_North Bound_
Next morning after we gets across into Ohio, Mr. Dallas he fetches me
into the Pullman car where he's riding. I finds myself more comfortable
there than I has been riding up front in the colored compartment, but
lesser easy in my mind. I enjoys the feel of them soft seats and yet I
gets sort of uneasy setting amongst so many strange white folks. Still,
there ain't nobody telling me to roust myself out from there and after a
while I gets more used to being where I now is. Also I gets acquainted
with two of the porters, the one on our car and the one on the car which
is hitched on next to us. When they ain't busy, we all three gets out in
the little porches betwixt the cars and confabs together. 'Course I
don't let on to them, but all the time I studies them two boys.
The one on our car, which his given name is Roscoe, is short and chunky
and kind of fatted out; he's black as the pots and powerful nappy-headed
besides. His head looks like somebody has done dipped it in a kettle of
grease and then throwed a handful of buckshot at it and they all stuck.
But he's smart; he knows what's service. I sees that plain.
With Roscoe it's this way: A lady gets on board the car. No sooner does
she sit down and begin to fumble with the hat-pins than there's old
Roscoe standing right alongside of her holding a big paper bag in his
hands all opened out for her to put her hat in it and keep it out of the
dust. A gentleman setting in the smoking-room reaches in his pocket and
gets a cigar out. Before he rightly can bite the end of it off, here is
this here same Roscoe at his elbow with a match ready. Roscoe he ain't
hanging back waiting for folks to ask him for something and then have
them getting all fretful whilst he's running to find whatever 'tis they
wants. No sir, not him. He's there with the materials almost before
they is made up their minds what it is they craves next. He just
naturally beats 'em to it; which I'll tell the world that's service.
He's powerful crafty about his tips, too. When he does something for a
passenger and the passenger reaches in his pocket to get a little piece
of chicken-feed out to hand over to Roscoe, he smiles and holds up his
hand.
"No, suh," he says to him, "keep yore funds whar they now is, please,
suh. There ain't no hurry--we're goin' travel quite a piece together.
W'en we gits to whar you gits off, ef you is puffec'ly satisfied wid all
whut has been done in yore behalf then you kin slip me a lil' reward, ef
you's a-mind to."
He tells me in confidences that working it that-a-way he gets dollars
where he would a-got dimes. He calls it his deferred payment plan. He
says some months his tips run three times what his wages is. I'll say
that old tar-baby certainly is got something in his head besides sockets
for his teeth to set in.
The other porter, the one which is on the car next behind, is as
different from Roscoe as day is from night. He calls himself Harold.
But I knows just from looking at him that he's too old for such a fancy
entitlement as that. 'Cause Harold is a new-issue name amongst us
colored, and this here boy must be rising of forty years old, if he's a
day. This Harold is yellow-complected and yet he ain't the pure high
yellow, neither; he's more the shade of a slice of scorched sponge cake.
He's plenty uppidity. And I takes notice that the further North the
train goes the more uppidity he gets. He quits saying "No, ma'am," and
"Yas, suh," almost before we leaves Cincinnati. He quits saying "Thanky,
_suh_," and he starts saying "_I_ thank you," in such a way it sounds
like he was actually doing you a favor to accept your two bits. He
starts talking back to passengers which complains about something. He
acts more and more begrudgeful until it looks like it must actually hurt
him to step along and do something which somebody on the train wants
done. Along about Pittsburgh he's got so brash that I keeps watching for
some white man to rise up and knock that boy's mouth so far round from
the middle of his face it'll look like his side-entrance. But nothing
like that don't happen and I is most deeply surprised and marvels
greatly. I says to myself, I says:
"Harold," I says, "I aims to git yore likeness well fixed in my mind
'cause I got a presentermint 'at you ain't goin' be 'round yere so very
much longer an' I wants to be able to remember how you looked, after you
is gone frum us. Some these times you is goin' git yore system mixed an'
start bein' biggotty on yore way South an' 'en you is due to wake up at
the end of yore run all organized to attend yore own fune'l. Yas, suh,
man, w'en you comes to in Newerleans you'll a-been daid fully twelve
hours. I kin jest shut my eyes right now an' see the cemetery sexton
pattin' you in the face wid a spade."
I talks to him about the way he acts. Course I does not come right out
and ask him about it; but I leads him up to it gentle and roundabout. He
tells me he don't aim to let nobody run over him. He tells me he
considers himself just as good as they is, if not better. He says he
lives in a place called Jersey City where the colored race gets their
bounden rights and if they don't get 'em they up and contends for 'em
until they do. I says to him, I says:
"Harold," I says, "I ain't never been about nowhars much till this
present trip an' I ain't never seen much, so you must excuse of my
ign'ence but the way it looks to me, I'd ruther be happy amongst niggers
then miser'ble amongst w'ite folks."
He says to me ain't I got no respect for my color? I says to him I's got
so much respect for it that I ain't aiming to jam myself into places
where I ain't desired. He says that ain't the point; he says the point
is that I is got to stand up for the entitled rights and privileges of
the colored race. I says where I comes from I also has got to think
about keeping from getting my head all peeled. He says to me I'll find
out before I has been long up North that there is a sight of difference
betwixt Kentucky and New Jersey. I says to him that most doubtless he is
right. And then he says I should also be careful about speaking the
word "nigger." He says the word ain't never used no more amongst
colored folks which respects themselves. I says to him, I says:
"Huh!" I says. "Well, then, whut does you call a boy w'en you's blabbin'
'long wid him friendly-lak?"
He says it is different when I is strictly amongst my own color, but
that I mustn't never speak the word "nigger" in front of white folks nor
never allow no white man to call me that and get away with it.
I says:
"Not even ef you is wu'kin' fur him an' he don't call it to you to hurt
yore feelin's nor to demean you but jest sez it sociable an' so-an'-so?"
He says:
"Not under no circumstances whutsomever."
I says:
"How is I goin' stop him?"
He says:
"Wid yore fists. Or half of a loose brick. Or somethin'."
I says to Harold:
"Harold," I says, "you shore wuz right jest now w'en you norrated 'at
they wuz a diff'ience betwixt Kintucky an' up-North. Well, live an'
learn," I says, "live an' learn. Only, ef I aims to learn frum you I has
doubts whether I'll live so ver' much longer."
We talks some more about making money, too. It seems like the closer you
gets to New York City the more you thinks about money. I noticed it then
and I notices it since, frequent. He says to me that some of the boys in
the sleeping-car portering business don't depend just on their wages and
their tips alone. He says they has another way for to pick up loose
change. He says he don't follow after it himself; he says he has got one
or two other boys in mind which he has talked with 'em and knows how
they does it.
I says to him, I says:
"Specify?"
He says:
"The way these yere boys gits they money is 'at they gits it late at
night after ever'body has done went to baid. Most gin'elly a man 'at's
travelin' he don't keep track of his loose change. Anyhow, he don't
keep near ez close track of it ez he do w'en he's home. He's buyin'
hisse'f a cigar yere an' a paper-back book there an' a apple in this
place an' a sandwitch in 'at place, an' he jest stick the change in his
pants pocket an' goes on 'bout his bus'ness. Well, come baid-time, he
turns in. We'll say you is the porter on his car. You goes th'ough the
car till you comes to his berth. You parts the curtains jest ez easy ez
you kin an' you peeps in th'ough the crack an' see ef he's sleepin'
good. Ef his pants is all folded up smooth you better ramble along an'
leave 'at man be. Folded pants is most gine'lly a sign of a careful man
w'ich the chances is he knows how much he's got to a cent. But ef his
pants is kind of wadded-up in the lil' hammock or flung to one side sort
of keerless-lak, you reaches in an' you lifts 'em out. But fust you
wants to be shore he's sleepin' sound. Them w'ich sleeps on the back wid
the mouth open is the safetest."
I says to him, I says:
"Yes, but s'posen' he do wake up an' ketch you fumblin' 'round insides
of his berth. Whut then?"
"Oh," he says, "tha's all purvided fur in the ritual. You sez to him:
''Scuse me, mister, I med a mistake. I thought you wuz the gen'lman 'at
lef' a early call fur to git off at Harrisburg.' But most in gine'l he
don't wake up. So you gits his pants out into the aisle an' goes th'ough
'em. Ef he's got somewhars 'round five dollars in loose change in his
pockets, you teks fifty cents, no mo' an' no less, an' 'en you slips his
pants back whar you found 'em an' go 'long. Ef he's got somewhars 'round
ten dollars in chicken-feed an' in ones an' twos, you assesses him dues
of jest one dollar even. Ef you plays yore system right an' don't git
greedy they ain't one chanc't in a thousand 'at he'll miss the money
w'en he wakes up. But," he says, "they's one fatal exception to the
rule. W'en you come to him, don't touch a cent of his money no matter
how much he's carryin' on him. 'Cause ef you do he's shore to mek a
hollow the very fust thing in the mornin' an' next thing you know you's
in trouble an' they's beckonin' you up on the cyarpet."
I says to him, I says:
"Wait a minute," I says. "Lemme see ef I can't name you the exception my
own se'f. The exception," I says, "is the w'ite man w'ich he carries all
his small change in one of these yere lil' screwed-up leather purses.
Ain't it?"
And he says yes, for a fact, that's so. But he says how come I is
knowing so much when I ain't never done no portering my own self. And I
says to him, a man don't need to be wearing railroading clothes to know
that any white man which totes around one of them little tight patent
purses knows at all times, sleeping or waking, just exactly how much
money he's got.
Well, when we gets to New York City it's morning again. When we comes
out of the depot onto the street I takes one look round and I allows to
myself that these here New York folks certainly is got powerfully behind
someway with their hauling. Excusing the time we had the cyclone down
home, I ain't never in my whole life seen so much truck and stuff and
things moving in all different directions at the same time. And
people--_who-ee_! Every which-a-way I looks all I can see is a multitude
of strangers. And I says to myself there certainly must be a big
convention going on in this town for the streets to be so full of
visiting delegates and it's a mighty good thing for us Mr. Dallas is
done sent a telegram on ahead for rooms at the hotel, else we'd have to
camp out with some private family same as they does down home in
county-fair week or when the district Methodist conference meets.
The white gentleman that's going to fix up what I writes, he told me
that I should set down my first impressions of New York before I begins
to forget 'em. He says they'll make good local color, whatever that is.
Which I will now do so:
The thing which impresses me first and foremost is a steamboat I sees on
the river which runs alongside New York City on the side nearest to
Paducah. She is not no side-wheeler nor yet she ain't no stern-wheeler,
which all the steamboats I has ever seen before is naturally bound to
be one or the other. As near as I can tell, she has not got no wheel at
all, side- or stern-. It would seem that what runs her is a kind of a
big hump-back timber which sticks up out of the middle of her hurricane
deck and works up and down, and which Mr. Dallas tells me is known as a
walking-beam. But it seems like to me that's certainly a most curiousome
way to run a steamboat and I says to myself that wonders will never
cease!
And the thing which impresses me next most is a snack-stand on a
sidewalk where they is selling watermelons by the slice--and it the
middle of August!
And next to that the most impressiveness is when I sees a gang of black
fellows working on a levee down by this same river, only it's mighty
flat-looking for a levee. These boys is working there roustabouting
freight, and there ain't a single one of 'em which is singing as he goes
back and forth. When a river-nigger down our way don't sing whilst he's
loading, it's a sign something is wrong with him and next thing he knows
he don't know nothing by reason of the mate having lammed him across
the head with a hickory gad. But this here gang is going along just as
dumb as if they was white. I wonders to myself if thereby they is hoping
to fool somebody into believing they is white?
I will therefore state that these three things is the things which
impresses me the most highly on my first arrival in New York. I also
takes notice of the high buildings. They strikes me as being quite high;
but of course when you starts in to build a high building, highness is
naturally what you aims for, ain't it?