the paper. They objected and
scrambled and stewed about what was said, called him the biggest liar,
bull-dozer, and everything else, but read the paper. So the circulation
doubled and trebled and quadrupled, and then doubled all over again,
until it was reaching every "live" member of the order. Dickson didn't
care whether it reached the others or not, and he told them so;
moreover, he said--in not so many words, but it was read between the
lines,--that they could go to Hell. They took the paper then.
There came a time at last when the treasury was reeking with Sam's good
gold, and Dickson had more enemies than could be counted readily. But
Dickson was wise. He had looked deeply into the condition and inborn
weakness of these black creatures, and had surmised that they only
patronized each other when they mutually hated. If they loved one
another, they were allowed to starve to death undisturbed.
He saw that Negroes would only build and occupy an office when the white
man refused to rent him anything but the attic--and not even that
sometimes. So, with a flare, a blaze and a roar, out came _The
Independent_, and said that the AAASSSSBBBBGG lodge had decided to erect
an office building of its own. It was to be six stories in height, of
brick, with stone cornices, and what not. Moreover, a picture of it
completed appeared on the front page of _The Independent_. That finished
it! They prepared to send him to the mad-house, and forthwith gathered
for that purpose, which was what Dickson wanted. They arrived in twos,
threes and fours, and then in droves. To the tune and number of
thousands they came and were met (?) by a brass band! And away went the
music: "Ta-ra--ta--ta-ti-rip-i-ta-ta-ta-tu!" It got into the Negro
blood. Music, of all things, always has effect. Before they were aware
of it, they were cake-walkin' and doin' the grizzly bear, and it has
also been whispered confidentially, that two preachers, high and mighty
in the order, "balled the jack." The music stopped for a spell. Through
the crowd--the black crowd--came a cry, "Arrah! Arrah! for the Negro,
the greatest race since the coming of Christ!" And it was answered:
"Arrah! Arrah! So we is. Who said we wasn't!" "The white man!" came back
the reply. "He's a liah!" went back the words heatedly. "If so, then,"
came back, "why do we continue to do our business in his attic? Why?"
This was a shock. But before recovery, sayeth the cry: "$50,000 odd we
have in the treasury to care for the sick and bury the dead! With
$60,000 more we can have a building all our own, with elevators and
mirrors and a thousand things, with our own girls to tickle the type and
scratch on the books." A wild dream flitted across the minds of these
black men, the underdogs, the slaves for a thousand years; their wives,
the cooks and the scrub women; their daughters, the lust of the beast.
And then from somewhere came another cry. It was soft and low, but firm
and regular. It came from a body of women, black women. "With our hands,
from the white people's pot, we will give unto thee thousands, and back
again to the pots we will go and slave, until our old bones can slave no
more, and pay, and pay until a mighty building, the picture of which we
have seen, shall stand as a monument to the effort of BLACK PEOPLE!"
And now there was a scramble to the front! It was a scramble as had
never been seen in Attalia before! $60,000 was fairly thrown over the
heads of one another to B.J. DICKSON, the grand secretary.
* * * * *
Six months and a year had elapsed. And the monument stood serenely in
the sunlight, as Sidney Wyeth came down the street that Sunday morn. To
the side of this monument stood another, imposing and grand, not yet
finished, but soon to be, and it had all come through the indirect
efforts of B.J. Dickson. They were not satisfied with the one, when
they learned they _could_ do things, but needed another--so they
subscribed the necessary funds without effort, and built the other.
Before entering, Sidney walked across the street and viewed the
structure from the other side.
Thus he saw his people, as others see them.
For his life had been spent, for the most part, in white civilization.
As he surveyed it carefully, he was relieved to find that, to a
stranger, there was nothing to indicate that colored people occupied the
building.
An intelligent looking man came out of it, and, crossing the street,
bowed casually to Wyeth. The latter, returning it, inquired regarding
the building and Dickson, and he was told the following:
"Yes, while there are many who do not give Dickson the credit, he is,
nevertheless, the man who has made all that possible."
"Everything is well kept apparently," said Wyeth. "That is unusual for
our people."
"That's Dickson," said the other. And then aside he inquired:
"Have you ever been through it?"
"I am just going," said Sidney.
"You should have done so during the week. Any time before one o'clock
Saturday."
"Why one o'clock Saturday?"
"Because everything ceases at that time."
"Indeed," Wyeth commented in wide surprise. "System?"
"That's it. That's Dickson."
"Indeed! Does he have charge of everything?"
"Indirectly, yes. That is, he does not own everything, of course not;
but it's like this: Do you observe how everything is in order?" Wyeth
did, and waited.
"Well," resumed the stranger: "You can bet your boots that it would not
be that way, if it were left to those in the buildings altogether. No;
they would--some of them--get into a fight, knock out a window or two,
and bring a pillow from home, to stick in the hole. The first time it
rained and blew in at the window, the plaster would fall. Then, others,
posing more than anything else, would have a crap game going on and sell
whiskey on the side. As for the letters in gold which you observe on the
windows, they are Dickson's ideas. Negroes would use chalk naturally.
But Dickson won't stand for anything like that. When anything is amiss,
he goes at them, as for instance, those stores in the front. Many of the
proprietors, when they empty a box, instead of putting it to the rear,
would stick it in the front, right up where every passerby could see it.
To augment it further, they would allow dust and dead flies to collect.
Cobwebs too and perhaps, pile a few old rags up on the top of it. But
B.J. goes to them, as I said, invites them across the street, and shows
it to them. He takes them up to one end of the building, and walks them
to the other, and allows them to see it as the casual observer would. If
he doesn't think or consider this sufficient, he takes them up town, and
allows their gaze to compare it with the way things are conducted by the
first class white people. And then he says: 'Now just look at it! That's
nigga's. Nigga's proper. You conduct your place so that every stranger,
seeing the city and the sights, when he gets before this building,
realizes at one glance that Negroes occupy it.'"
Sidney laughed a low, amused laugh. The other continued:
"That's why you see things as they are. Our people are not bad to
handle. They are, in fact, the most patriotic of all races, and are
surely anxious for the success of each other, only they don't know it.
They are like a herd without a leader. Dickson's a leader over there."
"Ah!" thought Sidney, "that's where it comes in. The race needs
leaders!" Again the other was speaking.
"Of course, we have a great many that would be leaders, oh, yes, indeed!
Over there in that building are many who are pining their lives away.
They are confident they are leaders, and are exasperated because they
have no following. They hate the people because they are not awake to
the fact. They declare, that they have _even been to school and
graduated from college and know everything_, which _alone_ should put
them at the head. For some peculiar reason, they cannot realize that
leaders are born, not made.
"Now you leave the building and wander about over the city, and you will
find a score or more of these would-be leaders, all with the same
delusion in regard to themselves. They include, for the most part,
teachers, preachers and doctors. They are so wrapped up in this idea,
that they are utterly incapable of appreciating what the race is
actually doing, and trying to do. Of these, perhaps the worst are the
teachers. This is probably because they are paid by the county, and do
not have to cater to the masses for their support." He paused, and
extended his hand. "Glad to know you, stranger, and good-by."
Sidney Wyeth watched him disappear, and then crossed the street to the
building, and entered.
CHAPTER SIX
"_Oh, You Sell Books_"
One beautiful day, the _Palm Leaf Limited_ carried another passenger
southward, aboard the Jim Crow car. It was Mildred Latham, and her
destination required a change at Chattanooga. Turning her course,
however, she went west and alighted at a town, happily located upon the
banks of the Mississippi. It was a large metropolis, a fac-simile of a
sister city, Attalia.
Miss Latham left the depot at once, and proceeded to Beal Street, which
was entirely occupied by Negroes. She entered a restaurant, but soon
came out, and started in search of a room. However, the land-ladies all
told her they preferred men, so she decided to look elsewhere.
A car put her off at a corner far removed from Beal Street. She passed
down a clean, quiet street, lined on either side by comfortable homes
occupied by colored people. She paused before a small but handsome stone
church. It was the First Presbyterian, so the cornerstone read. To the
side, and back from the sidewalk, completely surrounded by vines, was
the parsonage, at least she took it for such. And so it proved to be.
She hesitated a moment, then, with an air of finality, she opened the
gate, entered the yard, and mounted the steps.
The door was opened by a kindly lady, whom she judged to be the pastor's
wife.
"Pardon me, please," began Miss Latham demurely, "but I am a stranger,
recently arrived in the city, and have been unable to secure lodging. I
noted the church next door, and surmised that, if this is the parsonage,
and if the pastor is in, he might assist me." She hesitated, and for a
time seemed at a loss how to proceed. In the meantime, the other
surveyed her critically. Strange women were always regarded with
suspicion. Finally she replied kindly, swinging the door wide:
"Come in, my dear child. You look tired and surely need rest. You must
have come a long way. The pastor of the church you refer to is not in
for the present, and, I regret to say, is out of the city, and is not
expected back for several days. I am his sister, however, and will help
you all I can." She paused as she placed a rocker at the disposal of the
stranger, and relieved her of coat and hat.
"You are very kind," said Mildred gratefully. "I hardly know how to
thank you."
"Please do not speak of it, my dear. As I am alone, you may stay with me
until you have found the kind of place you desire." She was silent and
thoughtful for a moment, and then asked softly, "where are you from?"
"Cincinnati."
"I do declare!" exclaimed the other in mild surprise. "I have relatives
there; but I have never seen the city myself."
The stranger appeared relieved.
"And do you expect to be in the city long?"
"I cannot say. I am here to sell a book, _The Tempest_, a western story,
by a Negro author. And, of course, it depends upon that, as to how long
I shall stay."
"Oh, you sell books." Mildred did not correct her. "I used to sell
books, and, indeed I liked it. I am fond of reading. I am anxious to see
the book you speak of when it is convenient, since I have observed
advertisements of it."
"It is a nice book," Mildred commented. "And as soon as I can have
access to my trunk at the depot, I shall be delighted to let you see and
read it."
"I shall indeed be pleased, I assure you," the other smiled back
sweetly. "I am always so interested when it comes to books, that I wish,
when you have had something to eat, you would tell me the story of _The
Tempest_."
"It will be a pleasure; but you need not fix me lunch, for I just ate a
short time ago, as I came from the station. So, if you now wish, I will
tell, in as few words as possible, and as best I can, the story of this
book.
"The story opens up on the banks of the river, near this city.... It
concerns a young man, restless and discontented, who regarded the world
as a great opportunity. So he set forth to seek his fortune.... Thus it
began, but shortly, it led through a maze of adventures, to a land in
the west. It is, perhaps, the land of the future; a land in which
opportunity awaits for courageous youths, strong men, and good women....
This land is called _The Rosebud Indian Reservation_. It lays in
southern South Dakota, and slopes back from the banks of the 'Big
Muddy', stretching for many miles into the interior beyond. It is a
prairie country. No trees, stumps, rocks or stones mar the progress of
civilization. So the white men and only a few blacks unloaded at a town
on or near the frontier. I think it is called Bonesteel. And then the
mighty herd of human beings flocked and settled over all that broad
expanse, claiming it by the right of conquest.
"Among these many, conspicuous at the front, was the hero of this
narrative. He came into a share, a creditable share, and, although far
removed from the haunts of his own, and surrounded on all sides by a
white race, he was duly inoculated with that spirit which makes men
successful.
"Time went on, and in a few years there was no more reservation, but it
became _The Rosebud Country_, the land of the optimist.
"Then, of course, came to him that longing, that dream, the greatest of
all desires, the love of a woman. But of his own race there were none,
and he did not feel it right to wed a white wife. But at last, he found
one of his own blood. She was kind, good and refined, but in conviction
she was weak, without strength of her own. She loved him--as such women
love, but to her father, a preacher, she was obedient,--subservient.
They lived for some months in happiness, until that other--her
father--came to visit them. These two, her father and her husband,
differed, both in thought and action, and, naturally out of sympathy. In
short, they disagreed upon all points, including the daughter, the wife,
and at last the mother, for in time such she became. And that, strange
to say, instead of being the birth of a new freedom, was the end of all
things.
"So o'er this land of the free there came a change, a sad change, that
led to the end, the end of _The Tempest_." She paused, and allowed her
eyes to remain upon the rug before her, while the other listened for
more. Presently she said:
"And was it her father--who stooped to _this_?"
The other nodded and remained silent, with downcast eyes.
Mildred Latham could not have said more had she wished--just then. A
peculiar feeling came over her, and her mind went back to a night not
long before.
CHAPTER SEVEN
_The Office of the Grand Secretary_
When Sidney Wyeth walked into the office of B.J. Dickson that Sunday
morning, he found him alone, engaged in reading. When a step sounded at
the door, he laid the paper aside and glanced searchingly at the
intruder. Wyeth saw before him, the man of determination: the square
jaw, the determined set of the neck; otherwise he would not attract any
particular attention in a crowd. But this was B.J. Dickson, of whom he
had heard much since coming to Attalia, and even before.
"Mr. Dickson?" he inquired, respectfully. The other nodded, and pointed
to a chair.
"You have charge of the renting here, so I understand?"
"Yes."
"I'd like to get desk space for the present, and later on perhaps I
might require an office."
"I see," mused the other, surveying him meditatively. "Well, we have
nothing left in this building; but I think there are two or three rooms
not yet rented in the building you have observed in course of
construction. What kind of business are you engaged in?"
"Books," replied Sidney, simply.
"M-m. Well, I can't give you any information as to desk space. You can,
however, see Morton tomorrow. His office is on the second floor, the
board of trade. He can enlighten you on that score."
"What do you receive for the rooms?"
"$12.50 a month."
"That is quite reasonable," said Wyeth. The other looked up with a
pleased expression.
"You're one of the few who have made such a remark," he commented.
"Indeed! That would be considered cheap in my section of the country,"
said Wyeth.
"Where is that?"
Wyeth told him.
"Oh well, you come from a place where the people are accustomed to
something. These down here have been used to nothing but an attic or an
old frame shack, a fireplace with wind blowing in at the cracks, and, of
course, cannot appreciate steam heat, electric lights, first class
janitor service, and other modern conveniences that go with such a
building."
At this point, several men entered the room, most of whom were
distinguished looking, compared with the average Negro. Wyeth was
introduced to them, and learned that two were physicians, one a dentist,
another a lawyer, and still another was a letter carrier. The stranger
was soon the object of their many questions. They were answered
deliberately, for Sidney Wyeth was well informed.
"What do you think of the colored people in the south, now that you see
them yourself?" he was asked. He noted the pride and air of dignity
along with the question.
"I am considerably impressed with what I have seen, I am sure," Wyeth
began cautiously. "It is unnecessary to say that this is probably the
most commodious structure owned and occupied by our people, in any city.
And, I have noted with a great deal of pride that you have in the
building, also, some half a dozen large insurance companies, owned and
conducted successfully by members of this race. All of this and other
creditable things, too numerous to mention, count for much in the
solution of the race problem. Much more could be said in praise, but I
do not consider it necessary. And still, with so much to their credit,
there is much also to their discredit--very much. I refer to this, since
it is a thing that can be remedied, and positively should be. To begin
with, the people as a whole, do not read nearly as much as in the north,
and are poorly informed in matters of grave concern and of general
interest." He paused, and saw that they were puzzled. They were, all of
them, taken aback. They looked at each other, and then began to gather
color and heat as well.
Sidney Wyeth had stirred, by his last words, his criticism, the hornet's
nest.
"And what, may I ask," inquired one of the physicians icily, "has given
you that impression?"
"Well, many things," Sidney resumed calmly. "For instance: I am in the
habit of buying _The Climax_, which is, as you know, published in New
York, and edited by a man who used to be professor of sociology in one
of your colleges. Now, in all the places I have been" (he didn't refer
to the north, realizing that it would cause more argument not bearing on
the discussion), "I have found this magazine much in circulation among
our people; but here, at only one place have I found it. You appreciate
that the Negro population of this town is to exceed, without doubt,
sixty thousand. It receives but fifty copies a month, and does not sell
all of _them_--of course there are annual subscribers; but, so there are
everywhere else as well."
"Now--" all began with upraised hand, but Sidney stopped them with:
"I've made this remark, so hear me out, that I may show that I am
justified in making it."
They were quiet, but impatient.
"You have several large drug stores, doing a creditable business in the
city. Omitting a few operated by white men in Negro neighborhoods, you
will hardly find one that does not carry a goodly stock of magazines for
his trade. Not a colored drug store carries one. Tompkins, other than
_The Climax_, does not sell any. Now, gentlemen, with such a population
as you have," (he was very serious now), "is it consistent to believe
that these black people read in proportion to what they should, when
there is so little current demand for literature?"
The outburst that followed this was too intense to describe. The
composure that was in keeping with their appearance and training was,
for the time, lost. Everybody had something to say to the contrary, and,
at the same time.
"I have five hundred dollars worth of books in my house," cried Dickson.
"I take _The Climax_, and have since it began publication," cried still
another.
"Derwin, its editor, is a traitor to his race, and I can prove it,"
persisted another.
"Theah ain' nothin' in it, nohow," yelled another whose English was not
the best.
"It's the only magazine edited by, and in the interest of this race,"
retorted Wyeth; "and has a circulation more than double that of any
other publication by Negroes since freedom."
"You northern Negroes think a whole lot of Derwin, and are imbued with
his point of view," cried Dickson; "but we had him down here before he
went north, and we know him for what he is," and he looked about him
meaningly.
The others gave sanction.
"He's the author of the only book in sociology, that stands out as a
mark of Negro literature. The book is a classic, and is one of possibly
two or three from the pen of a Negro since Dumas."
It is difficult to foretell where the argument may have ended, but
Sidney slipped out. As the door closed behind him, a mighty roar of
indignation came over the transom. "He's a liar." "He's crazy!" "Like
all from that section!"
When these men met Wyeth afterward, and for some time, they did not
recognize him. He was not surprised. They are, and the best of them, in
a measure, still incapable of accepting criticism as it is meant. Our
story will go to prove this more conclusively later on; but for the
present, Sidney Wyeth had made friends....
CHAPTER EIGHT
_Henry Hugh Hodder_
Weeks had passed, and a touch of spring time was in the Dixie air.
Sidney Wyeth's canvass was now assisted by another, while from over the
country he had secured, here and there, an agent to sell the book. He
found desk space in an office on the second floor, hired a stenographer,
and filled the country with circular letters. Perhaps fifty or more
replies were received, a few with a money order and requests for further
information.
Although most of the letters were sent to preachers and teachers
throughout the south, two-thirds of the replies came from the north.
From Boston, New York, Chicago, and centers where literature is
obtainable from the libraries which are open to Negroes, more letters by
far came, than from the south where such is not always available. And
out of these, a few agents were secured. But it seemed almost an
impossibility to interest those at the south in a subject of literature.
One day, there came a letter from a small town in Florida that amused
Wyeth. It was from the secretary of the board of trade. In reply to the
circular inquiry, requesting the names of the Negro preachers in that
city, it ran thus:
MY DEAR SIR: Replying to your favor of recent date relative to the
names of Negro preachers of this city. In regard to this, I am
compelled to say, that I cannot fully enlighten you, for this
reason: Everything with trousers appears to be a preacher, or, any
one who can spell "ligon."
My gardener is a preacher, although he finds my work more
remunerative, apparently; but you could, however, write to him, and
he would, I feel sure, give you the desired information.
When Sidney appraised Tompkins of his failure to get the cooperation of
southern preachers, in his exploit, he was advised that the preachers
were working that "side of the street."
* * * * *
We cannot appreciatively continue this story, without including a
character that is very conspicuous in Negro enterprise. That is the
undertaker. He is always in evidence. Mortality among Negroes exceeds,
by far, that among whites. This is due to conditions that we will not
dwell upon, since they will develop during the course of the story; but
in Attalia, there was one undertaker who was particularly successful. He
had the reputation of burying more Negroes than any man in the world. He
had a son, a ne'er-do-well, to say the least, and they called him
"Spoon."
Sidney, who at this time shared a room with Thurman, became acquainted
with "Spoon" one Sunday night. It was at a "tiger," of which, as we now
know, there were plenty.
Spoon had a reputation in local colored circles, as well as his father;
but Spoon's reputation was not enviable. He was booziogically inclined,
and reputed by those who knew him, to be able to consume more liquor
than any other ordinary society man. Moreover, Spoon was "some" sport,
too; could play the piano, in ragtime tune, and could also "ball the
jack." He would lean back upon the stool, play the latest rag, as no
other could, and at the end, cry: "Give me some more of that 'Sparrow
Gin!'"
Wyeth and Spoon became close friends following their first meeting, and
Sunday nights, they would roam until one or two in the morning. Spoon
knew where every "tiger" in town was; and, moreover, he proved it.
Thurman, although two and fifty, was no "poke;" but was a sport too. His
began early Sunday morning. One Sunday morn, as they lay abed, after the
light of the world had come back and claimed its own, Thurman called to
Sidney where the other lay reposing in the pages of a "best seller."
"Say, kid! how 'bout a little toddy this mawnin'?"
"I'm there," came the reply.
"Good!" exclaimed Thurman. "Guess, tho' I'll haf to go after it, 's see
you lost in a book all time. Gee! Looks lak you'd lose your mind
a-readin' so much." No comment. "Guess that's why you got all these
nigga's a-argun' 'roun' heah though; cause you read and they don't. M-m;
yeh, yeh; that makes a diff'nce. M-m."
"Wull, reckon' ah'll haf t' git in muh breeches and crawl ou' and git
dat stuff t' make it wid. M-m. Old Mis' 'roun' the conah 'll be glad t'
git dis twenty cents dis mawnin'. M-m. Wull, kid, be back t'rectly."
He was, sooner than expected. He didn't get outside. He peeped out. What
met his gaze would send any southern rheumatic Negro back.
It was snow.
"Jesus Chr-i-s-t!" he exclaimed, returning hastily from the hallway.
"Hell has sho turned on dis' mawnin out dare. K-whew! 'f the's anything
in this world I hates, it's snow."
Sidney stopped reading long enough for a good laugh, as Thurman skinned
off his trousers and clambered back into bed.
"Aw, shucks, Thur, this is a morning for toddies."
"A mawnin' fo' Hell, yes, hu! hu! Wow!"
After a spell, he peeped from beneath the coverlets. "Say! since ah come
t' think uv't, we c'n have them toddies wid-out get'n froze out in doin'
it."
"How's that?" asked the other.
"I'll get dat liquah from John."
"And who is John?"
"John? Wull, did'n' you git 'quainted wi'im when I brung you heah?
John's the man we room with. He sells liquah."
* * * * *
"Say Spoon," said Sidney one day, "I'm going to cut the tiger kitin'
out."
"Aw, gwan, kid, what you talkin' 'bout?"
"I'm going to church in the mornings, and in the evenings, I hope to
find a place that will be more in keeping with respectable people,"
announced Sidney.
"Come on, let's go up here to old lady Macks, and get some of that
'Sparrow Gin,'" Spoon suggested, temptingly.
"To prove that I am not likely to keep my resolution."
"You've none to keep as I can particular see. I have never seen you
drink anything stronger than beer when you've been with me. You seem to
go along with me, to see me and the others act a fool. Sometimes you
impress me as being a strange person.... I wonder. Now I wonder...."
"Where is a church that would be likely to appeal to you and myself?"
"Up on Herald Street is one that I think will appeal to _you_. You're
serious. Me--I'm quite unfit for any; but I'll take you up there, and
sit through one of Hodder's sermons if you care to go. My people are
members of that church, and it is a progressive one."
"We will attend services there--Sunday morning."
Wyeth became a regular visitor.
The following Sunday, the pastor appraised the congregation of the fact,
that on the following Sunday, they would have with them the Reverend W.
Jacobs, the energetic young man who was doing such great work for the
training of wayward children. And this takes our story into a matter of
grave human interest.
Coincident with better educational facilities, and the more careful
training of the children, time had brought a change that was slowly but
surely being felt by these black people in the south. It has already
been stated, that the Baptist church required little literary training
in order to preach; but, in this church, it is quite different, and no
man would be tolerated as a minister, who had not a great amount of
theological, as well as literary training.
Henry Hugh Hodder was a man, not only prepared in the lines of theology
and literature, but was fully supplied with practical knowledge as well.
He had, at the time Sidney Wyeth became acquainted with him, gathered to
his church, a majority of Attalia's best black people. His popularity
was, moreover, on the increase, and his church was filled regularly
with a class of people who listened, studied and applied to their
welfare, what he said each Sunday in the pulpit.
His church stood on a corner to the edge of the black belt, and near a
fashionable white neighborhood. And it had, at the time it was
constructed, caused considerable agitation. When Sidney and Spoon came
to the door, prayer was being offered, and when it was over, they
entered, taking seats near the door.
It was a nicely ventilated church, with large colored windows, arranged
to allow air to pass in without coming directly upon the congregation.
At the front, a small rostrum rose to the level of the rear, and
contained, in addition to the altar, only four chairs. Sidney was told
afterwards, that, due to a practice always followed in other churches,
particularly the Baptist, of allowing journeymen preachers to put
themselves before the congregation uninvited, Hodder had removed the
chairs in order to discourage such practice.
Apparently he had succeeded, for, on the Sundays that followed, Sidney
saw only those who were invited, facing the congregation.
Directly over the rostrum hung a small balcony, which contained the
choir and a pipe organ. Following a song, the pastor came forward. He
was a tall man, with width in proportion, perhaps two hundred and twenty
pounds. Not unlike the average Negro of today, he was brown-skinned. His
hair, a curly mass of blackness, was brushed back from a high forehead.
His voice, as he opened the sermon, was deep and resonant. And for his
text that day, he took "Does It Pay!"
Not since Sidney Wyeth had attended church and heard sermons, had he
been so stirred by a discourse! Back into the ancient times; to the
history of Judea and Caesar, he took the listener, and then subtly
applied it to the life of today. Never had he heard one whose eloquence
could so blend with everyday issues, and cause them to react as moral
uplift. For he knew the black Oman's need. Pen cannot describe its
effect upon Sidney Wyeth. It seemed, as the words of the pastor came to
him, revealing a thousand moral truths, which he had felt, but could
not express, that he had come from afar for a great thing, that sermon.
It lifted him out of the chaos of the present, and brought him to
appreciate what life, and the duty of existence really meant.
Having, in a sense, drifted away from the pious training he had received
as a youth, Sidney Wyeth was suddenly jerked back to the past, and
enjoyed the experience. On account of his progressive ideas, he had been
accused, by some of his people, since his return to live among them, of
being an unbeliever. He was often told that he was not a Christian; they
meant, of course, that he was not a member of a church, which, to most
colored people, is equivalent to disbelief. Sidney Wyeth saw the life,
the instance of Christ as a moral lesson.
When the sermon closed, Wyeth had one desire, and fulfilled it, and that
was to shake Henry Hugh Hodder's hand; moreover, to tell him, in the
only way he knew how, what the sermon had been to him.
He did so, and was received very simply.
As he approached the rostrum, at the foot of which stood the pastor,
shaking hands with many others who had come forward in the meantime, he
was like one walking on air. He recalled the many sermons preached to
satisfy the emotion of an ignorant mass, and which, in hundreds of
instances, went wide of the mark, causing a large portion of the
congregation to rise in their seats, and give utterance to emotional
discordance, the same being often forgotten by the morrow.
Hodder was not only as he was just described, but he proved to Sidney
Wyeth to be a practical, informed, and observing man as well. When he
had received the card, he inquired of the country from whence Sidney
came, and related briefly the notices he had followed, regarding its
opening a few years previous.
At that moment, a large man, almost white--that is, he was white,
although a colored man--was introduced to him as Mr. Herman. He proved
to be the proprietor of the large barber shop on Plum Street, which had
caught Sidney's attention the day he came. After Mr. Herman's
introduction, he met many others prominent in Negro circles, including
the president and cashier of the local Negro bank. And thus it came that
Sidney Wyeth met these, the new Negro, and the leaders of a new
dispensation.
Two hours after the services had closed, he passed a big church on
Audubon Avenue; a church of the "old style religion" and, which most
Negroes still like. It was then after two o'clock. Morning service was
still in order--no, the sermon had closed, but collection hadn't. Out of
curiosity, he entered. The pastor had, during this period, concentrated
his arts on the collection table. He was just relating the instance of
people who put their dollar over one eye, so closely, that it was liable
to freeze to the eye and bring about utter blindness. "So now," he
roared, brandishing his arms in a rally call, "_We jes' need a few
dollahs mo' to make the collection fo'ty-fo'. I'll put in a quata',
who'll do the rest_," whereupon the choir gave forth a mighty tune, that
filled the church with a strain which made some feel like dancing.
The following Tuesday, an editorial appeared in one of the leading
dailies, concerning the sermon and the instance of Henry Hugh Hodder. It
dwelt at some length on his work for the evolution of his people, and
concluded by praying that (among the black population) great would be
the day when such men and such sermons were an established order.
Sidney, now in an office to himself, read it to a man next door.
Whereupon the other said:
"Oh, that is nothing unusual. They often speak of him and his work in
the editorial columns. Which might account for his having such a fine
church." ...
Wyeth was silent, apparently at a loss what to say. The silence had
reached a point which was becoming strained, when another, who happened
to be in the office, relieved it by spitting out sneeringly:
"White fo'kes'll give any nigga plenty money, when he says what they
want him too." He was a deacon in the big church referred to. This was
not investigated.
Wyeth called him a liar then and there.
CHAPTER NINE
"_Sweet Genevieve_"
"Wilson, dear," said Constance Jacobs to her brother, the pastor, on his
return from Attalia, Effingham, and other places where he was required
to go in the interest of his work. Coming up to him in her usual manner,
she kissed him fondly, for she was not only fond of this, her only
brother, but she was proud of him. Well she could be, for Wilson Jacobs
was a hard, conscientious worker in the moral uplift of his people. "I
have a surprise in store for you," she said, "and if you are comfortable
I will tell you."
"Little sister," he said, as he kissed her fondly in return, and gave
her his undivided attention.
"I hardly know how to tell you, but I have with me, someone who came
during your absence; the most unusual to be a usual girl I have ever
known." She then related the instance of Mildred Latham's coming, and
the circumstance, including the book. "I have read the book that she is
selling, and with which she seems to be very successful, in fact, she is
so successful that I am almost persuaded to take up the work myself. The
story is interesting; but it is not that which has caused me much
thought, it is the girl herself.
"She is a beautiful girl, intelligent, kind and winning, although she
does not, as I can see, practice or exercise any arts to be winning. She
is single, and does not appear to have any interest in the opposite sex,
nor does she appear to care for any society. In fact, besides being nice
and kind to all whom she chances to meet, she does not have any interest
beyond the book. She is simply foolish about it, just as much so as
though the author were her lover, and depended upon her for its success.
"There is something peculiar, that is, oh, Wilson, there is something,
just something that I cannot understand about her, that's all." She gave
up trying to express herself for a time, and then he spoke:
"In love, no doubt, and has had trouble."
"Yes," she said, then shook her head. "It might be that; but if it is,
it is an extraordinary love affair; but I am confident it is deeper than
that. I catch her at times looking into space as though her mind were
far away. And at these times, I have taken notice that she is sad, very
sad. My heart goes out to her when I see her like this, because, for
some peculiar reason, I have fallen in love with her. She found a place
to stay, and was going to move, but I could not think of it. She is the
sweetest companion I ever had.
"I wish you would become interested in her, dear. I want you to. Perhaps
you can get at the bottom of the mystery that surrounds her. I cannot,
and it worries me, because I want to help her, and it hurts me when I
feel that I cannot. She has become very much interested in your work,
and has been helping me in the correspondence relative to the same."
"When can I meet this strange person you speak of, Constance? I am
curious, from what you have said. I gather already that she may be able
to help us in some way in our work."
"She went down the street for a walk, but will return shortly, since she
never goes far." At that moment, steps sounded on the porch, and a
moment later, Mildred entered quietly, and was on the way to her room,
when Constance met her with: "Oh, Miss Latham. Please meet my brother
who came since you went out. Miss Latham, my brother, Wilson Jacobs."
"My sister has just been speaking of you, Miss Latham," said he, after
the exchange had been made.
"Indeed!" cried Mildred, smiling pleasantly upon Constance. "Your sister
does me too much honor."
"Not a bit. I am glad to know you, and shall be pleased to become better
acquainted as time goes on. I am told that you are selling a good book.
I have observed advertisements of the same some time ago, and will be
delighted to read it."
Mildred smiled pleasantly, hesitated, and then said: "Every one I sell
to report that they love the book. I do myself. I think it is such a
frank and unbiased story, and told so simply, that anyone can understand
it; yet with a touching human interest that is, in a measure, vital to
us all. Even persons more highly gifted can learn something from it, and
be entertained as well."
"She has sold over a hundred copies in three weeks, which I think is
extraordinary, don't you?" said Constance at this point, whereupon
Mildred looked slightly embarrassed. She always did when anyone spoke in
praise of her.
"Extraordinary, excellent, I should say," her brother smiled. "Where
does she find such good customers?"
"I work among the women in domestic service," Mildred explained. Wilson
looked surprised.
"Indeed! And do you find many readers among them? You have not been to
many of the teachers?"
"I have, yes; but they do not seem to take much interest in work by
Negroes, so far as I have been able to gather. I could not say for sure,
of course not; but I _do_ find the women in service, in great numbers,
to be fond of reading and full of race pride. Of course, there are
multitudes of ignorant ones who are not capable of appreciating
literature and its value as moral uplift, but, as a whole, I am highly
successful."
Wilson Jacobs was greatly moved by his first conversation with Mildred,
and found himself thinking about her more than once in the days that
followed. His sister became so deeply interested in her, that after a
week had passed, she had taken up the work also.
"Do you ever play, Miss Latham?" inquired Constance a few days
afterward, and late one afternoon, when they had returned from their
work.
"A little," Mildred admitted. "But it has been so long since I have
touched a key, that I am sure I should be very awkward if I attempted
it. I think you play nicely."
The other laughed. "I only play when I am quite sure no one is likely to
hear me. There is one piece I can play, and of which I am very fond. I
heard you humming it the other day. As soon as the parlor is 'comfy,' I
shall ask you to condescend to listen to me play it."
"What piece is that? Please tell me," Mildred inquired.
"Sweet Genevieve."
"Oh, yes...."
"Why, what is the matter, dearest?" cried Constance, hurrying toward
her.
"Nothing, nothing!" said the other, hastily mopping her nose and eyes.
"Well, I'm relieved, but I thought I heard you sob, but of course you
didn't. Of course not. Really, I begin to feel that if I don't get
married soon, I'll become a nervous, cranky old maid."
"Please don't say such things about yourself," entreated Mildred. "You
were not mistaken. I did--ah--I sobbed--I mean I coughed. I had
something in my throat," she concluded nervously.
"I'm relieved," smiled the other, and, going to the piano, she struck
the keys, and sang in a high contralto voice:
"O, Genevieve, I'd give the world
To live again the lovely past!
The rose of youth was dew-impearled;
But now it withers in the blast.
I see thy face in every dream,
My waking thoughts are full of thee;
Thy glance is in the starry beam
That falls along the summer sea."
It was in the small hours of the morning when Mildred Latham's eyes
closed in sleep. All the night through, the strains of _Sweet Genevieve_
and what it recalled, tortured her memory, until it was from sheer
fatigue that she did at last fall asleep.
She hoped Constance would play _Sweet Genevieve_ no more.
CHAPTER TEN
"_Do Something and You'll Find Out_"
In Attalia, there is a street which includes all that goes with
Ethiopian. It is called Dalton street, and along its narrow way--for it
is narrow, and one of the oldest streets in the city--occurs much that
is deplorable.
On this selfsame street, an incident took place, in which Sidney Wyeth
happened to figure as more than the casual observer.
It was in late afternoon of a cold wet day. He had been delivering
books, and had a considerable amount of the proceeds of the delivery in
his pockets, when, while on the way to the office, he chanced to be
passing down this street. He looked up, and found himself before a
large, odd appearing structure. A uniformed man stood at the front, and,
in passing, Wyeth paused a moment, took in the proportions of the
building with a critical gaze, and inquired of the man what it was.
The other looked at him with an expression which seemed to say: "You
ought to know!" But grinning, he replied:
"Do something and you'll damn quick find out! It's the police station."
"M-m-m-m! You wouldn't be likely to find out if you didn't, I suppose,"
he laughed, as he continued on his way.
During Sidney Wyeth's bachelor life on the _Rosebud_, he had been a
victim of the habit of going to town, and loafing the night through,
occasionally. There had, in the beginning, been a great deal of gambling
there, and to watch this was an absorbing pastime. It served, also, as
he then felt, as a diversion to break the monotony of his lonesome life.
Now there were places--if not gambling dens--in Attalia also, where one
could loaf at night. When his correspondence was completed that evening,
he felt a "Call of the Wild" in his blood, and went forth on a
pilgrimage of this kind. In company with a chauffeur, he left for his
room about one thirty A.M. the following morning. They had not, however,
gone far before the clouds had gathered. They didn't see the clouds--at
first--but the clouds saw them. They happened to be a pair of meddlesome
bull-cops. It has been stated that the hour was about one thirty, but
the cops said two. Moreover, they wished to know what business
occasioned two young men to be out at such an hour.
Sidney felt slightly insulted, and stepped aside to let them by, thereby
wishing to avoid any argument. The cops stepped aside also, but to see
that they did not get too far out of the way. Said one--and he was the
burliest--"Well, boys, where have you been?" "Where have we been?" said
Wyeth, to himself. "Now wouldn't that frost you!" What business of these
men was it? They had positively not been acting suspicious, nor were
they seen fighting, and neither were they drunk. So, then, what right
had two burley cops to get in the way, and ask such impertinent
questions. Sidney felt like making an indignant reply, he felt like
fighting; then he did some quick thinking, and decided to be patient,
answering the questions in an offhand way, and so be on his way, for he
felt sleepy. And then, again, he observed that they wore great big
sticks, with which they toyed idly, as they waited for reply.
"Aw, knocking around." It was Wyeth who made this reply.
"Aw, knockin' 'roun'," said the big cop, who had now grown ugly in the
sight of Wyeth, and he repeated this mockingly. And now spoke the
chauffeur, who had grown up in those parts. He was diplomatic. Said he:
"I'm jes' gettin' off frum we'k, cap'n," and despite his look of truth
and sincerity, he trembled perceptibly.
Sidney observed him with a touch of disgust.
"Is that so-o?" said the cop, more sneeringly now than ever. Sidney had
enough, and started to go by, but the blue-coat blocked his way
roughly, and cried out, with club grasped: "Where yu' been, nigger?"
Wyeth was shocked beyond speech. Evidently, he had not as yet come to
appreciate that he was otherwise than on the _Rosebud_. "Where you been,
nigger?" came the terrible voice once more.
Wyeth woke up. Moreover, he became obviously frightened. He replied--and
lo! He was trembling also, as he cried:
"What do you mean, Mr. Policeman!" He was now wild-eyed. "I'm not
breaking the law; I have done nothing; I am on the way to my room and to
bed. Why do you hold me up this way. I don't think I am obliged to
answer such questions as you ask; but I have been calling, I cannot see
that it matters where, since--"
"Aw don't talk to the man lak dat," whimpered the chauffeur.
"I'll knock your damned head off, nigger! What'n Hell's got int' you to
talk to a white man like that!" He turned his face to the other who had
not, up to then, said anything, and said: "Let's arrest them!" The other
acquiesced. "Come on!" he roared, grabbing the chauffeur by the belt of
his trousers, and whirling him about. The other caught Sidney likewise,
but was more civil in the act.
"Good Lord, Mister," said he to his cop, "why are you arresting us? We
have done nothing!"
"Got orders to pick up everybody after one o'clock who looks
_suspicious_, and cannot give good accounts of themselves," he replied
soberly.
"I wish I had known it," Wyeth sighed wearily; "but I'm at least glad
that I didn't have him lead me," he said, pointing to the cop who had
the chauffeur.
"You made him mad," grinned the patrolman. "You must not live here?"
"No, Lord, and I wish at this moment I had never come."
"When a white man speaks to you down here, always answer him 'sir!'" he
advised.
"I most assuredly will, if I meet any more like him," said Sidney
meekly. After a moment of silence as they stumbled along, he said
thoughtfully: "I hate this. I've never been arrested before in my life.
Will they lock us up?"
"Oh, sure!" the other laughed.
"M-m-m-m--m!"
"Jes' lemme go this time, Mister," whined the chauffeur ahead, "'n' I
won' neve' be out late no mo'."
"I'm sorry, son," said the bull-cop a little kindly, "but it's
impossible. I o'n' think you are bad 'tall, but that other nigger's
crooked, 'n' I know he is," he said, pointing back at Wyeth. He was
overheard, and despite the precarious condition Wyeth realized he was
in, he smiled.
"He's sho got a bad 'pinion a-you, son," laughed Wyeth's cop.
"I'll go t' bed eve' night at nine 'clock--eight 'f you say so," begged
the chauffeur, as they neared the patrol box.
While they were waiting for the "wagon," the copper with the chauffeur
in charge turned that worthy over to the other cop, and ran across the
street to intercept another Negro. That one happened to be a waiter who
worked at night, and was, accordingly, allowed to go his way; but he had
been off work since ten o'clock. Wyeth and the chauffeur had left him at
the palm garden when they departed, but that was no argument now. The
other went his way, whistling cheerfully, while they stood prisoners of
the law.
It was a dreadful experience for Sidney Wyeth.
A mighty but familiar jingling of bells proclaimed that the "wagon" was
on the way, and in an incredibly short time they were pushed inside. As
the door closed, with a bigger cop than the others between the culprits
(?) and the door, these words came to Wyeth's ears: "Idling and
Loitering!"
"Youse the cause a-this," accused the chauffeur angrily.
Wyeth laughed outright.
"How c'n you laf 'n' us on the way t' the lock-up!"
Wyeth laughed in earnest now, while the bull smiled naively.
"I wish I'd a-neve' seen you," said the other wearily.
"It's vain to make such wishes now;" and then something occurred to him.
He had been to the bank, but had, fortunately, not deposited all he had.
"Say, Governor," he cried, "if a man should put up money when he is
taken before the clerk, or whoever it is that receives us, would they
allow him to return without locking him up?" His inquiry was eager. The
other replied:
"Most assuredly."
"Good! How much will I have to put up to keep from being locked up?"
"About ten dollars and seventy-five cents."
Wyeth did some counting. "I have ten fifty. Will they let me out on
that?"
"I think so."
"What you goin' do 'bout me?" put in the chauffeur.
"Do about you!" said Wyeth. "What you going to do about yourself? I'm
not your guardian."
"But I ain' got bu' fifty cents," he wailed despairingly.
"Then methinks you will sleep on Dalton street tonight."
They had arrived at the station by this time. Wyeth recalled a few hours
before with a feeling of awe, as he recognized the place and the words
the man had used.
"What's your name?" demanded the clerk of the chauffeur.
"Boise Demon."
"Yours!"
Wyeth gave it, and as the clerk made a record of it, he made inquiry
regarding a bond.
"All right. Ten seventy-five."
"I have but ten fifty."
"See the sargent."
"What's the charge?" inquired that orderly, coming forward.
"Id'ling and loitering."
"Let him off for ten."
"Pay me out, pay me out!" trembled the chauffeur.
"Shut up!" commanded Sidney. "Haven't you heard me say I had but ten
fifty?"
"Then do'n go, do'n go; stay with me!"
"Like Hell, I will!" exclaimed Wyeth with a laugh. The officers standing
about, laughed also, and said:
"Don't be 'fraid, honey. You'll have lots a-company."
Wyeth handed over ten dollars, and a moment later passed into the street
where a soft rain was falling. "Jesus," he muttered; "I'm sure glad I
kept that money." And then, ere he had got far, he heard a cell door
clang, and thought about Demon. At the same moment, there came to his
ears the music of many throats singing: "Don't you leave me here!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"_Jedge L'yles' Co't_"
Wyeth sneaked into the room without waking Thurman that morning. Nor did
he inform him of his good fortune, when the other arose two hours later
to go to work. He did not sleep any that night, and, since he had to be
to the court at eight-thirty or forfeit his bond, he arose early,
dressed, and in due time, he sat in the large theatre.
Perhaps if Sidney Wyeth had suspected what would come to pass that
morning, he would have forfeited the bond by not putting in his
appearance; but when he put up the collateral the night before, he had
observed a mark of respect in the officers. He was sufficiently
acquainted with the courts from a distance, to realize that the average
Negro brought before that tribunal--with the possible exception of a
boot-legger--seldom brought any money or had any at home, and invariably
went in great numbers to the stockade. Moreover, the sargent and the
clerk, too, had advised him that he might not possibly be fined at all.
Therefore, when he left for the court, he had no thought other than that
he would go free, and have his money returned.
"It will, of course," they had said, "depend upon how Judge Loyal feels
when you appear."
He had heard something regarding this "feeling" before. He meditated as
he made his way in that direction. And still he recalled more of what he
had heard, which was to the effect that if "his stomach was upset, look
out!"
He hoped Judge Loyal didn't suffer with dyspepsia or indigestion....
As he neared that place he now remembered so well, he was overwhelmed
with memories. He recalled this same court, more than ten years before.
It was in a leading magazine. It was, moreover, he recalled, an
interesting story, too. "Wonder if it will prove so today," he mused
silently....
And now he was inside the court room. He was early, and so were many
others. He recalled, with another twitch of the memory, that Judge Loyal
had presided ten years before. He would see him today. "There he is
now," he said to himself, as an old man with white hair came upon the
platform, and took a seat behind the bench.
But it was the clerk. Judge Loyal came later, so did others, many
others.
And now all that he had read in that article many years before, suddenly
came back to him clearly. It overwhelmed him. The article concerned that
court--and Negroes--Negroes--Negroes--a court of Negroes. And now he was
a part of them. Although on the outside, he felt guilty. He was supposed
to answer when his name was called.
The court room was filling rapidly. They were herded behind huge doors,
to the left of the room. Black men and a few whites. A mass of criminal
humanity. He shuddered. He wished now to be over and out of it as soon
as possible. And then he experienced a cold fear. It became stronger. It
developed until it became a chilly premonition that Judge Loyal (Jedge
L'yles, as these Negroes called him) would be feeling badly that day.
This feeling persisted until it became a reality.
It was now eight-forty. In ten minutes court would begin. But still
others came, and came, and came. Women and men, boys and girls--even
children. And eighty per cent of them were Negroes, his people. Would
they never quit coming? What manner of business did these people conduct
that brought so many into court? And at last came the judge. He was, in
all appearance, a young man. Evidently he was not, because Sidney had
been told that he had been on that bench for twenty-five years.
Court was then opened. Inside a fencing, many white people sat in
chairs. Who they were, or what part of the proceeding they represented,
he could not tell. Prisoners were then being arraigned. From somewhere,
he did not see, but it was not from the detention room where the
"_great_" herd was, a young Negro of striking appearance was led
forward. He was tall and slender, and what caught the attention of
Sidney Wyeth was, that there was nothing criminal in his appearance. He
was about twenty-five years of age, and wore shackles about his ankles,
as well as upon his wrists. He made a pathetic picture. Sidney listened
carefully, as he stood before the judge, while talking in an undertone.
He could not hear what was said, but, presently, the prisoner was led
outside and away. He never learned what charge was made against this
young man, although he would have liked to know.
On a table that stood to one side of the bench, behind which the judge
and clerk sat, were several cases of liquor.
Evidence against some poor devil was strong, thought Wyeth.
The gavel fell.
The first prisoner brought forward and placed before the judge, was a
Negro of medium size and height, and about middle age. He did not
possess the look of a criminal either. In fact, not all of these people,
or any great part of them, appeared to be criminal, if Sidney Wyeth had
observed criminology correctly. Yet there was a charge, himself for
instance. This one was charged with having been drunk and making a big
noise.
He admitted the charge.
"Where did you get it," demanded Judge Loyal.
"On Dalton street."
"Who from?"
"A nigga."
"Who was he?"
"A nigga."
"I don't mean that. What was his name?"
"Dunno."
"You don't know, yet you purchased enough liquor of him to get drunk,
whoop it up and disturb the peace of the populace."
"Yassar."
"Did you ever see him before?"
"Nawsar."
"Was it corn whiskey or rye?"
"Niedda."
"Well--what was it?"
"Gin."
"Oh! Gin...."
"Sparrow Gin."
"Ten dollars and cost. Next!"
There was some delay before the next ones were brought forward. When
they came, there was some anxiety. They were white men from one of the
suburbs. As to how they happened to be in this court was a matter for
conjecture; but the charge was fighting.
A witness mounted the stand by request.
"Your name is?--"
"Bill Sykes."
"William Sykes. Very well, William Sykes, what do you know about this
affair? Tell it to the court."
"Yer' 'onah, Judge," began Sykes, drawing his jeans coat sleeve across
his mouth. "Yistidy I left home 'bout four a-clock 'n' come dawn to Abe
Thomas' store, as I usually do for some t'baccer."
"State what you know about this disturbance," cut in the recorder's
voice. "The court has nothing to do about your tobacco."
"Well, 's I started to say. I come down after some t'baccer.----"
"Witness ordered removed from the stand. Put up the next," commanded the
judge.
Bill Sykes was summarily removed, as he muttered: "This is shore an all
fired place to tell somethin'."
"Your name is?"
"Silas Harris."
"Silas Harris, state briefly to the court what you know about this
case."
"Well, sir, Judge, yer 'onah. It was sho'tly afta' fo' er-clock when I
came down to Abe Thomas' store, 's I always do to get a chaw t'baccer."
The judge looked disgusted. Silas resumed.
"'N' I wa'nt no morn' inside before Chris Tuttle says, says he t' me,
'ah Si', says he t' me, ah gimme a chaw t'baccer. Then I says to him,
says I t' him, 'ah Chris,' says I t' him, 'I ain' got no t'baccer, 'n' I
jes' come down t' see 'f I couldn't get a chaw of'n you!' says I t' him;
'but,' says I, says I t' him. 'I ain' got no t'baccer, Chris,' says I t'
him; 'but I God, I got some a 's good-a ole rosin as yer ever broke a
tooth on.'"
"Case Nolle-prossed."
Several Negroes were brought before the bar for various misdemeanors,
were fined and few dismissed, while a great many were bound over. The
next case to arouse any special attention, pertained to two white girls
who were brought forward with drooped heads, and made a picture that
attracted the attention of the crowd. The recorder frowned, as he
observed then questioningly.
"What's the charge?" he inquired of the officer, who presented himself
as prosecutor.
"Soliciting."
"All right, prefer it."
"Your honor, Judge. I found these young women hanging around Dewitt and
Carlton streets this morning about one o'clock, and advised them to
'beat' it. They disappeared for a spell, but at a quarter past two they
were out again, and I heard them and saw them accost several men who
happened to be coming from work. Presently a couple halted, and a few
minutes later the four disappeared within a rooming house. I had been
watching this house, and was positive it was crooked. I followed them a
little later, and when I was inside, I looked about for a clerk and
register that I did not find. Then I overheard talking in low tones in a
couple of the rooms. When I knocked on the door, all was quiet and the
doors were not opened. I then demanded the doors be opened in the name
of the law. A scrambling followed, I heard windows go up, and a little
later men hit the ground below. When I entered the rooms I found these
young women alone, and put them under arrest."
The court room was very silent. All eyes were upon the prisoners. The
fact that the girls were both beautiful seemed to provoke the judge, and
he was very cold of demeanor.
"What excuse have you to offer for such acts of indiscretion?" he
inquired presently, and eyed them severely.
They both burst out crying and clung to each other, which made a very
pathetic picture. "We wasn't doing anything, Mr. Judge. Not anything. We
lived there and the men were our husbands," said one, while the other
cried woefully. The recorder eyed them critically, before speaking in a
tone of extreme severity:
"Why, then, did they jump out the windows and run away.... Don't you
think that was very cowardly for _husbands_?"
"O-oh," they cried now like two poor souls about to enter purgatory.
They almost made others cry, too. But the judge was unbending. He looked
forbidding, and as cold as steel as he said:
"Young women like you two should exercise more discretion. If you _must_
conduct yourselves to the disgrace of the community in such manner, you
should keep off the streets with your _men_ at such ungodly hours. I am,
therefore, going to impose a fine of $10 and costs upon each of you for
delinquency. Next!"
"Boise Demon and Sidney Wyeth!" called the clerk with his eyes on the
docket.
The pair now stood facing the court.
"Your Honor," began the officer, who had Wyeth in charge the night
before, preferring the charge, "we found these fellows at two o'clock
this morning, going in the direction of Warren street. And since, as you
know, we have orders to intercept all people whose appearance is
suspicious, and since they failed to give an account of themselves that
was satisfactory, we considered it expedient to place them under
arrest."
The recorder nodded his acquiescence.
"Your name?" he inquired of the chauffeur.
"Boise Demon."
"And yours?" of Wyeth.
"What's your occupation, Demon?"
"I'm a chauffeur 'n' wo'ks fo' Mr. Baron Ciders. You know him. 'Es mah
boss. 'Es got a office in the--"
"Why weren't you at home in bed ten hours before you were charged with
being on the street?" he demanded.
Demon's jaw fell. Sidney looked discouraged.
It was a self-evident fact now that Judge Loyal's stomach was out of
order....
Demon's excuse was a variation that failed to impress the judge as being
the truth. Wyeth languidly resigned himself to the inevitable.
"What is your occupation, Wyeth?" he now turned his gaze upon Sidney.
He was told.
"What's your excuse for being upon the streets at two A.M.?"
"Nothing!" calmly.
The judge regarded him in silence, while the pair waited for the
sentence. Still the judge paused. As he did so, Wyeth heard him belch
slightly, as if decided. A moment later came the words:
"Fine you fellows $5 and costs. You must keep off the street loafing
about all night. Next!"
They were turned about automatically, and then Wyeth found himself
looking down on a low, deformed creature. He had been told about him
also, and why he was deformed.
It had come about during a terrific race riot of a few years before, and
the incident will ever live in the history of Attalia. It was then this
creature became crippled. He was, at the time, one of the strongest and
most capable officers on the force. But, upon being sent to make an
arrest, he happened onto a "bad" Negro, run amuck. He was, to say the
least, however, far more fortunate than a dozen others, for they had
been sent to their happy hunting ground before the riot was quelled.
Since then, he had acted as a sort of bailiff.
Peeping up at Wyeth he said: "You have up collateral, do you not?"
"Pay me out, pay me out!" cried Demon, at this point.
Wyeth nodded.
"Then you step aside, and follow the officer downstairs to the clerk's
office," he instructed.
"Pay me out, pay me out!" from Demon again.
Wyeth frowned and pinched him good. "I wish to confer in regard to this
fellow," said he to hunchy, as they were being waited for.
In the detention room, Demon secured a loan of fifty cents from another
miscreant, and a moment later, they stood before the clerk.
When the fines had been paid, the officer said: "Now Demon, you can go,
but I am ordered to hold Wyeth as a suspicious character."
"Well I'll be damned!" was all Wyeth said.
* * * * *
"Take me at once before him," he cried, when they were again in the
court room, at the same time flashing his check book which he had placed
in his pocket for precautionary measures. Demon had followed them
gratefully back up the stairs, and now stood about muttering in a low
tone: "Ain' that Hell, _ain' that Hell_!" Wyeth motioned him aside,
resolutely.
Once more he stood before his Honor. Upon recognizing him, the recorder
looked at the officer with a question. His face had cleared of the frown
it wore some time before, and Wyeth concluded his stomach was better.
The officer preferred the charge, whereupon he looked at Wyeth keenly.
Wyeth made a motion. It was granted.
"I dislike, very much, your Honor, to be kept in this court room so
unceremoniously. I am no criminal, and my time is worth something. Now
if I may be permitted to put up more money, I have just paid a fine for
being out late for myself, as well as for another, and go my way until
this thing is done with, I'll appreciate it."
"Very well. Twenty-five dollars."
Wyeth paid it, and never returned to take it down.
When he got back to his room after it was all over, thirty-six dollars
to the bad, he opened the book of resolutions and recorded therein:
"Resolved! That to give heed to the 'Call of the Wild' in Attalia, is a
very expensive diversion, albeit a lesson; therefore, henceforth, twelve
o'clock will find me in the land of nod."
CHAPTER TWELVE
_A Jew_; _a Gentile_; _a Murder_--_and Some More_
"Look here, kid, they tell me they had you," jollied Spoon, when he saw
Wyeth that evening at Hatfield's ice cream parlor.
"You're breaking into print," laughed "Bubber" Hatfield, unfolding a
green sheet, _The Searchlight_, a sensational four-page afternoon
affair, which made a specialty of court news, and which most colored
people read. They are fond of such news.
Frowning, while all those standing about laughed, he took the sheet and
read:
NEGRO FROM THE NORTH WAS SURPRISED
In a few colored paragraphs, it described his appearance before the
recorder. And in conclusion, it had these trite words, purported to have
been said by him: "Dey don' have dem kind of laws up norf."
* * * * *
The following Saturday, he dropped into Tompkins' and was introduced to
a man who impressed him considerably. At the first glance, he could see
he was not a southerner. Before he made his acquaintance, he overheard
him discussing books with Tompkins, and when he heard him speaking of
the latest works of fiction, he opened his ears. To hear a Negro in
Attalia discussing novels, the late ones, was something new to him; in
fact, he had heard the most of those he met discuss but one, a salacious
one from the pen of a noted English author and playwright, and which
cannot be had at the libraries, but is, nevertheless, a masterpiece.
He grasped his hand cordially, and they at once entered into
conversation. His name was Edwards. "This gentleman," explained
Tompkins, "is the author of the book you and your friend were looking
at this afternoon." Edwards' eyebrows went up with considerable
pleasure, as he cried in a voice that was, to say the least, cordial:
"Indeed! I am honored to meet a real author." Sidney, however, was much
embarrassed. He disliked to be pointed out as an author among his
people. The most of those he met had impressed him with the feeling that
an author must be something extraordinary, and were usually disappointed
to find them only human beings like themselves. Edwards, however, was
not only an individual of good breeding, but one with perspective, and
quite capable of appreciating an effort, regardless of what the
attainment might be.
Sidney had met few of his race, but who seemed to feel that to write was
to be graduated from a school, with a name that was a fetish, and to be
likewise a professor in some college. In order to get material and color
for a work, they had not yet come to realize that it was best, and much
more original as well, to come in contact with the people and observe
their manner of living.
This may account, in a large degree, for the fact that so many whom he
met were impractical, even badly informed.
Edwards and he became agreeable acquaintances at once. "Come take dinner
with me this evening," Edwards invited, grasping Wyeth's arm, and
leading him into the restaurant next door, where he had already ordered
dinner. And such a meal! Wyeth had not realized that it was in the range
of possibilities for the little place to prepare such a one. Moreover,
to say that Edwards knew how to order would be putting it mildly. He
spared no cost obviously, since the meal came to $3.75. Wyeth felt
guilty, when he recalled that he ate three times a day at the same
place, the kind termed "half meals," and which came to fifteen cents
per.
Before they had sat long, Edwards' friend came to the table. And of all
the Negroes Sidney had met, this one was the most extraordinary. The son
of a Japanese mother and a Negro father, he had been educated abroad.
He spent his youth in Asia, lived a portion of his life in Japan, the
remainder in America and was a Buddhist. One Negro at least who didn't
spell "ligon."
History and science, from the beginning of time--before Adam whom he
scorned, astronomy, astrology, meteorology, the zodiac and the
constellations, in fact, he seemed to know everything. Sidney, anxious
always to learn what he did not know, could only sit with mouth wide
open, while the other declared Jesus of Nazareth, Noah, the flood, Adam
and Eve, and all the rest, the biggest liars the world ever knew.
When Sidney had occasion to speak of him to religious Negroes in
after-months, they would say: "Shucks! He couldn't a-convinced me
'gainst mah Jaysus." And he would then be sorry. Sidney "believed" as
much as any one else of moderate intelligence, and his acquaintance with
the unusual Negro had no effect whatever upon him as a believer; but he
knew that many of those who professed so much faith in "Jaysus" and
cried: "We is God fearin' fo'kes," were mere "feelers" who had no
thought of God whatever, in the sense he should be regarded and
respected. Indeed, they did not fear him. They feared but one thing,
these black people, and that was the white man, which belongs to another
chapter.
"I grant all you say to be quite possible, my dear sir," said he, when
the other paused in his serious discourse; "but, having been raised to
the Christian faith, I am, therefore, a hopeless believer. I do,
nevertheless, respect your point of view and your faith, and am glad
indeed to have met you," which ended it.
Edwards proved to be a graduate of Yale, and was well informed in every
way, as Sidney suspected.
He had always found it this way. The great fault he was finding daily
with those of his race, was that they did not read, did not observe, and
were not informed in the many things they could just as well have known.
As the days went by, Sidney's friendship with Edwards developed to the
point, where Edwards insisted upon paying half the rent for the
privilege of loafing in the office whenever he was at leisure. Sidney
did not inquire his business, or what he was engaged in; but his
curiosity was aroused nevertheless. His friend always had plenty of
money and spent it not foolishly, but freely. He never permitted Wyeth
to pay for anything, and he never ate a meal that came to less than two
dollars.
After a few days, another fellow joined him, who, while surrounded with
an air of mystery, did not happen to possess so much apparent education.
His name was Smyles, and he purported to be from Boston. At the same
time acknowledged Alabama to be his birth place. He still carried the
accent. He was dark of visage, had long legs, and wore trousers around
them, which appeared never to have been pressed. (Wyeth wondered why
some of the many pressing clubs did not kidnap him alive.) His head was
small and obviously hard, and he wore his top hair so closely cropped,
that no one could quite describe what kind it was.
Now Smyles was a sport, likewise a spender, and, moreover, with money
a-plenty to spend. And, as the days passed and Wyeth became better
acquainted with him, he learned that he was "mashed" on the girls to a
considerable degree. For instance: There was Lucy, who waited on them at
Miss Payne's cafe, who got "crazy" about him. He did about her, too, for
awhile, at least he pretended to. Then he became interested likewise in
another who had "better hair" than Lucy. Thereupon Lucy became "mad"
with jealousy, and threatened to do something "awful." She didn't, so we
leave her to her fate, and go on with Smyles who becomes, for the
present, the hero of this story.
"Smyles is a great fellow," remarked Sidney humorously to Edwards, one
day.
"Isn't he the limit?" said Edwards, with a touch of disgust.
"All the girls are liking him," resumed Sidney, enjoying the
conversation and discussion.
"Takes with all the kitchen mechanics, and anything else that wears a
skirt." Edwards had dignity, a great deal of it, Wyeth had come now to
know. He was plainly disgusted. Sidney went on.
"Has lots of money to spend, which makes it exceedingly convenient."
"He's the luckiest coon in town," said Edwards thoughtfully.
"Indeed!"
"Shoots craps I think."
"And wins, evidently."
That Wyeth might not gather an adverse opinion of him--or rather, a
questionable one, Edwards had informed him that he was connected with a
northern philanthropic organization. Wyeth assumed that he was connected
with something of the kind, and that he was actually the recipient of
plenty of the dispensation. Every Monday he would go uptown, and return
with a roll. Most of this would be spent by the next Monday, which was
unusual.
He didn't gamble, but better light will be thrown on this later.
* * * * *
About a year before, there had been committed in Attalia, a most
dastardly murder. A man, a Jew he was, had killed a little girl, a
gentile. This murder had occasioned more comment in those sections, than
had anything in the way of crime for a decade. We stated that the Jew
had killed the girl; it should have been said that he was _accused_ of
having killed her.
This was the state of affairs in regard to the murder at the time of our
story. Notwithstanding the fact that the Jew was accused of the murder,
the charge against him, and the public sentiment in particular, had
reached a very serious stage. It would have been very serious for any
one to be accused of such a crime in those parts, be she gentile,
Jewess, or anyone with a white face.
The body of this girl had been found in the basement of a factory, at
which she was employed at a very small wage, foully murdered. It was a
mystery at first, as to who was the murderer. A Negro had been arrested
and charged with the crime. It appeared that he was surely guilty; but
he wasn't--at least so it was decided shortly afterwards. It was
confidentially whispered about town to this day, and may be for all
time, that he was a lucky Negro, too. Because, with the way they treat
Negroes accused of doing much less serious things in a part of this
country, he was fortunate to have been accused in Attalia, where
protection is quite ample now, and not in some of the smaller
places--but we are digressing.
Evidently he was not felt to be guilty, and, moreover, since suspicion
was quickly diverted to the Jew. And yet he, the Negro, had been
discovered in the back yard of the factory, washing a bloody shirt. Such
incriminating evidence! For some reason, the people could not seem to
bring themselves to feel that the Negro had sense enough to kill the
girl, had he wished to. He was put through a severe examination of some
length, and finally confessed to having helped the real murderer
dispose, or try to dispose of the body after it was all over. It was, of
course, duly found and as duly buried. It was, thereafter, exhumed two
or three times, as evidence for the state. The Jew was discovered acting
very peculiarly a few days after the murder. So they had taken him into
custody to ascertain the cause of these actions. Accusations followed,
and he was in time brought before the high tribunal on a charge of
murder, convicted and sentenced to be hanged until dead, however long
that might be. The date of execution was set for a day, which happened
to be the same day a year later, than that upon which he was supposed to
have committed the deed.
Thus our story found it.
Sentencing a man to be hanged, and hanging him, however, are two very
different things. Yet the court persisted. It was determined to carry
out the decision of the jury of "twelve good men and true,"[A] this Jew,
scion of Jacob, of Israel, of Solomon, and Job, and others, had money at
his back, plenty of it, as we shall see presently; and they were
spending it lavishly, to save his neck, which was long. Perhaps that
explains what came to pass later.
[A] Author's Note: The usual term applied to juries is, "Twelve good
men and true."
The counsel for the defense hired a detective, _A Great Detective_. The
greatest detective in all the world. No one can deny this, since he said
so himself, at least this is how he was quoted by a paper, which, for
the purpose of this story, we shall call the "Big Noise." It was a
"noise," too. But, to get back to the detective, _The Great Detective_.
The leading papers corroborated the fact that he was the greatest in the
world, and so he shall be, in this story, as well. We are compelled to
quote the "Big Noise" again. It claimed, very urgently, that these
papers were paid to corroborate the detective. So be it.
The leading dailies and the greatest detective in the world got
together, with a view to obtaining a new trial for the Jew, after which
they hoped, of course, in some subtle manner, to extricate him from his
very embarrassing predicament.
The detective did the posing, and he was _some_ poser, and the papers
did the rest. The most obstinate proposition which they were up against,
was that the people believed the Jew to be guilty, but naturally read
the papers.
Now The Great Detective's picture had been seen by almost everybody who
read, or ever had read anything, so we must appreciate that he was a
familiar figure. But, in addition to what had occurred in regard to the
detective, more came to pass. Pages of the Sunday edition were devoted
to his cut, and other pages to his ability as a mystery solver. From the
way the papers wrote of him and reproduced his pose, he made Sherlock
Holmes, Raffles, Arsene Lupin, and even Nick Carter, look like thirty
cents with the three invisible.
He began, in opening the case, a series of angles. At first, of course,
he viewed it from an Attalia angle. Forthwith, after this, he went to
Chicago and viewed it from a windy angle. From St. Louis, he viewed it
from a "show me" angle; and while he was out that way, he chased across
to Kansas City, and saw it from that angle. And 'ere anyone was aware of
it, he had crossed the prairies to Denver, and viewed it from a mountain
angle. Behold then, upon picking up the morning paper, where the great
detective has reached New York, and was viewing the case from that
angle; but space will not permit of recording further these many angles
indulged in by _the greatest detective in the world_, for the defendant
in the case of the state versus the Jew.
All of these angles were followed with much color by the Attalia papers.
Moreover, papers elsewhere mysteriously took up the Jew's cause, by
following the angles of the detective. All except the "Big Noise." It
was busy viewing the detective from its angle. But it was not, of
course, endowed with such an abundance of readers, therefore, for the
time, it was not noticed much. It was later, however.
Now we come to the most extraordinary phase of the case, leaving the
prisoner in his cell for the present.
While all this angling was going on, witnesses who had testified for the
state, and whose testimony had resulted disasterously for the defendant,
began to come up mysteriously, with affidavits to the effect that what
they had sworn to was a falsehood, no, a lie! Many of them declared, in
these affidavits, that they were inspired to make these statements, that
they might face their God with the truth on their lips! The city became
chaotic. No one had even suspected that the city possessed such people.
This renouncing of testimony developed into an almost everyday affair.
"Everybody was doin' it". So it came to pass, in an incredibly short
time, that almost every one who had supplied damaging testimony against
the Jew, had renounced it.
The newspapers were the most interesting things to read in Attalia
during this spell. But more mysteries followed in due order. Every one
who produced, or had produced an affidavit, renouncing his or her
previous testimony, became automatically prosperous, no, we'll have to
change this statement. They did, and again they didn't. Alas! Some had
not received all they had been mysteriously promised, it seems. And
still others, unaccustomed to wealth, and feeling that money is
rightfully the medium for the good things they had never been able to
enjoy, including liquor, proceeded to fulfill this long felt desire. So,
many got drunk. And, trust John Barleycorn to do the rest, they imparted
secrets to their near friends. And then, of course, the friends imparted
such illuminating information to their friends, whereupon it was duly
imparted, in time, to the people through the paper.
Truth combined with a conscience, is always a danger, a menace to
falsity. And, of course, not every one possesses the strength to stand
on a falsehood, therefore--and in an incredibly short time--affidavits
began to be voluntarily offered by these many, to the effect that the
renunciation was a falsehood; the original testimony was true, quite
true. Accompanying many of these latter affidavits, was money.
We are reminded at this point of Judas and the thirty pieces of silver.
Conspicuous throughout the trial, and conducting the prosecution, was
one Doray, the solicitor, and he was there, very much so. Doray became
quite busy about this time. He had ambition, and was being mentioned for
the governorship. So the state, with its many poor people and slim
treasury, labored relentlessly in the prosecution, while the purse of
the Jew seemed to have no limit.
We return to _The Great Detective_, the greatest one in all the world.
Naturally, when he began, with the reputation he possessed, with the
notorious angling, with hundreds of newspapers all over the country
supporting him, and from the fact that he had uncovered many dark plots,
many people took notice. A half dozen extra editions was the average per
day, but some days they reached a dozen, all replete with subtle
mystery. The populace lived in an ecstacy of expectation. They were
hurdled between so many conflictions, until they knew not what they were
expecting. But, as the days went by and the mystery deepened, they
glared dry-eyed at the headlines of the many extras, expecting at last
that the greatest detective in the world would lead forth a diabolical
creature otherwise than the Jew, declaring, and subsequently proving him
to be the murderer.
He did, but he was not a man of mystery.
The announcement came in a blazing morning extra. Shops were forgotten,
people gathered upon the streets, blocked the corners, and everything
became a medley of excitement, as the news became general.
"The real murderer of a little innocent girl has been found!"
The population waited in abated breath. In the order in which he had
reported, or as had been reported by the papers, the detective set a day
upon which he would point, with the forefinger of his right hand,
straight to the murderer.
The day would never come, everybody seemed to feel. All the anxiety
attendant during the trial, before as well as after, for it must be
understood that the Jew had not been seen to kill the girl, was lived
over again during this spell. But at last the mighty day came. It was a
dark, drizzly, gloomy, forlorn day. Just the kind for what was now the
order in Attalia. On this day, the people now felt, the real murderer
would be placed in the lime light. The detective had declared, a few
days after he had been retained and put on the case, that the Jew was
innocent. Moreover, he declared that the prosecution, abetted by public
sentiment, had been affected in its decision, by the worst of all that
is inherent in our advanced society, race prejudice. He lied here--and
knew it. There is no prejudice in Attalia against any race but one, of
which we will pass. In addition, he flaunted in the face of the people,
the idea of perversion on the part of the Jew, of which the latter had
been accused. This accusation had been advanced as the only excuse for
the murder, of which he stood accused. But the real murderer was that
day announced as per reports.
"Jim Dawkins," cried the detective, "killed that girl! So now, free this
poor man thou hast persecuted these many months, and hang that murderer,
that beast, that pervert, for he is guilty!"
It was some time before the people recovered. Many of them had to pinch
themselves to be quite sure they were awake; for it was positively
incredible, after all this waiting, after all this angling, after all
the mystery, that this detective, the greatest one in all the world, by
his own admission and that of the press, should come right back to where
the case had begun.
Jim Dawkins was the Negro accused in the first instance.
And now we hear from the "Big Noise"--and it made some noise now.
Moreover, the public, with a relief from their long tension, began to
hear it. Its editor had once run for president, on a ticket we cannot
recall; moreover, he had the reputation of being opposed to every man
elected to anything in the state and the United States. This included
the democrats, of whom he, although a southerner, was not one.
The people now bought and read his paper with as much eagerness as they
had the others, in the beginning.
_The Great Detective_ was absent for a week following his sensational
discovery. (?) Then he returned, but alas! The day of angles had become
contagious, as we shall see presently.
Following his return, he happened to go to a nearby town to view the
case from that angle. This town happened to have been the home of the
murdered girl. So, when the great detective whirled into town, seated in
the tonneau of a huge automobile, they proceeded at once to entertain
him with true southern chivalry. (?)
A night extra told all about it, before he had returned to Attalia,
which was marvelous, when one considers this place was only twenty miles
away, and from reports, the car took its highest speed on the return, at
least it did in leaving the other town. But, lest we forget, the eggs
used at this entertainment could not all have been guaranteed as the
freshest. And with a few more words, we leave this story.
Shortly after this, Edwards and Smyles took their leave. Wyeth missed
them considerably, for he had grown very fond of them about the office.
When they were far, far away, the mystery connected with their
occupation was still unsolved. Then, one day while Sidney was folding up
an old newspaper, his eye happened to fall upon an article of two
paragraphs. It related to an incident that cleared up the whole thing,
and was to the effect that, while doing some sleuthing on the ground
floor, Smyles had, after refusing to explain the occasion of his
mysterious action, been arrested and locked up for an hour, at the end
of which the great detective had come forward and got him out.
"Well, I'll be blowed!" exclaimed Sidney, for it revealed that his two
friends were detectives, in the employ of the noted chief, and hired, no
doubt, to view the case from a "dark" angle. But the most extraordinary
part of it all, was that their names were not Smyles nor Edwards either,
but--I guess it doesn't matter.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"_Cause Nigga's 's Gittin' so Rich_"
In the building to the furthest end from where Wyeth's office was now
located, he observed a man one day. He was standing in front of the
bank. He was a white man, and was tall and slender, while his complexion
was sandy, his hair red and awry. His eyes were keen and piercing. "A
collector," thought Sidney, for there were so many about the building,
especially on Monday, and this was the day. He lurked in the entry on
Tuesday, when Wyeth passed that way. "Must be a contractor, the way he
is studying the inside of the bank," mumbled Wyeth, as he took the
elevator upward.
Wednesday came, gray and gloomy, and then it rained. It was four o'clock
and thirty minutes in the afternoon. Sidney passed through the entry to
the elevator on his way to the office of Dickson, and again the man
stood there. He had drawn no conclusion as to what was the occasion of
this presence, when from behind came a sound. He did something else
then. So did others about him.
"Throw up your hands, nigger, and get into that vault!" came a command.
It was from the man he had seen, and he was holding up the bank.
There was a silence, followed by a scuffle, then a lull, and a shot, and
still later,--for the shot went wild, landing in the ceiling where it
cracked the plastering, and made bits of it fall upon a score of
frightened Negroes--a thud. This had not gone amiss. There was a groan
and a dull sound, as some one sank to the floor. This part was witnessed
by Wyeth and others. It was the teller, and the son of the bank's
president. On the floor he lay bleeding, while the other was standing
frightened over him. Then he looked up. Open-mouthed like dumb
creatures, Negros of all shades, including the green, stood about. And
then the man seemed to awaken to the emergency, and the danger.
Those Negroes would not be dumb for all time. He sensed this aright. And
then he took initiative, action. With a flash, he fired off the huge
gun, and with a leap and a bound, he came forth, while Negroes, black
and brown, yellow and green, and some white, fell back upon each other,
in a hurry. He had plenty of room, for a time, and made use of it. Out
into the hallway he must perforce come on his way to the street, and
freedom. He started, but one little moment he hesitated. Then, firing
again, he made his great rush. Through the hallway he dashed, and
entered the street through a side door that was open before him. A
moment later he was gone.
But so were the others.
They were led by a barber, who shaved black faces next door. He was a
mulatto with a flat nose, which made his appearance grotesque. With a
roar like that of a mad guerilla, he ran in hot pursuit. Away they went,
all of them now, including Wyeth.
The barber led the others by far, and in his hand, open for action, was
a razor. It seemed quite large to Wyeth as it glistened in the sunlight,
for the day had cleared. Perhaps he was seeing double, but he followed
while the "victim"--which we shall call the other--preceded the other
only slightly. The barber was breaking wind now, but gaining
nevertheless.
As Wyeth followed in that dark pursuit, a picture of the possible
consequences rose before him. This Negro, scion of two races, embittered
by an instance in our history that will never die, was wild. Blood, blue
blood, it was he thirsted. All the hatred of a thousand or more years
was now privileged, by the unwritten law, to give vent. This other has
attempted crime--the robbery of the people's where-with-all. To kill him
now was to get revenge, revenge upon those who have long since died--and
go scott free!
Perhaps the other appreciated this point of view.
He rushed pellmell, wildly through the street he came into, and turned
at the end up another that led, whither, he did not take time to think
or to consider. It seemed impossible for the man to escape dire
consequences, as Sidney Wyeth saw him now. He wished he could save him,
but he did not know how. Only a few steps ahead, the culprit led the
other. It was only a question of minutes--a minute. And then--horrors!
Up this new street, which happened to be Herald, they went, and closer
and closer the Negro came to the victim. He was breaking wind fearfully.
A block had been covered, when, ahead to the left stood a laundry with
doors wide open. Then, suddenly, when abreast of it, the victim plunged
into it, but so did the barber. Others followed, and workers fell back
amazed. To the rear the chase led, and then, lo! A brick wall faced the
victim, with a closed door only. This door could not be opened in time!
That appeared to settle it! The poor creature, frightened out of his
wits, fell to the floor, and then rose to one knee, with hands stretched
Heavenward. At last the end had come. The Negro now, the picture of
which our pen cannot describe, stood over him with razor upraised, and
eyes dancing with murder like huge coals of fire. "Don't cut me with
that razor, Mister," the victim whimpered. He pushed the other back
until he was against the door. For the first time in his life, Sidney
Wyeth was to see a man killed. One moment he looked. The sunlight played
through a transom window, falling strangely upon the blade of that
poised razor. He closed his eyes to shut out the fearful sight. The next
moment, he opened them as he heard a noise--a momentous instant. It was
the opening of the door, against which the victim had been pushed.
A moment later, the two went over the steps a-tumble, below; but the
razor had flown in a direction which they had not gone, and the tension
was relieved.
Soon, the victim emerged from the rear, and another chase began; but the
razored Negro was then far to the rear. He eluded his pursuers for a
moment during the mix-up. But suddenly in chorus they cried:
"Dere 'e goes, cetch 'im!"
The crowd had now grown to a mob, a sullen mob. They cried out in loud
tones for blood, blue blood; but the culprit was illusive. A street car
was passing, and into it he vaulted. "I've shot a coon," he cried; "and
the niggers are after me!" The car lunged forward as the mob reached the
door, whereupon they looked into the muzzle of a revolver held in the
hand of the conductor, as he commanded: "Stand back!" They did, but 'ere
he had gone far, there came to his ears from the crowd in the rear:
"'S robbed d' bank! 'Es robbed d' bank!"
The conductor immediately rang to stop. The victim rang to go forward.
The motorman obeyed the former, and the car slowed down. The victim
leaped off before it came to a halt, while at the rear, the mob, howling
like a bunch of savages, came on in mad fury.
Then he tore across the street to where an old man, with bent shoulders
and flowing white beard, sat half asleep in a buggy. He rushed to the
side of this, and permitted the old relic to smell the muzzle, as he
cried: "Unload!" The old man did, in a pile. The victim jumped in, and,
jerking the whip from the socket, brought the old horse, half asleep
also, to appreciate the state of affairs, by dealing him a blow that
made his tail stick out, as his legs speeded up the street. The crowd
roared diabolically, as they saw themselves being left to the rear; but
many on bicycles gave chase, and followed in close pursuit. He suddenly
drew his revolver, and let go the trigger, which made a flash, point
blank in their midst. That settled it. One fell to the street with a
sad, sickening cry, an arm limp at his side. The others gave up, turned
back, and quickly went the other way.
And then he disappeared.
Wyeth had returned to the scene of the opening--so had the rest. And the
crowd, combined with those who had gathered about the bank in the
meantime, filled Audubon Avenue the entire length of the building, a
block and a half on the side. All was uproar. Report followed report,
and each flashed through the crowd with much comment. He had, so the
news ran, been captured here, and everywhere. As it stood, he had not
been captured at all. Opinions, expressions, conclusions and rejections
were in order on all sides. One was to the effect that the big banks
uptown, conducted by "whi' fo'kes," had conspired the deal on account of
fear, "'cause nigga's 's a-gittin so rich 'n 'a-posit'n they money in
the cullud bank, ontell dem whi' fo'kes done 'trigued' and got dat low
down po' whi' man t' come and tri' t' frustrate us 'spectable cullud
fo'kes." And again there came to the ears of Sidney another report, and
this was one of graver concern.
"Robbers 'roun' a-stealin' d' money, go'n be fus' one dare in d' mawnin'
t' draw mine out!"
"Gwan, you fool nigga! Yu' ain' got nothin' in dere; 'n' yu' aut a-be
run outta town fo' talkin' lak dat!"
"Who dat obber dare, da' whi' man dressed so 'maculete wi' du soft hat?"
"Dat's Judson, d' 'porter on d' Jou'nal."
"Who dat udder one wi' a big nose 'n' dark 'plection!"
"Ain' you ebber been 'rested, nigga, 'n' up a-fo' Jedge Ly'l's, 'n' seen
'im a-hangin' 'roun'? Dat's Jempsy, d' putective."
"Lis'n! lis'n! Wha' dat! Dey has captured 'im!" Forthwith, to another
point they rushed, through a bunch collected around the barber, who was
then telling and retelling "'Ow close ah come t' gittin' 'im."
It was not a report this time, but the ambulance that was taking the
wounded teller to his home. The sight of him, with bandaged head as a
result of the attempt, served to renew the local race animosity.
"Ah sho 's go'n kill me a whi' man, so 'elp me Jaysus!" muttered a
dinge, as the carriage passed him by, while all about dark faces scowled
ominously.
Darkness was approaching, when an authentic report came at last, to the
ears of the crowd. The would-be robber had really been captured, and it
was the papers that gave forth the news.
His name, so he said, was Rhynata, a "vaudevillian," who hailed from
Denver. His capture had been thus:
When he had eluded the mob, by holding up the old man for his horse and
buggy, he followed that street for only a block, when he turned into
another. After the crowd was lost, he left the buggy, and walked
hurriedly up the street, turned a corner, and disappeared in the
basement of a house.
A plainclothes man, some while later, happened to pass that way in
trying to locate him, and followed him therein. When he got to the
second story, he came into a room where a woman was bathing, with a damp
towel, the head of a man in bed. He backed up, begging pardon, and
turned to leave. As he was passing a dresser, in a half open drawer, his
eye espied a revolver which his hand forthwith touched. The barrel was
warm, which told the rest of the story.
The settlement began the next day before Judge Loyal. His court room was
filled that day, but the greatest crowd was outside. The man was duly
identified as the culprit, by many, including the Negro with the razor,
was as duly bound over under a bond that no one cared to go, and a few
months later was brought to trial, convicted on two charges, and
subsequently sent to the chain gang for five years.
He should have much of that yet to serve, but he escaped--rather, he
walked away a few months later, and has not been intercepted at the time
of this writing--but this is not our story.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
_And Then Came Slim_
Wintertime had flown, and over all the country, springtime had
blossomed. On one of those beautiful days, Slim came to the office of
Sidney Wyeth. His real name was V.R. Coleman, but, since he was so tall
and slender, to Wyeth, "Slim" seemed more appropriate, particularly when
the other did not object. This name, however, was applied sometime
later, and not on this particular day.
In Dixie there are many original characters, and this has made it the
source of humor. Undoubtedly, the Negro is the background of most of it,
and justly plays the part. Conspicuous among these original characters,
there is a particular class of men who will work from the time frost
falls in November, until the birds sing again in the last days of March.
When the smell of the honeysuckle, and the buzz of the bee become a part
of the day, they succumb to an inevitable longing to mingle, and become
"human" bees themselves. So, by the time May has arrived, and spring
chickens are large enough to fry, they go forth to the open, choosing
many varied ways--but always an easy one--of living until the leaves
begin to fall again.
Most of these men preach; for, since the beginning of the present order,
this has been the easiest way. No learning, of course, is required, so
long as they can spell "ligon" and preach "dry bones." Of course, if the
character is a good "feeler," with the magnetism, sufficient eloquence,
and a severe frown with it, he "gets by" much easier. Conditions, it
must be observed, are changing, even in Dixie. And, it is a fact that a
Negro preacher is beginning to pay for a meal occasionally.
But there were other ways of "gettin' by" as well, though not nearly so
prevalent as preaching. It was in quest of such a way, no doubt, that
Slim came to the office that day. Wyeth had become acquainted with him
while canvassing during the winter. He was, at that time, employed in a
grocery store as man of much work, a part of which consisted in driving
a little black mule about the streets, before a wagon in which he
delivered groceries.
They had become friends, and Slim was, in the opinion of Wyeth, an
original and sociable being also. He had informed Wyeth that music was
his line; singing schools he claimed to have conducted with great
success. So, during the summer and spring months, and some time into the
fall, he carried the title of professor. And it was as such, that Wyeth
welcomed him that day.
"Hello, Professor," he greeted him cordially, arising from his chair,
and grasping the other's hand, with much ostentation. "Professor" was
ushered into a seat, where he crossed his long legs with much dignity,
and gazed out the window for a moment, without saying other than the
return of the greeting.
As he sat by the window at that time, it was hard to even _fancy_ his
driving a mule in front of a load of groceries.
"Ah, my friend," he began, after he had swept the street below with a
careful gaze. "I am glad indeed to see you, and to find you occupying
such a delightful office." He scanned the office now, with an admiring
gaze, and went on: "You are sure fixed up in great style, just grand,
grand!"
"Oh, fair," Sidney admitted carelessly. "I am, however, glad you dropped
in, for I have been thinking about you for some time."
"I am honored," said the other, with an elevation of the eyebrows.
"Yes," resumed Sidney, with a serious and thoughtful expression, "it has
always been my opinion, that a man with the bearing and dignity you
obviously possess, could be much more in keeping with society, in a
position that would employ such a wealth of ability."
Slim did not make immediate answer to this, for the simple reason that
he was too flushed with vanity by the words, to do other than color to
the roots of his hair, and swallow.
"When I see a man like you carrying groceries up the back way of a
house, let me tell you, Professor," Wyeth said flatteringly, "I can't
help, in a measure, but feel despair for our race; but I was told by a
very responsible party, that your health required such an expedient."
Slim was then in the seventh Heaven of vanity, and looked away to hide
the tears of gratitude, he felt toward the man who had courage
sufficiently to admit what he himself felt. He admired Sidney Wyeth on
the spot.
Wyeth went on to say, "Now, for instance, I am in the book business,
which was never better. I have been anxious to enlist a good man's
service." As he said this, he looked in Slim's direction, and went on:
"But I did not wish to place this matter before you, until a time I felt
you would be in a position to consider it, possibly, favorably." He
paused long enough for his words to take effect, then continued, "So
Professor, I should like to have you consider this matter with a view to
taking it up."
"Well, sir, Mr. Wyeth," his honor began, "I confess that I have been
thinking of that myself." He was silent a minute, then proceeded again:
"My health is improved to such an extent, that I have, of course,
emancipated myself from a position of drudgery," and here he drew
himself up, with more ostentation than ever. "I shall be glad to tell
you, when it is more convenient, and we have the time, of my career as a
business man back where I came from. You can, I see, appreciate a man
that is possessed of ability," and he looked down at himself at this
point, before continuing. Directly he said: "I shall be glad to have you
explain this matter in regard to the book."
"Well," said Wyeth, slowly, "you should have some idea of the work,
since, with your years back in South Carolina, you were so successful;
but more so, since you have been over a territory I have worked."
"You certainly did fill Brookville with it, I must say," he admitted.
Wyeth smiled.
"Wish you hadn't worked that neighborhood, though," he said regretfully.
"Others are yet to be worked...."
"But I know everybody in that neighborhood."
"So do I--now."
Slim laughed a low, sorrowful laugh, and then was thoughtful. Then he
inquired: "What commission do you pay?"
"Forty per cent. Sixty cents the book."
"Do I have to pay for the books before I can have them to deliver?"
"I can, of course, trust you, Professor," Wyeth replied; "but the last
one I trusted, and who took eighteen copies out for the purpose of
delivery, has not shown up since."
"Indeed! Did he send the books back, or leave them somewhere?"
"He left them somewhere--several where's."
"Then you--ah--got them back?"
"Not yet."
"But you will?"
"Not likely. The people he left them with paid him $1.50 a copy
therefor, but I have charged that to the dust, and it has rained since.
You think over this proposition and come back tomorrow morning, and we
will get down to business. Should you decide to take it up, I shall be
glad to have you accompany me an afternoon, and hear me spiel it."
The following morning, full of book selling, Slim was on hand. Moreover,
he wished to begin that morning, but, as Sidney had made no arrangement
to that end, he was compelled to wait until the afternoon.
"I used to sell books in South Carolina," he said later, as he was
looking through the book.
"You have had some experience then," commented Wyeth.
"Wait until I commence. I'll show you a thing or two."
"Oh, I have a 'hunch' you'll 'clean up,'" said Wyeth with feigned
admiration.
"You sold a book to somebody I know on Fourteenth Street....," he
smiled.
"I thought you said I sold to many you know. I think I did," said Wyeth
innocently.
"I know this one a little _better_ than the rest," he admitted, now
showing his teeth, despite his effort to keep his upper lip stiff.
"Oh--ho, I see now," laughed Wyeth, good naturedly. After a pause he
said:
"Who is she? Come, 'fess up. At what number does she work?" But at this
Slim only laughed, and left his friend curious.
That afternoon, at two o'clock sharp, they sallied forth. Going to
Dalton street, they entered a cafe conducted by some people in the last
stage of hook-worm hustle.
"What'll you genamens have?" asked the waitress, who looked so tired and
sleepy.
Sidney scanned the greasy bill-of-fare, while Slim inquired: "What have
you?" As she drawled out the list, Sidney's ears came attentive to the
orders being given by others.
"Snout."
"Yo's, mistah!"
"Pig tail 'n' swee' taters."
"'N' yo's?"
"Stewed haid."
"Ah wan' some magetti," sang a small boy on a stool, with papers under
his arm.
"Gimme a yeah sanrich," from one with a very loud mouth.
Slim was very hard to please, as it now appeared, and was having some
difficulty in being satisfied.
"What is your specialty here?"
"Ah don' tole you du' ohdahs already. We has hog year, 'n' hog snoot,
'n' pig tail, 'n' collap greens, 'n'--"
"Give us a pair of feet," interposed Wyeth.
After the meal, they turned into a side street, crossed a back yard and
entered a house from the rear. Ahead, a flight of steps led up through
the basement, to the kitchen. Up this they went, and rapped on the
kitchen door. It was opened by a woman, presumably the cook. Wyeth
raised his hat, while Slim did likewise; whereupon she was very much
flattered. Said Wyeth: "Yes, ma'am! How-do-you-do. You will pardon our
interrupting you, but I suppose you are the lady employed herein," and
gazed into the kitchen before him.
"Yes," she replied embarrassed. "I work here."
"Very well, thank you." Then turning, he revealed his honor, bending
almost to the floor. "This is Professor Coleman!" Their prospective
customer was very profuse as she accepted the introduction, and then was
curious to know to whom she was indebted. Presently, unable to withstand
the wait, she inquired:
"Are you preachers?"
Wyeth looked at Slim who had his hat rolled up, and was showing his
teeth, then turned back to the lady and replied that they were not. He
then, without further ado, began his spiel, putting more dynamite into
it than usual, since he wished to make an impression upon Slim as well.
"I presume from your English, madam, that you are literarily inclined,
in fact, I feel certain you are." He bestowed upon her a hypnotic smile,
which he had cultivated for the purpose of impression, and then went on,
with eloquence:
"This is _The Tempest_, a tale of the great northwest, in which we
follow the fortunes of this young man," and he showed his picture on the
frontispiece. In this same picture, people seldom recognized himself as
the hero. Before long, he had her order, and a half dozen more, and Slim
was enthusiastic. When they were on the street for a time again, Slim
said, with much admiration:
"_Man_, but you are _a_ salesman! The spiel and look you turn on these
cooks and maids and house girls, and everybody, is guaranteed to make
the dead take notice. I can never get over laughing when I think of the
old lady back there, the one who said: 'I am not decided yet as to
whether I shall take it,' Then you said, and as serious as she was: 'Let
me decide for you in this,'" and then he gave up to laughter for some
minutes.
"Think you can learn it?" said Sidney.
"I want you to let me take this house," said Slim, halting before an
imposing structure.
"All right," said Wyeth. "I'll wait for you. Don't get struck on the
house girl and stay too long."
Slim disappeared. A moment later, a noise and the barking of a vicious
dog came to Wyeth's ears, accompanied immediately by a scuffling. A
moment later, Slim emerged from the back way in very much of a hurry,
with a bull dog in close pursuit. When he was safe outside once more, he
looked about him dubiously. "I don't like this neighborhood!" he said.
"You mean _that_ neighborhood," laughed Wyeth. "Did you make a sale?"
"Make Hell!" cried Slim, still breathing heavily from his nervousness.
"Talk about making a sale with a bull dog barking at my heels!" They
had, by then, reached a street that led across town, and they turned
into this. Wyeth took a few orders, but Slim decided to dispense with
further canvassing until the morrow. Several times, Wyeth tried to steer
him into a yard, but always he observed that his eye wandered around
toward the rear, and since nearly every one kept some kind of a dog--the
most of which would rather play than anything else--it was hard to
reconcile Slim.
At last he managed to get him through a gate that was close to the rear
door, and, while he explained his mission to the cook, Slim gave the
house girl a good talk, but she smiled on him and said: "I purchased one
from the other gentleman already."
This served to relieve him at least, and also encouraged him to a more
concentrated effort later.
When they returned to the office, Slim was again full of the book
business. The next day he went out for himself. After a few houses had
been made, however, he must have met another "sociable" dog, for,
shortly afterward, Wyeth saw him depart.
That afternoon, when they met again at the office, he was surprised to
learn that Slim had taken several names, and was in the highest of
spirits. Wyeth was too, but from other causes. He had taken about eight
orders, when he came into a back yard from an alley. Through a screen,
he caught a glimpse of a girl working in the kitchen. He approached the
house, and presently knocked on the door. She opened it with an inquiry.
He looked up into her face from where he stood on the ground. She looked
down into his, and blushed as she looked away. She made an impression,
and he was, for a moment, lost in a maze of delight. Soon he was
serious, however, and said he wished to speak with her on important
business. This was his style. He had observed that agents, the minute a
door was opened, began a spiel without getting the attention of the
prospective customer, so he made it a practice to get their attention
first, and leave them in doubt until he did, before disclosing his
business. If he failed to do this, he usually went his way, without
letting them know what he was selling. But, to get back to the girl.
She declared that she was very busy at the time, but would be glad if
he'd come back shortly. "In about an hour," she advised, as she watched
him walk toward the gate. He went his way with a subtle swimming of the
head.
He passed the next hour mechanically, made several sales, of which he
was hardly aware, and at the end of the hour, he returned. She was
waiting for him. He smothered his interest, and told her the story in
brief.
"Oh, that's fine!" she exclaimed, in an ecstasy of delight, when he had
finished. "When do you deliver?"
"Any time," he replied; "but I have several in this neighborhood for the
first. Could you take yours then?" As he finished, he looked at her
strangely. His thoughts went back to a place and a person he had almost
forgotten. (?)
She looked back at him, smiled, became uneasy, apparently she did not
know how to take him. Then she asked softly: "Why do you look at me like
that?" And then he came out of it, and replied candidly:
"I don't know," he started to say, "because you remind me of one I once
knew--and loved." The very thought of it, however, now pained him.
However, he dismissed these thoughts from his mind, and was normal
again.
She appeared as though she would like to say more on the subject, but
instead she added: "Have you been selling the book long?"
"Ever since publication," he admitted frankly.
The past lingered with him for some time, but it was temporarily
forgotten, when he had returned to the office, and noted Slim's success.
"You're there, Professor," he beamed, while the other assumed an air of
modesty.
A few days later--and he was apparently successful in the meantime--Slim
said to Wyeth: "I want you to go with me tomorrow. I've found a 'nest.'"
"A hornet nest?" asked Wyeth humorously. Slim looked uncomfortable. He
had a good memory.
"I'm serious. Out there around the colleges, man, are some of the finest
people you ever met, and rich! They own homes that will open your eyes."
"M-m. Are _these_ orders from them, or have they told you they would
'_think_' it over and you could drop in when you were in the
neighborhood again?" Slim's face fell for a moment, then he said, while
Wyeth thought he detected something.
"These orders are from _good_ people in and around that neighborhood."
He paused for a spell, and resumed, with a frown: "I have been thinking
very seriously, that you could do much better among the people in their
homes, and wouldn't need to go snoopin' around to the rear. I must
confess, Mr. Wyeth, that I have never been overly anxious to confine the
most of my work to domestics, as you seem to choose."
Again Sidney smiled, while Slim paused, disconcertedly.
"Now this list I have here, should convince you that you have simply
been over-looking the best people, for the kitchens. So, if you will go
along with me tomorrow, I will convince you to your own satisfaction."
Wyeth kept out of going with Slim in different ways, and 'ere long, the
day of Slim's first big delivery came.
Only about forty copies of the book were on hand in the office, but more
were at the freight house, with the bill-of-lading at the bank, and a
sight draft attached for the cost of the books. Sidney did not have the
amount available to pay it on that day. He reckoned, however, that the
number on hand should have been sufficient, but Slim didn't think so. He
was, moreover, insistent to a point that moved Sidney to make effort to
get the others out.
"I think we have books sufficient for today's delivery, Slim," he
argued. "And then Monday, we will get those at the freight office."
"It isn't business, it isn't business. I have taken these people's
orders for this book to be delivered today. There are fifty. I have
promised faithfully to bring the book this day, and when I was in
business, I did a thing when I promised. So I wish you would get the
books you have at the freight office down here at once, so that I can
fill every order and have no disappointments."
Wyeth looked distressed, but smiled all to himself. If he had learned
anything about selling books to colored people, and had forty copies to
fill fifty orders, he could figure on having a goodly supply left. But
Slim must have fifty copies, or a book for each order.
The books he had at the freight office would cost a pretty sum to get,
and he did not have the amount convenient. He went to the bank and
borrowed it. Slim went with him to the freight office to be sure there
would be no failure; he must have fifty books.
When they arrived, Sidney was chagrined to find he had one dollar less
than it took to get them. It was only fifteen minutes before the office
would close, its being Saturday. Sidney was up against it. Slim was in a
stew. He deluged the other with, "Why didn't you get them yesterday?"
or, "You should have known this office closes at twelve o'clock today."
And in the end he gave up entirely. Wyeth employed his mind vigorously,
hoping to raise a dollar in fifteen minutes.
"There's no use," deplored Slim hopelessly. "I will lose $7 or $8
through your business carelessness." Just then, Sidney observed a
drayman coming toward the freight house. A thought struck him, and he
hailed the drayman. In a few words, he explained the circumstances,
while the other nodded acquiescence, pulled out a dollar, and a half
hour later, the books were unloaded at the office.
Slim breathed a sigh of intense relief. He was a business man, and told
Wyeth so.
Wyeth admitted it. "Glad to be affiliated with a gentleman of your
ability, and you know it, Professor."
"You will always find me right up to the point in business, Mr. Wyeth.
That's always been my reputation, and if you don't believe me, you can
go over in South Carolina, and find out from the people there yourself,"
he said, very serious of demeanor.
"That's all right, Professor. I'll take your word for it."
At one o'clock P.M. Slim was ready. He had a cab hired for the occasion,
and with fifty nice, clean copies, wrapped deftly at the publishing
house before shipment, he sallied forth.
Wyeth was nodding in the office, when, about ten o'clock that night, he
heard some one coming up the stair. From the way he halted at intervals,
and set something down, he judged he must be carrying a load.
He was.
Presently the person reached the landing, and, halting again, dropped
something heavy, then breathed long and deeply. A moment later, he heard
him pick up whatever it was, and come on toward his door. It was burst
open in a moment, and some one stumbled in behind a big package.
It was Slim. He dropped the package as soon as he was inside, with an
air of disgust, and fell, apparently exhausted, into a chair. He was
silent, while he got his breath. When this had become regular, he got up
and moved to the desk, where he figured for some time. Wyeth remained
silent, but quietly expectant. It came presently.
"Liars! Dirty liars! Stinking, low down, dirty lying niggas. Damn all of
them, damn them!"
Wyeth was still silent. Slim looked about himself wearily, and then did
some more figuring. Presently Wyeth heard him again.
"Lying nigga's, o'nry nigga's, dog-gone the bunch!"
Wyeth was impatient. He wanted to ask very innocently what the matter
was. Suddenly he saw Slim looking at him savagely. Wyeth made an effort
to look innocent, and not burst out laughing. After awhile he heard Slim
again.
"I'm done! I'm through selling books to Negroes _now_!" He then arose,
and strode back and forth across the room in a terrible temper.
Wyeth started to say: "You mean you are through getting orders." But he
waited.
"The first old nigga I come up to, looked up when he saw me, and then
just laffed, 'ke-ha!' Then, when I held the book toward him, he said:
'Yu' betta' gwan 'way frum heh wi' dat book!' And then just laffed
again, like it was something so funny. I got mad right then, but kept my
temper and said:
"'What's the matter with you! Didn't you order this book from me two
weeks ago?'" He paused at this stage, and looked at Wyeth again with a
savage glare. "But that old devil just kept on laffing like a vaudeville
show was before him, instead of me with the book he had ordered, and
which he told me to be sure, _sure_ to bring today. My nigga was rising
now; but just then I heard a little half-naked kid: 'Uh! Misteh! 'oo
might's well ferget it. 'Cause th' ole man there,' pointing to the old
sinner, 'orders sumpin' from eve' agent what comes 'long; puvidin' i'
do'n cos' nuthin' t' give th' odah.' And all the time that old coon was
just laffing, 'ke-ha!'" He gave Wyeth another glare, and went on:
"The next one I come onto looked at the book as though it was something
dangerous. And then he squints up at me--I think he must have been
near-sighted--and says: 'Sah, I decided since I give you that odah, that
I wa'n't go'n' take th' book.' When he saw my eyes, he could see I was
mad enough to kill him on the spot. He saw danger in them too, because,
near-sighted or not, he began edging away, but again I held back my
nigga and says: 'What in Hell you mean by making up your mind like
that!'"
"He must have been drinking Sparrow Gin when he gave you that order,"
suggested Wyeth, with a twinkle of the eye.
"What?" inquired Slim, listening.
"I'd advise you to take along a little corn liquor the next time you go
to deliver; pour a little juice into them; get them drunk. They'll take
their books then."
Slim kicked a piece of paper on the floor before him viciously, and
said: "I'll take along a club and knock their lying heads off their
shoulders, 's what I'll do."
"Did you have enough books?" inquired Wyeth, ignoring the big package
Slim had brought in.
"You seem possessed with no sympathy, Mr. Wyeth," he complained, and
then grew thoughtful. Presently, seeming anxious to tell more of his
experiences, he went on. "One woman I had an order from, when I knocked
on the door, she opened it and said: 'I'm so sorry, but my husband won't
let me take that book,' and then she handed me a nickel, saying, 'so I'm
going to give you this for your trouble.' I could not, of course, be
ugly, as much as I felt like it, but I had to say something. So I
inquired, as kind as I could under the circumstances, 'What am I to do
with this?' She looked distressed at first, then brightened with a
thought, and replied, as though she were doing something wonderful:
'Why, you can use it for car fare. You won't have to walk back.'"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"_Shoo Fly_"
Wyeth had not been able, as yet, to awaken much literary interest among
his people in the south, but he had a great many agents working all over
the north. Of those he had secured in Dixie, he was deluged with
complaints to the effect that so many people failed to take the books
they ordered; so, he began shipping only fifteen when an agent sent in
an order for thirty books. This worked better, and the office was not
the recipient of so many complaints thereafter.
As for Slim, he went with the cook on Fourteenth Street, ate two meals
there out of every three, and canvassed whenever he felt so disposed. He
had some cards made, only one hundred. Four hundred more would have cost
but little additional. He handed them about, advertising that he would
conduct a singing class at his residence, beginning any time any one
wished lessons. He was successful in delivering more books, when he
returned to work among the domestics, but not so many that, at any time
afterwards, was Wyeth put to such strenuous efforts to secure books, in
order that he might have one for every customer.
When the colleges had closed for vacation, Wyeth hired the matron to
work in the office, and, upon finding her very interesting, Slim became
more in evidence about the office.
Just about this time, the auditorium was completed which was begun two
years before, by the lodge of which B.J. Dickson was the secretary. It
was decided to ask the head of Tuscola, the great Negro educator, to
speak at the dedication services. He was secured, and this fact caused
thousands to gather for the occasion. It gave Wyeth an opportunity to
hear the noted Negro for the second time in his life, the first being
twelve years before, in Chicago.
The day came at last. It rained in the forenoon, but was calm and clear
in the afternoon. The night was fit, and the mammoth place was filled to
overflowing, while thousands, unable to gain admittance, loafed outside,
where they were entertained by a band, that served to keep them quiet.
For Dickson, fully acquainted with his own race, was aware that they
would disturb the speaker, if some diversion was not resorted to, for
their amusement.
The speaker looked very tired and worn, and Wyeth felt a pang at his
heart when he saw him. His years of service were beginning to tell upon
him. He had returned recently from the west, where he had gone for the
purpose of raising $150,000 for his school, and had, as he did in
everything else, succeeded beyond requirements. He was not only an
educator, but a practical business man as well. To one who sat near him,
Sidney Wyeth said that evening: "And no one of these odd ten millions is
competent, in the public's favor, to take that old man's place, when
eventually he will be called." The other sighed as he made reply: "There
are many, though, who feel that they and not he should be in the
confidence of the world, and have wasted themselves in uselessness and
inactivity, as a result of their imagination." The speaker's eyes, at
the distance Wyeth saw them, seemed dazed, and his voice was strained;
but he did not soon forget the words he spoke to those black people, in
dedication of an instant that had been inspired by his work. B.J.
Dickson came in for a worthy praise, which Wyeth knew he justly
deserved.
It was some two weeks afterwards, that a convention was held, which
brought together a class of men, who were largely leaders of this race.
They were the doctors, the dentists, the pharmacists, and all men
connected with physical and surgical dispensation; and they came from
two adjoining states also. Sidney Wyeth had, therefore, opportunity to
see his own people from a professional point of view, and was cheered to
observe the most refined set of men of his own kin, that he had ever
seen. Dickson thought so too, and wrote as much in _The Independent_,
the following week; but he wrote of something else connected with the
same men, and served to show Sidney Wyeth something he did not know,
could not have believed; but Dickson made it plain to the thousands of
readers of _The Independent_, of which Wyeth was a constant reader.
In the building, conspicuously located on the best corner, was a drug
store, acknowledged to be the finest drug store operated by black people
in the south. The new building included a street front on another side
street, the drug store and many other trades on the ground space, with a
row of offices to the number of about twenty-five, especially fitted for
physicians and dentists. All these encircled the auditorium, and were
regarded as the most artistic arrangement in the building. Moreover,
this was advantageous in many ways. At all events, it happened to be
convenient for the men gathered on the occasion referred to. In addition
to being used as a gathering place, this auditorium could be
conveniently cleared for the purpose of dancing, and was employed for
that purpose, on the night the convention closed. And this was what B.J.
Dickson wrote in the following week's issue of _The Independent_:
"COLOR LINE DRAWN AT THE PHYSICIAN'S BALL
"Last week there was held in Attalia, the annual convention of the
Tri-State Medical Association, as was stated in last week's issue
of _The Independent_. Never before has this city been graced by a
more refined, and obviously intelligent class of colored men. From
all over the state, and the two states adjoining, which are members
of the league, came physicians, surgeons, dentists and pharmacists,
representing the highest body of men in the Negro race. They were
entertained in sumptuous splendor, by the same profession of men in
Attalia. This was facilitated by the fact, that the new buildings
and the auditorium were employed for the occasion, and the members
were not compelled, as they had been in the past, to house their
social function in some old deserted hall, in a deserted part of
the city.
"It is, therefore, with deep regret, that we are called, by the
bond of common sense and race appreciation, to mention a narrowness
that pervaded this great occasion.
"It may be recalled, when the leader of our race spoke at the
dedication, a few weeks past, that, on the committee were numerous
doctors, some of them successful leaders, and some who were not.
Yet it is and always has been the custom of our people, to honor
these men in the best way we can, for we have long since come to
appreciate that they are a part, and an important part of this new
dispensation. Surely it is in order and keeping with the uplift of
black people, to help men whose training has fitted them for such
an important place. That, perhaps, is why their conduct of last
week has constrained us to make this mention.
"They drew the color line. Plainly, and irrevocably. At the ball,
at the stag party, and during the entire proceedings of the
convention. Not a black person save one--the wife of one of the
local physicians who married her for money--was invited. Such an
example shocks us, so to speak. It seems incredible, in view of the
condition of our race, both morally and mentally. And still, though
we have forced our pen to ignore it, it has been, and is shown,
right along. At the ball, not only was the color line drawn, but a
white orchestra gave the music. Imagine such a spectacle! In the
bourbon and always democratic south, our people hiring a white
orchestra, at a fabulous sum; for, since long before we were free,
Negroes have made music for the richest white people to dance by.
"Surely the old order changeth!
"Negro doctors live by the patronage of their race, positively; the
white people would not hire one to doctor a dog. In the dark ages,
when it was felt that a Negro was incompetent for anything else but
to act as a slave, some excuse could be given for Negroes to hire
white doctors. But today, all race loving people give their
practice to their own, except those who are nearly white, and wish
they were. But more than half of those at the ball have white
doctors, and wouldn't hire one of those with whom they danced. But
Negro doctors expect Negro practice, and deplore it terribly when
Negroes hire white physicians! On the heels of this, too, they say
"Shoo fly!" to Negro musicians who are competent to play for the
whites, but not for Negro doctors. Like everything else that
relates to our people--except their money--our professionals
wrinkle their faces, and conclude without trial, that no Negro
orchestra is properly trained to play for their balls; and Negroes
who conduct newspapers do not know enough to write a part of what
they read; books of Negro authors are not read by them, because
they don't know enough--in the minds of these hypocrites--and so it
goes in everything. They could not have held their convention in
the white auditorium, even if permitted to, because that would have
cost more than they were able to pay.
"Now, if Negro orchestras are incompetent as musicians and are,
therefore, relegated to the rear, and a white orchestra is hired to
give music, and if Negroes as authors and editors, do not know
enough to write a part of what they should read, and, moreover, if
Negroes who happen not to be the scion of some white man, and,
therefore, possessed of a yellow face, are not good enough to
mingle and associate with them, then the Negro doctors are not fit
to 'kill' us. Why not let the white man do this? Admitting that the
white orchestra and the white editor and author have more
advantages than do the Negroes in the same vocation, is it not
credible that the same applies in regard to the doctors? Is it not
to be appreciated that, while the white man, often and mostly the
son of a rich parent, is taking a post-graduate course abroad, the
poor Negro boy is slinging hash in a cheap hotel--most of the best
ones hire white help now--to get the wherewith to go back and
finish school?
"Oh, we have thought this brave in our people these many years, and
our very hearts and souls and sympathies have been with them in
this great effort!
"And we are repaid in these terms!
"The black-skinned people who pay them their hard-earned money,
that we might have a representative set of men as our leaders, have
been scorned for their pains!
"They, the doctors, set up what they silently look upon as society,
"blue-veined people." How they must deplore that they are colored,
in a literal sense! "We are the best people!" they cry. The
insurance companies, started and led to their present position of
success by black men, use every means, subtle and otherwise, to
throw business to these men. Likewise do the lodges. And with all
that, not more than a dozen or so are making a decent living in
Attalia. We are still very poor people. Yet when society comes
before us, the black ones are not good enough to play for. We must
close. It makes us sick!"
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"_Why Do You Look At Me So Strangely?_"
The first books came, and among the many orders to be delivered, was one
for the girl who had reminded Wyeth of a person who now belonged to a
closed chapter of his life. He carried her the book.
"My madam has not paid me yet," she said regretfully, "but if you can
bring it back next week, I will be delighted to take it."
He did so, and she was as good as her word. "I hope I shall enjoy it,"
she said, as she paid him.
"I hope so too," said he. "Practically all I have sold to told me that
they liked it," he added. He looked at her, and while he was not aware
of it, in that moment he had an insane desire. The past and the one
connected with it, rose for one brief second before him, as he had known
it. She noted the strange look, and was embarrassed. Presently she
recovered from the effect it had, and said:
"Why do you look at me so strangely?"
"I don't know," he replied, non-committally.
She did not understand it, but blushed as she said: "You are indeed a
strange person.... I have thought about it more than once, since you
were here and took my order. Do you look at all your lady customers like
that?" She looked full into his eyes as she said this, but what she saw
there made her hastily retract.
"I was only joking. You are singular--strange, and--I do not know what
to think of you; but you are more than an ordinary agent for the book.
I'm sure of that." He remained silent. She looked keenly at the picture,
and then at him. A small mustache and a different style in the trimming
of his hair; but she inquired suddenly:
"Did you write this book? The picture resembles you." He looked innocent
and said:
"Do you think so?"
"Indeed I do," she insisted. '"Then you wrote it?"
"Oh no, indeed," he lied, earnestly.
She appeared dubious, and then said, thoughtfully: "Maybe you have some
private reasons for not wishing to be identified as the author, but I
feel positive that you are." She smiled appreciatively for a moment, as
she surveyed him carefully. "I think you must be smart and know a great
deal, to be able to write such a big book. I shall always recall with
pleasure, that I had the honor--though he did not acknowledge the
fact--of meeting a real author." She extended her hand, which he took,
as she said: "I am glad to have met you; and if you write another book,
please try to remember that I would like to have a copy of it. Goodbye."
Slim was lolling in the office when Sidney returned. Mrs. Lautier, the
clerk and ex-matron, found him very much to her humor, as did Sidney,
and he was appreciated in the capacity of mirth.
"Well," he said cheerfully, "I'm doing a little better now. Delivered
six copies today," and almost took Wyeth's breath away by handing him
$5.40.
"Say," he cried suddenly, when they had settled up. "I happened upon
something today in which I am deeply interested, and have been very
anxious to tell you." He lowered his voice to a whisper, while Sidney
looked surprised, but listened.
"It's a grocery stock that can be bought at a bargain."
"Well?..."
"A chance for you and me to get in right...."
"What do you mean?"
"We'll buy it?"
"But I am not in the grocery business. Books!"
"But you are out to make money?"
"I don't gather what you want or expect me to do."
"Well, I'll explain." He seated himself comfortably, and then went on in
that low tone of voice. "A fellow is in partnership with another who is
up against it for cash, and offers to sell his share, which is a half
interest, at a bargain." He paused again briefly, and then went on. "I,
as you know, having recently quit working in a grocery, naturally know
all about the conducting of one."
Wyeth nodded understandingly, and remained silent and patient.
"I see in this thing the chance I have been waiting for, and am ready to
consider it favorably. Big money is to be made, can be made out of it
for me, and I can, at the same time and in the same enterprise, become a
man of affairs."
"M-m," breathed his listener, "How do you propose to conduct it?"
"Well," artfully, "first, it should, of course, be incorporated. And
then a competent manager and treasurer are necessary."
"M-m. Do you propose to increase the present stock?"
"Not at once. I think the stock as it stands at the present, is quite
sufficient to care for the trade which, I have observed, is good."
"M-m."
"I thought as a favor, I would tell you and give you a chance. You could
put in an equal share along with myself, which would give you a fourth
interest, and you could become vice president."
"I suppose you will, of course, quit selling books, should you take over
the affairs of this--er--corporation?" said Wyeth, with well feigned
regret.
"Well," said the other, meditatively; "I have not fully decided as yet.
It depends largely upon whether you can be brought to see the great
advantage you would gain by coming in."
"But what little I represent--which surely isn't much--is tied up in the
book business. How much will this thing cost?" Slim winked wisely, held
his head low, and whispered it into his ear.
"Twenty-five dollars."
"I'll think it over," said Wyeth, feigning seriousness.
The next day, Slim had forgotten all about the grocery business, but
tore into the office in an ecstasy of delight and secrecy. He had
discovered something else. It was a soda fountain, rather, it was some
old fixtures. When the drug store below had been moved into the new
building, they had stored their old fixtures in an empty store room
near. The same had been vacant for ten years, but Slim happened by, and
saw a grand opportunity at a glance.
He told this to Sidney, with much feeling. "It's the greatest
proposition of a decade! We can buy those fixtures for a song, rent the
place they are in cheap, move the office up there, and conduct a book
store and soda fountain in connection." His eyes opened wide, as he
revealed the magnitude of the proposition.
"Can't do it, Slim. It's too big. Guess I'll have to stick to books."
The other took on a disappointed expression.
"It's the chance of a life time," he said, with plain regret, and
continued to look the part. "I thought you were down here to make money,
and when I go out and find something that's an Eldorado, I cannot enlist
you. You are making a serious mistake, and will regret it some day."
That was all for that day, but the next day he was mysterious. He
didn't, however, "put" Wyeth next to this, but, on the quiet, he met
others on the street below, where, at some length, they discussed a
restaurant and hotel business, to be duly incorporated, and an office
and a management to be appointed. Mrs. Lautier made known to Wyeth the
inner secrets of this the next day.
"I'm certainly disappointed in you, Mr. Wyeth," said Slim, one day soon
after, very grievously.
"How's that, Professor?" inquired the other, with assumed concern.
"You never seem to consider seriously, the many good propositions I have
discovered, and have offered to you for investment."
"Do you yourself?"
"I could make a bunch of money if you would come in," he repeated
artfully, but ignored the direct question.
The next day, he was more artful than ever. He was, indeed, full of
another proposition. He smiled as he told his friend.
"I'm going to marry that woman out there," he said, low and
confidentially.
"On Fourteenth?" the other echoed cheerfully, returning a sincere smile.
"That's where you're a man. That'll sure be dandy. When?"
"Oh, not yet a-while, not until I get a divorce from the last one."
"Oh--then. M-m. So you've been married already, rather, you are."
"I have never told you much of my past life, except from a business
point, have I?" He smiled naively, and, taking a chair, he became
seated, placed his feet in the window, and proceeded to narrate a part
of his past.
"I've been married twice," he began.
"Oh, twice...."
"Yes. My first wife died. We lived on a farm in South Carolina, and were
as happy a couple as you ever knew. I owned a two-horse farm, and raised
plenty of cotton and corn and some hogs, while my wife raised plenty of
chickens and garden truck. We had two boys, whom I kept in school in
town during the winter. And then, after my crops were laid by, my wife
looked after the place, while I went out and sold song books and
pictures, and preached."
"Then you're a preacher, too," said Wyeth, when he paused a moment. "I
didn't think you were a preacher," he continued, looking him over.
"Well, not altogether. I preach sometimes, but not much since I married
the last woman."
"How's that?"
"To tell you the truth, that woman almost made me lose my religion, she
was such a devil."
Wyeth was silent, but attentive. Slim went on.
"Didn't you meet my brother? He was here not long ago. I had him up here
in the office. You might have seen him about the building here. You
could not have mistaken him for any one else, if you had seen him."
"Does he look like you?"
"Lord, no!" Slim exclaimed, with a laugh. "Not at all. And you would not
have believed it; but ten years ago he was as spare as I am. Then he
went to preaching, and since then he has become the fattest thing you
ever saw."
Wyeth smiled naively. Coleman proceeded with his interrupted narrative.
"Well, getting back to that _woman_; I married her four months after my
first wife died, and took her to live in the same house. We got along
less than three weeks in peace. Then things began to warm up. She was a
devil, if there ever was one on top of the earth, but I persisted
faithfully." His appearance was now very pious. "The first big row we
had was on Sunday. It was in the morning, and I, with my Bible under my
arm, was starting to church. She didn't want to go that day, and had
tried to keep me from going; but I always led the prayer, and preached
during the pastor's absence, so, as I was saying, I was starting for
church. When I passed a room in which she had enclosed herself to pout,
she suddenly opened it, and hit me in the side with a big rock. If it
had not struck the Bible, I think I would have been hurt seriously; but
it hit the book and my arm, and rolled upon the floor.
"Well, after that, the devil was to pay. She kept me in Hell and hot
water, and we got along like a cat and a dog. Each day, from sunrise
until long after it had set, I asked Jesus whether I could hold out to
the end. I had declared to his Holy Name, that I had taken that woman to
live with for better or for worse; but surely I was getting the worst of
it. And then, at last, it came to the point when it was beyond human
endurance. She took to shooting at me for the fun of it."
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Wyeth. "You don't mean to say that she shot at
you!"
"No," he replied calmly, "she didn't _shoot_ at me; she _shot_ at me,
and not once, but any old time she felt like it, which was more than
once, by many, many times," he soliloquized, grimly.
"Good night!"
"Yes; she shot at me as though it were no more than throwing hot water
on a bunch of rats."
"Save me Jesus!"
"Then one day I shot at her."
"Hush!"
"Yes, I shot at her and tried to hit, but I am thankful the good Lord
was with us both against ourselves, I missed. I think I was too much
excited."
"Deliver me!"
"It was a few days after we had had a big row for sure, and she had
declared she would kill me."
Wyeth looked helpless. Slim smiled grimly, and went on:
"It was about my first wife. I had an enlarged picture of her that hung
on the wall, and this devil had been eyeing it with apparent disfavor.
That day, she stood directly under it, looking up at it with a double ax
concealed in her skirt. I knew she had the ax, and watched her. I swore
to myself that the day of Pentecost had come. If she touched my dead
wife's picture, I would kill her on the spot."
"Be merciful, Coleman!"
"Yes, yes," he said, in a terrible voice. "I would have done so too, you
can bet your last dollar on that.
"She kept looking up at it, and muttering in a low tone. I heard her
say: 'I've a notion to tear you to pieces!' I decided that I would tell
her, and in so doing give her one chance, a last chance to continue life
in this world. So I said: 'Woman, woman, if you touch that picture, get
ready to die, for, just as sure as I'm a nigga, I'm going to put your
lights out!' Those were terrible days, terrible days," he sighed
wearily, and for the first time since Wyeth had known him, he felt a
pang of sorrow for him. He was serious. Presently he resumed:
"She went out without a word--she was always dangerous when she said
nothing--and returned presently, with a brand new, great big pistol,
and, without a word she began shooting. She and I then had it. She with
the gun and me a-running, while she pulled the trigger, and run me all
over that farm.
"After this, I armed myself and got ready. I took the children to my
mother, sold off the stock and everything else but the furniture. I
asked the Lord to spare my life, and not let one of those bullets from
that gun she always carried, push daylight through me, and I would try
to fulfill my promise, God's will be done. I offered her half if she
wanted to quit, but she didn't. No, after she had shot at me and scared
me out of my wits, she was ready for me to take her in my arms.
"For awhile, things became a little better, but suddenly she went off
half-cock, and pulled the trigger of that big gun on me again. Then she
got her surprise. I had a gun too. She had a Smith and Wesson, and I had
a left-hand Wheeler. 'Ki-doi! Ki-doi!' my old gun barked, and the
magazine would whirl around cleverly, automatically. She stood frozen to
the spot for a minute, then, taking fright, she dropped hers, and flew
with me right after her, shooting that old cannon at every leap. Across
the country we went. I loaded and emptied it a half dozen times, and
shot away twenty-five shells. I shot at everything in sight!
"After that, I finished selling out and went to Arkansas, where I was
getting along all right, until I was fool enough to let her come to me.
Again we got along very well for a time, but she got to cocking her
pistol where and when I could hear it, so I set out again. Just lately
she came to Brookville, and went to raising cain, trying to force me to
take care of her. So, as you see, she made me quit there, and thus you
see me."
For a long time, both were silent. The noise outside came to their ears,
clearly and distinctly, while the ticking of the clock seemed louder
than ever before. Presently, Sidney, to relieve his own emotions, arose
from his chair and went outside.
Slim spoke of marrying the woman on Fourteenth street, every day for the
next week. One morning he came in, his face beaming all over with
smiles, and pleasant anticipation was plainly evident.
"Well," he began, "we talked it over last night, and she thinks it will
be all right. So I want you to write a letter to my brother who owes me
some money, and tell him I must have it, since I am engaged to be
married, and must have it to use in paying for my divorce."
Wyeth did so.
"That's fine," he cried gratefully, when it was handed to him. "You
certainly can say a whole lot in a few words."
"When I get married to this woman, I think I will have a mate like my
first one," said Coleman. Wyeth tendered his sympathy.
"Well," he said, as one put to a task he would like to avoid, "I must
get around, and see a lawyer about a divorce." He was thoughtful for a
moment, and then resumed: "Wonder what they charge for divorces in this
town?"
"Depends upon the attorney and the case," said Wyeth. "I think
twenty-five dollars is the usual fee, or amount of cost." Slim hesitated
thoughtfully, and then said:
"I'll go down here and see this nigga lawyer. He ought to be willing to
get one cheaper than a white lawyer. Don't you think so?"
"Possibly."
He went out. About a half hour later he returned, looking downcast and
sullen. He was silent for some minutes, and then said, as if addressing
himself: "That nigga's crazy."
"Who's crazy?" Sidney inquired, looking up.
"That nigga lawyer."
"How do you figure that out?"
"I went in there, and spoke to him in regard to the divorce, and what do
you think he wants for getting me one?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
"Fifty dollars! What do you think of that for highway robbery?"
"Perhaps your case is a bit more complicated than the average, and,
therefore, justifies a larger fee," Wyeth suggested.
"Aw, that what he said, too, but he's a blood sucker. He can't gouge
me."
"Oh, well," said Wyeth in an off-hand manner, "you won't quibble on a
matter of twenty-five dollars additional, when you are getting a good
wife. Consider that as a treasure."
"Well, I don't care. If she's willing to pay half, I'll give the sucker
fifty." Wyeth bestowed a terrible look upon him, whereupon Slim
withered:
"Well, she'd be getting as much as I. So what's the difference?" he
tried to argue. Wyeth continued to glare at him.
"The idea!" he declared presently, with undisguised contempt. "To wish a
woman to pay for your release from another! I'm too shocked to say how
ashamed I am of you!"
Slim laughed sheepishly.
"Twenty-five dollars for a pair of legs like you! If I were a woman, I
wouldn't give twenty-five cents for you as you sit there now," Wyeth
added, with subdued mirth.
The next day, his atmosphere had changed perceptibly. He was in an ugly
humor. Presently he gave words to its cause.
"That nigga woman's fooling me, and I know it."
"What's the stew today?"
"She's got another nigga a-hangin' around her. I've been suspicioning it
for some time."
"You're the limit."
"I gave her a ballin' out last night about it too."
Mrs. Lautier came in at this moment, and that was the end of it for
awhile.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"_I'll Never be Anything But a Vagabond_"
Sidney Wyeth had about filled Attalia with _The Tempest_ by this time,
and had anticipated going to another city almost as large, about one
hundred seventy miles west. He made known the fact to Slim, and
suggested that he might leave him in charge of the office, if he did so.
As a precaution, or rather, to get some idea of his ability to dictate
letters, he had him compose a few. When the typist handed them to him to
be read, and he had done so, he decided to allow him to continue his
canvass, and to hire some one more proficient.
"Say," he cried the next day. "I've been thinking it over, and maybe
I'll be going along with you."
"That so? Well, I do not see any reason in particular why you should not
go."
"There's only one reason," he said thoughtfully.
"What is it?"
"Mrs. King."
"Oh! yes; that's so. When's the wedding going to be?"
He glared at Wyeth a second, and then exclaimed doggedly: "I'm not going
to marry. I wouldn't marry the best woman in the world."
"From what you have told me, it seems that you _did_ marry the worst,"
laughed the other.
"I'll stay single henceforth, and be safe," he growled, and busied
himself through some papers.
"Stay single, eh! And let the nice lady go without a husband. It's
incredible that you can be so regardless!"
"I do not care to discuss marrying today," he muttered. "I've something
better. It's a business proposition."
"Oh, I see. What is it this time? Going to buy the First National Bank
or the Southern Railway?"
"Oh, you needn't try to kid me. Besides I have not asked you to come in,
though if you did, you could pick up some big, quick money, if you were
of a mind to be serious."
"Oh, well, if it doesn't take more than a million, I might be brought to
consider it," Wyeth smiled, with assumed seriousness.
"I can see you laffing in your sleeve, so I don't tell you anything, you
see!" He ended it angrily, and left the office.
It was too good though to keep to himself, so he told Mrs. Lautier, who
in turn told it to Wyeth.
"Mr. Coleman had me write to Ames today, in regard to some song books,
which he says he used to sell lots of," she said, when it was
convenient.
Wyeth grunted.
"He is very much provoked at the way you treat him. He says, if you
would go in with him, you and he could both make lots of money; but that
you only laugh in your sleeve at everything he proposes," she went on,
replete with gossip.
"He proposes many things," said Wyeth.
She giggled.
"He's going out to Liberty Street Baptist Church to sing and sell them
Sunday, providing he gets them in time." She typed a few letters, and
then said:
"He says he would like to go to Effingham with you and sell books, but
that you want too much for it. That the book is too high, and you want
to make too much. He says the book ought to sell for a dollar, and he
should be paid seventy-five cents for selling it."
"He wouldn't make a living selling it then," retorted Wyeth, somewhat
impatiently. Then he thought of Mrs. King, who fed him most of the time.
The following Monday, Wyeth thought he had fallen heir to a fortune. He
passed him in the hallway, with head high, and as serious as zero.
Mrs. Lautier imparted the reason for it, when Sidney had taken out the
letters.
"Mr. Coleman had a great day yesterday, so he informed me," she smiled.
"He said you should have been out to Liberty Street Baptist Church, and
heard him sing and sell song books afterwards. He said you were not a
Christian, however, which made it bad."
"How many song books did he sell, and what did he receive a copy for
them?"
"I think six, and he received fifteen cents apiece," she replied. He
entered at this moment, his face wreathed in triumphant smiles.
"Well, my doubting friend, if you would have taken the trouble to come
out to Liberty Street Baptist Church yesterday, I think you would have
been convinced that I am something of a salesman after all."
"I've just been told that you 'mopped' up," said Wyeth, heartily. Slim
swelled perceptibly. He seated himself, crossed his legs, and resumed:
"When I used to live in South Carolina, I was considered one of the best
salesman in the country."
"You must have been a great man in South Carolina," said Wyeth. Slim
observed him a moment sharply. Presently he went on:
"I would go to the camp meetings and festivals, sing a few songs, get
the people warmed up with a good sermon, and then sell hundreds of song
books in the end."
"Wonderful!" from Sidney.
"I am going to the HNRTYU convention at Timberdale Thursday, and I
thought you'd like to go along," he said, artfully.
"Couldn't very well do it, unless you got them to hold the convention
over until next week."
"You _will_ not take me seriously, regardless of my success," he
complained. "Now yesterday I sold a pile of song books, and today I am
sending the man his share of the money. I could do you some good with
the book you are general agent for, if you would increase my commission
to seventy-five cents a copy, and lower the price to a dollar."
"If you wrote the publishers, they might give you the books free of
charge, providing you agreed to pay the freight on arrival, and not let
the railroad company come back on them later for it," soliloquized
Sidney.
He went to Timberdale the next day, and the office saw no more of him
for a week.
"When will Mr. Coleman return?" Mrs. Lautier would inquire every day. "I
certainly do miss him."
"He's our mascot, our jest. I miss him also," said Sidney, and they both
spoke of him at some length.
Mrs. Lautier was also a sociable person about the office, Sidney was
coming to appreciate more each day. She was from New Orleans, and a
creole. She had personality, and a way that won all who were near her.
She was slender and very dark, and, although only thirty-nine, was
almost white-haired, which contrasted beautifully with her dark skin.
Her eyes were small and bead-like, while she was affectionate by nature.
Her make-up was in keeping with the position she held as matron at one
of the local Negro colleges. When she spoke, her voice struck the ear
musically. She was a widow.
"Why have you never remarried, Mrs. Lautier?" Wyeth ventured, one day.
She colored unseen for a moment, before she answered:
"Perhaps there's a reason."
"What reason? You are charming--very charming, I think," said he
earnestly, although he smiled.
She hid her face. For a woman of her age, she was most extraordinary. "I
have been told that creole people have a most frightful temper," pursued
Wyeth, enjoying her manner. "Is that quite true?"
"Yes," She admitted, surveying him now.
"And do you happen to be endowed with such an asset, also?"
"I wouldn't be a creole if I were not," she advised, still smiling.
"That's too bad," said he, a trifle sadly. "You seem too kind and sweet
of manner, to be liable to those angry, wild fits they tell me they
have."
"Perhaps you will see New Orleans while you are in the south, and the
creoles; and then, you can be better prepared to understand them in the
future," she said.
"Perhaps I will," he said, after some thinking. "Yes, perhaps I will. I
had not thought of it before."
* * * * *
"Mr. Coleman will be back tomorrow," cried Mrs. Lautier, entering the
office a day or so later. "I received a postal from him announcing the
fact, so we will not be so lonesome now."
"I am anxious to see what he did in Timberdale. I guess he succeeded in
turning it upside down, and covering the whole town with song books."
The next morning, early, he was back. He entered the office and sat
around in silence, seeming to be in an introspective mood. Wyeth waited
for what he knew would eventually come. It did not as early as it
usually did, in fact, he sighed wearily and looked so peculiar, until
Wyeth, to break the impatience he was laboring under, presently turned
his gaze upon him, and said: "Well, I see you are back...." The other
sat up and looked about him suddenly, as though awakened from a trance.
"I suppose you have more money now than you can conveniently use for a
while," Wyeth tested. "Made a bunch in Timberdale?"
"Like Hell!" spat the other grumblingly. "Lucky to be back here alive."
"M-m! What did you run up against? A freight train, or the madam?"
"I left the day she arrived," he said in a heavy tone, then added, after
a pause: "They've been lynching and driving nigga's out of that town
this week, so the convention was a fizzle."
"I suppose you sold out before they got after you? How many song books
did you sell?"
"Didn't I tell you the white people was raising Hell, and a-killing and
burning Negroes like barbecue out there!" he exclaimed impatiently. "I
never sold any song books, but I sold one copy of _The Tempest_."
"How many song books of the amount you received have you still on hand?"
"All but six."
"I thought you had sold them all but a dozen when you left for
Timberdale."
"Aw, that old nigga that I left them with, and who claimed he could sell
them at his church and more, slipped them back into my room while I was
away. He didn't sell any."
"You don't seem to be getting back into your old-time selling form very
rapidly," suggested Wyeth. Ignoring him, Slim said suddenly:
"When you all going to Effin'ham?"
"Next week."
"I don't know whether I'll get to go with you or not. Mrs. King thinks
I'd better stay here this summer. What do you think about it?"
"I agree with her."
Just then Mrs. Lautier came in, and, greeting Coleman very cordially,
Wyeth left them and went out on business.
He happened to have a delivery on Fourteenth street, and when he had
filled it, he stood talking with the girl a moment. "Are you acquainted
with Mr. V.R. Coleman?" she inquired.
"Sure. He is a "_sort_" of agent for this book," Sidney replied.
"I thought so," said she; "and I was wondering what kind of an agent he
must make, when he spends so much time in this neighborhood. He goes
with a certain party next door, and he was there all last week. I think
he scarcely went outside."
"Good morning," said Sidney.
"Goodbye," said she. "I hope I'll enjoy the book."
* * * * *
The week arrived in which Wyeth was to depart, and preparations were
made to that end. He decided to leave the office in charge of Mrs.
Lautier. Slim came in the day before he was to leave, looking frightened
and terribly upset. Always given to joking with him, Wyeth hardly knew
how to accept him, as he apparently was that day. He was trembling in
every limb as he cried:
"That woman! She's after me! Great God! I wish she would leave me alone,
I wish she would leave me alone! She's followed me all over the country.
She's like a ghost on my trail! And now she is at this moment down in
the street looking for me again!" Wyeth's sympathy went out to him, and
he cried:
"Quiet yourself! You'll surely go to pieces trembling like that. After
all, why should you become so excited? You say you have advised her that
you are not going to live with her again."
"Aw, but you don't know; you don't understand. She's got it on me, on me
so strong until I dasn't make a crooked move, or resort to the law. The
only chance I have is to keep out of her sight." He paused a spell now,
and his appearance was that of a man under sentence of death. Then he
said: "She has vowed to kill me, and I know if she gets a chance she
will!"
"I will go with you fellows to Effin'ham," he said more calmly. "I've
got to get away from where she can see me, if I hope to live. Every
moment I stay where I know her to be near, will be moments of fear. I
don't want to kill her, even in self-defense. God, no! I don't want
murder on my hands!" He paced the floor at some length, pausing at
intervals to peep into the street, in evident fright.
"She was out to Mrs. King's, night before last. Mrs. King was not in, so
she walked up to the front door of the white people, and rang the bell.
When the door was opened by the man of the house, the expression he wore
got her goat. She made some excuse to the effect that it was the wrong
house, and went her way. Then, yesterday, or last night rather, she came
back. We were eating supper, and it happened that my seat was so I could
look out the window, and up the alley. I saw her slipping up this alley,
near the side of the board fence, with a big gun and it cocked. I rushed
out the front way and avoided her; but she is bent upon forcing me
either to live with her and submit to her tyranny, or she'll kill me,
and prevent me from living or being friendly with any other."
"You seem certainly up against a bad proposition, V.R.," said Wyeth,
helplessly.
"If it wasn't for a certain little deal back in South Carolina, I
wouldn't be so afraid; but, owing to that, I dare not do anything but
keep out of her way," he trembled on, woefully. "I'm going to try and
slip out of town unbeknown to her, and go along with you fellows to
Effin'ham. I'll be safe there for a while; but as soon as she learns I
am there, she'll take up the trail and I'll have to 'beat' it
elsewhere."
"Gee! It must be dreadful to live in the fear that somebody is thirsting
for your blood," said Wyeth, shuddering.
"I'll never be anything but a vagabond; a rover, drifting over the face
of the earth until death comes," he cried despairingly.
He was calmed presently, with the prospect of going to Effingham. Wyeth
went uptown, attending to considerable business in connection with the
office, preparatory to leaving. When this was completed, he went to a
movie, and returned to the office about six o'clock. He went to another
show that evening, and after that had closed, strolled about the town
until ten-thirty. There appeared to be a gathering of women for some
occasion at the auditorium, which was breaking up when he returned. Mrs.
King and Coleman were leaving the building when Wyeth came up. They
started up the street with the crowd. As they reached the corner, there
was a sudden commotion. Wyeth ran up, and was just in time to see a
woman dash after Coleman from around the corner. He saw her before she
got near him, and, jerking free of his escort, he tore into the street.
She was a dark woman with coarse black hair, and of an Indian
appearance. With a cry she flew after him, as she cried in a diabolical
voice:
"At last, Vance Coleman, I have found you, and in another's company. I
am forced to stand aside, although your wife!" Down the street his steps
could be heard, as he tore along in mad haste. She stopped when she saw
that she could not catch him, and, drawing from some invisible
direction, a gun, she levelled it, with deliberate aim, at the flying
figure. The crowd stood frozen creatures.
And then suddenly, a terrible cry rent the still night air, just as the
gun went off; but the cry had disconcerted her aim, and, with a cry she
turned toward the crowd, but Wyeth had the arm of the hand that held the
revolver, which he twisted and made the weapon fall to the ground. She
was led away presently by an officer, while still, far down a street,
the sound of hurriedly retreating footsteps came to Wyeth's ears. He
listened until they died away in the night. Wyeth turned, and
disappeared in the direction of his room.
He never saw Slim again.
END OF BOOK ONE
BOOK II.
CHAPTER ONE
_Effingham_
"I'll take that change now," whispered the porter, nudging Wyeth, as he
lay trying to sleep, as the train roared westward toward Effingham, the
iron city, and greatest industrial southern center.
Raising up, he reached in his pocket while yet half asleep, and handed
the porter two dollars. "I paid fifty cents for the ticket to
Spruceville, as you know, and the charge was to be two fifty?" The other
nodded, and pocketing the money, he melted away noiselessly.
A few hours later, Wyeth raised the shade and peered out. The train was
flying through a valley, that spread away from either side of the single
track, smooth and unobstructed, except for comfortable farm homes, set
back from the roads. He looked back in the seat behind him, observed
young Hatfield, whom he was bringing with him, dozing peacefully. Then
he looked toward the front of the car for the first time, and observed
another with whom he had become acquainted in Attalia. He had never
learned his name, in fact, he had never inquired it; but, since the
other possessed such long legs, and was tall and good-natured into the
bargain, he had called him Legs, which had brought no objection on the
part of the other. And it is by that name we shall follow him in this
story.
"Hello, there!" he greeted cordially, when their eyes met. "And where
did you get on and call yourself going?"
"Hello, Books!" the other returned, as cordially. He rose from his seat,
shook himself as if to start the blood, jumped about for a moment,
rubbed his face, and then came back to where Wyeth was and sat down.
"Say," he cried, "a little liquah'd go good right now, wouldn't it? I
had some, but like a pig I emptied the bottle last night. Oh, yes," he
cried suddenly, "I'm going to Chicago. Where are you going?"
"To Effingham; but I wish I were on the way for old Chi' along with
you," said Wyeth. The other smiled blandly, stretched his long legs in
the isle, then got up, went to the end of the car and looked around for
a cup out of which to drink; and, of course, not finding any, he lifted
the lid of the cooler, turned it over, and finding it had a disk, drew
it full and drank from it. Replacing it, he came back and reseated
himself. Since we shall become quite familiar with him, and very
shortly, a description is quite necessary.
He was tall, over six feet, and a mulatto. His shoulders were broad,
while his chest was thin and flat. His head was small, and straight up
from his back, while he possessed a pair of small ears that fitted
closely and oddly against his head--so oddly that, when one observed him
at a glance, he reminded one of an elf. He appeared to be smiling
always, although there was no great depth in the same. His eyes were
small, and danced about playfully in his head, while his hips were
arched and broad, between which was a full stomach which made him
resemble a pickaninny.
"You see, it's like this," he began confidentially. He lowered his voice
almost to a whisper, and held his mouth close to Wyeth's ear. "The
reason you did not see me when we left Attalia last night, wa