_Harlem Heights_
Well, in the morning I arranges a snack of nuturious breakfast on a tray
and takes it in to Mr. Dallas. But he ain't craving nothing solid to
eat. He's just craving to lay still and favor his headache. Soon as he
opens his eyes he starts in groaning like he's done got far behind with
his groaning and is striving for to catch up. And I knows he must a-felt
powerful good last night to be feeling so bad this morning. Misery may
love company, as some say it do, but I takes notice that very often she
don't arrive till after the company is gone.
He tells me to take them vittles out of his sight and fix him up about a
gallon of good cold ice-water and set it alongside his bed in easy reach
and then I can leave him be where he is and go on out for awhile and
seek amusement looking at the sights and scenes of New York City. But
when I gets to the door he calls out to me I better make it two gallons.
Which I knows by that he ain't so far gone but what he still can joke.
So I goes on out, just strolling along in a general direction, a-looking
at this and admiring of that; and there certainly is a heap for to see
and for to admire. The houses is so tall it seems like the sky is
resting almost on the tops of 'em and it's mighty near the bluest sky
and the clearest ever I seen. It makes you want to get up there and fly
round in it. But down below in the street there ain't so very much
brightness by reasons of the buildings being so high they cuts off the
daylight somewhat. It's like walking through a hollow betwixt steep
hills.
People is stirring around every which-a-way, both on foot and in
automobiles; and most of the automobiles is all shined up nice and clean
like as if the owners was going to take part in an automobile parade in
connection with the convention. Everybody is extensively well-dressed,
too, but most all is wearing a kind of a brooding look like they had
family troubles at home or something else to pester 'em. And they ain't
stopping one another when they meets and saying ain't it a lovely
morning and passing the time of day, like we does down home. Even some
of them which comes out of the same house together just goes bulging on
without a word to nobody, and I remarks to myself that a lot of the
neighbors in this district must a-had a falling-out amongst themselves
and quit speaking. The children on the sidewalk ain't playing much
together, neither. Either they plays off by themselves or they just
walks along with their keepers.
And there is almost as many dogs as there is children, mostly small,
fool-looking dogs; and the dogs is all got keepers, too, dragging 'em on
chains and jerking 'em up sharp when they tries to linger and smell
round for strange smells and confab with passing dogs. Near as I can
make out, the dogs here ain't allowed to behave like regulation dogs,
and the children mainly tries to act like as if they was already
growed-up, and the growed-up ones has caught the prevailing glumness
disease and I is approximately almost the only person in sight that's
getting much enjoyment out of being in New York.
All of a sudden I hears the dad-blamedest _blim-blamming_ behind me. I
turns round quick and here comes the New York City paid fire department
going to a fire. The biggest fire-engine ever I sees goes scooting by,
tearing the road wide open and making a most awful racket. Right behind
comes the hook-and-ladder wagon with the firemen hanging onto both sides
of it, trying to stick fast and put their rubber coats on at the same
time; and right behind it comes a big red automobile, _licketty-split_.
Setting up alongside the driver of it is a gentleman in blue clothes and
brass buttons, which he's got a big cigar clamped betwixt his teeth and
looks highly important. But he ain't wearing a flannel shirt open at the
throat, but has got his coat on and it buttoned up, so I assumes it
can't be the chief of the department but probably must be the mayor. And
in lessen no time they all has swung off into a side street, two
squares away, with me taking out after 'em down the middle of the street
fast as I can travel.
Now, every town where I've been at heretofore to this, when the
fire-bell rings everybody drops whatever they is doing and goes to the
fire. Elsewhere from New York, enjoying fires is one of the main
pleasures of people; but soon I is surprised to see that I'm pretty near
the only person which is trailing along after the department. Whilst I'm
still wondering over this circumstance, but still running also, a police
grabs me by the arm and asks me where is I going in such a big hurry?
I tells him I is going to the fire. And he says to me that I might as
well slow up and save my breath because it's liable to be quite a long
trip for me. I asks him how come, and he says the fire is probably three
or four miles from here and maybe even considerable further than that.
And I says to him, that must make it mighty inconvenient for all
concerned, having the fires so far away from the engine-house. At that
he sort of chuckles and tells me to be on my way, but to keep my eyes
open and not let the cows nibble me. Well, as I says to myself going
away from him, I may be green, but I is getting some enjoyment out of
being here which is more'n I can say for some folks round these parts,
judging by what I has seen up to this here present moment.
So I meanders along, looking at this and that, and turning corners every
once in awhile; and after a spell it comes to me that I has meandered
myself into an exceedingly different neighborhood from the one I started
out from. The houses is not so tall and is more or less rusty-looking;
and there's a set of railroad tracks running through, built up on a high
trestle; and whilst there has been a falling-off in dogs there has been
an ample increase in children; the place just swarms with 'em. These
here children is running loose all over the sidewalks and out in the
streets, too, but it seems like to me they spends more time quarreling
than what they does playing. Or maybe it sounds like quarreling because
they has to hollow so loud on account of all the noises occurring round
'em.
I decides to go back, but the trouble is I don't rightly know which is
the right way to turn. I've been sashaying about so, first to the right
and then to the left, that I ain't got no more sense of direction than
one of these here patent egg-beaters. So I rambles on, getting more and
more bewilded-like all the time, till I comes to another police and I
walks up to him and states my perdicterment to him very polite and tells
him I needs help getting back to where I belongs at.
He looks at me very strict, like he can't make up his mind whether he'd
better run me in for vagromcy or let me go, and then he says, kind of
short:
"Make it snappy, then. Where d'ye live?"
I tells him I has done forgot the name of the street, if indeed I ever
heard it, but from the looks of it I judges it must be the chief
resident street where the best families resides. I tells him we has just
moved in there, Mr. Dallas Pulliam and me, and has started up
housekeeping in the department-house which stands on the principal
corner. I tells him it's the department-house where the inmates all
lives in layers, one upon top of the other, like martins in a martin
box.
"You mean apartment-house," he says; "department store, but
apartment-house. Well, what's the name of this apartment-house, then, if
you can't remember the street?"
That makes me scratch under my hat, too. 'Cause I pointedly doesn't know
that neither.
"Nummine the name, boss," I says, "jest you, please suh, tell me
whar'bouts is the leadin' apartment-house of this yere city of Noo Yawk;
that'll be it--the leadin'est one. 'Cause Mr. Dallas Pulliam he is
accustom' to the best whar'ever he go."
But he only acts like he's getting more and more impatient with me.
"Describe it," he says, "describe it! There's one chance in a thousand
that might help. What does it look like?"
So I tells him what it looks like--how a little private road winds in
and circles round a little place which is like a family-burying-ground,
and about the hands downstairs at the front door all being from West
Indiana, and about there being two elevators for the residenters and one
more for the help, and about us having took over the Sublette family's
outfit and all.
"No use," he says, when I gets through, "that sounds just like most of
the expensive ones." He starts walking off like he has done lost all
interest in my case. Then he calls back to me over his shoulder:
"I'll tell you what's the matter with you," he says; "you're lost."
"Yas, suh," I says; "thanky, suh--tha's whut I been suspicionin' my own
se'f," I says, "but I'm much oblige' you agrees wid me."
Still, that ain't helping much, to find out this here police thinks the
same way I does about it. Whilst I is lingering there wondering what I
better do next, if anything, I sees a street-car go scooting by up at
the next crossing, and I gets an idea. If street cars in New York is
anything like they is at home, sooner or later they all turns into the
main street and runs either past the City Hall or to the Union Depot. So
I allows to myself that go on up yonder and climb aboard the next car
which comes along and stay on her, no matter how far she goes, till she
swings back off the branch onto the trunk-line, and watch out then, and
when she goes past our corner drop off. Doing it that-a-way I figures
that sooner or later I'm bound to fetch up back home again.
Anyhow, the scheme is worth trying, 'specially as I can't seem to think
of no better one. So I accordingly does so.
But I ain't staying on that car so very long; not more than a mile at
the most. The reason I gets off her so soon is this: All at once I
observes that I is skirting through a district which is practically
exclusively all colored. On every side I sees nothing but colored folks,
both big and little. Seemingly, everything in sight is organized by and
for my race--colored barber-shops, colored undertaking parlors, colored
dentists' offices, colored doctors' offices. On one corner there is
even a colored vaudeville theatre. And out in the middle of the streets
stands a colored police. Excusing that the houses is different and the
streets is wider, it's mighty near the same as being on Plunkett's Hill
of a Saturday evening. I almost expects to see that there Aesop Loving
loafing along all dressed up fit to kill; or maybe Red Hoss Shackleford
setting in a door-way following after his regular business of resting,
or old Pappy Exall, the pastor of Zion Chapel, rambling by, with that
big stomach of his'n sticking out in front of him like two gallons of
chitterlings wrapped up in a black gunny-sack. It certainly does fill me
with the homesickness longings!
And then a big black man on the pavement opens his mouth wide,
nigger-like, and laughs at something till you can hear him half-a-mile,
pretty near it; which it is the first sure-enough laugh I has heard
since I hit New York. And right on top of that I catches the smell of
fat meat frying somewheres.
I just naturally can't stand it no longer. Anyhow, if I'm predestinated
to be lost in New York City it's better I should be lost amongst my own
kind, which talks my native language, rather than amongst plumb
strangers. I give the conductor the high sign and I says to him, I says:
"Cap'n, lemme off, befo' I jumps off!"
So he rings the signalling bell and she stops and lets me off. And
verily, before I has went hardly any distance at all, somebody hails me.
I is wandering along, sort of miscellaneous, looking in the store
windows and up at the tops of the buildings, when a brown-complected man
steps up to me and sticks out his hand and he says:
"Hello thar', Alfred Ricketts!--whut you doin' so fur 'way frum ole
Lynchburg?"
I says to him he must a-made a mistake. And he says:
"Go on 'way, boy, an' quit yore foolin'! This is bound to be Alfred
Ricketts 'at I uster know down in Lynchburg, Furginia. Leas'wise, ef
'tain't him it's his duplicate twin brother."
I tells him no, my name ain't Alfred Ricketts--it's Jeff Poindexter from
Paducah, and I ain't never been in no place called Lynchburg in my whole
life as I knows of.
He looks at me a minute in a kind of an onbelieving way and then he says
he begs my pardon, but his excuse is that I'm the exact spit-and-image
of this here Alfred Ricketts, which he says he's done played with him
many's the time, when they was both boys together. He says he ain't
never in all his born days seen two fellows which they wasn't no kin to
each other and yet looked so much similar as him and me does. He says
the way we favors each other is absolutely unanimous. He asks me to tell
him again what my name is and I does so, and then he says to me:
"Whar'bouts you say you hails frum?"
I says:
"Paducah--tha's whar."
He shakes his head kind of puzzled.
"Paducah?" he says. "I ain't never heared tell of it. Whar is
it--Tennessee or Arkansaw?"
I pities his ignorance, but I tells him where Paducah is located at. It
seems like the very sound of the name detains his curiosity. He just
shoots the inquiring questions at me. He wants to know how big is
Paducah and what is its main business, and what river is it on or close
to, and what railroads run in there, and a lot more things. So, seeing
he's a seeker after truth, I pumps him full. I tells him we not only is
got one river at Paducah, we is got two; and I tells him about what
railroads we've got running in; and about the big high water of 1913,
and about the night-rider troubles some years before that. I tells him a
heap else besides; mainly recent doings, such as Judge Priest having
retired, and the Illinois Central having built up their shops to double
size. Then he excuses himself some more and steps away pretty brisk, and
goes into a colored billiard parlor, and I continues on my lonesome way.
But inside of five minutes another fellow speaks to me, and by my own
entitled name, too. Only, this one is a kind of a pale tallow-color with
a lot of gold teeth showing and very sporty dressed. He comes busting up
to me like he's overjoyed to see me, and says:
"Hello, Jeff Poindexter--w'en did you git yere? You shore is a sight fur
the sore eyes! How you leave ever'body down in ole Paduke? An' how does
yore own copperosity seem to sagashuate?"
All the time he's saying this he's clamping my hand very affectionate,
like I was his long-lost brother or something. I tells him his manner is
familiar, but that I can't place him. He acts surprised at
that--surprised and sort of hurt-like. He asks me don't I remember
George Harris from down home? I tells him the onlyest George Harris of
color I remembers is an old man which he does janiting for the First
National Bank. And he speaks up very prompt and says that's his uncle
which he is named for him and used to live with him out by the Illinois
Central shops. He says he really don't blame me so much for not placing
him, because he left there it's going on eight or nine years ago just
before the big high water; but he claims he used to meet me frequent,
and says I ain't changed much from the time when I used to be working
for Judge Priest. He says he's sure he'd a-recognized me if he'd a-met
up with me in China, let alone it's New York. He says he's been living
up North for quite a spell now, and is chief owner of a pants-pressing
emporium down the street a piece, and has a fine trade and is doing
well. And then, before I can get a stray word in edgeways, he goes on to
speak of several important things which has happened down home of late.
I breaks in and asks him how come he keeps such close track of events
'way down there seeing he's been away so long; and he says he's just
naturally so dog-gone fond of that town he subscribes regular for one of
the local papers and reads it faithful and hence that's how come he
keeps up so well with what's going on.
"W'ich, speakin' of papers, 'minds me of somethin'," he says; "it 'minds
me 'at on 'count of readin' the papers so stiddy I has a sweet streak
of luck comin' to me this ver' day. I'd lak to tell you 'bout it,
Poindexter?"
"Perceed," I says, "perceed."
"I'm goin' to," he says, "but s'posen' fust we gits in off this yere
street an' sets down somewhars whar we kin be comfor'able an' not be
interrupted. Trouble wid me is," he says, "I knows so dad-blame many
people round yere, bein' prominent in business the way I is, 'at ef I
stands still more'n a minute somebody is shore to be comin' up an'
slappin' me on the back. Does you feel lak a light snack, Poindexter?"
Well, it's getting to be close onto eleven o'clock now and I has not et
nothing since breakfast except fifteen cents' worth of peanut candy, so
I tells him I is agreeable. We goes into a restaurant run by, for and
with colored, and we sets down by ourselves off at a little table and he
insists that he's doing the paying-for on account of my being a boy from
his old home-town, and he says for me to go the limit, ordering. So I
calls for a bone sirloin and some fried potatoes and coffee and a mess
of hot biscuits and a piece of mushmelon and one thing and another. It
seems like, though, he ain't got much appetite himself. He takes just a
cup of coffee, and whilst I is eating all of that provender of his
generous providing, he tells me about this here streak of luck which has
come his way.
First off, he begins by asking me has I heard tell about the Colored
Arabian Prince, which he is now staying in New York? I says no. He says
then I will be hearing about him if I sojourns long, because the Colored
Arabian Prince is the talk of one and all. He's stopping at the Palace
Afro-American Hotel, and he's got more money than what he can spend, and
he's going round the world studying how black folks lives in every
clime, and he's got thousands and thousands of dollars worth of jewelry
which he wears constant. But the piece of jewelry which he prizes as the
most precious of all, he lost it only yesterday; which it is a solid
gold pin shaped like a four-leaf clover with a genuine real Arabian ruby
set in the middle of it. This here gold-tooth boy he tells me this
while I is sauntering through the steak. And I can tell from the way he
says it that he's leading up to something.
"Yas-suh," he says, "yistiddy is w'en he lose it. An' this mornin' he's
got a advertisement notice inserted in the cullid newspapers sayin' ez
how he stan' ready an' willin' to pay fifty dollars fur its return to
the hotel whar he is stoppin' at, an' no questions asted. An' yere 'bout
half-an-hour befo' I runs into you, I'm walkin' 'long the street right
up yere a lil' ways, an' I sees somethin' shiny layin' in the gutter an'
I stoops down an' picks it up, an' ef it ain't the Cullid Arabian
Prince's four-leaf clover pin, dog-gone me! An' yere it is, safe an'
sound."
And with that he reach in his pocket and pull it out and let me look at
it a brief second. And I says to him that I don't begrudge him his good
luck none, only I wishes it might a-been me which had found it, because
fifty dollars would come in mighty handy. Then I says to him, I says:
"I s'pose you is now on yore way to hand him back his belongin' an'
claim the reward?"
But he shakes his head kind of dubiousome.
"I tell you how 'tis, Poindexter," he says. "To begin wid, an' speakin'
in confidences ez one ole-time frien' to 'nother, I prob'ly is the
onlyest pusson in this yere city of Noo Yawk w'ich the Cullid Arabian
Prince might mek trouble fur me ef I wuz the one w'ich come bringin' him
back his lost pin. Ever since he's been yere he's been sendin' his
clothes over to my 'stablishment, w'ich it is right round the corner
frum the Palace Afro-American Hotel, to be pressed. An' ef I should turn
up now wid this yere pin he'd most likely ez not claim 'at I found it
stuck in one of his coat lapels an' taken it out an' kep' it. An' the
chances is he'd not only refuse fur to pay over the reward, but
furthermo' might raise a rookus an' cast a shadder on my good name w'ich
it su'ttinly would hurt my perfessional reppitation fur a Cullid Arabian
Prince to be low-ratin' me at-a-way. He's lak so many wealthy pussons
is--he's suspicious in his mind. So I don't keer to take no chances,
much ez I craves to feel them fifty dollars warmin' in the pa'm of my
hand. But ef a pusson w'ich wuz a puffec' stranger to him wuz to fetch
the pin in an' say he wuz walkin' 'long an' seen it shinin' an' picked
it up, he'd jes' hand the reward right over widout a mumblin' word."
"Yas," I says, "tha's so, I reckin."
"'Tain't no manner of doubt but whut hit's so," he says. "Poindexter,"
he says, brisker-like, "I got an idee--it jest this yere secont come to
me: Whut's the reason w'y you can't be the ordained stranger w'ich teks
the pin back to him? You does so an' I'll low you ten dollars out of the
fifty fur yore time an' trouble. Whut say?"
I studies a minute and then I says I is sociable to the notion. He says
he'll go along with me and point out to me the hotel where the Colored
Arabian Prince is stopping at and then tarry outside until I gets back
to him with the money. I says I'll go just as soon as I has et another
piece of mushmelon, which the first piece certainly was very tasty. So
he waits until I has done so and then he pays the check, which comes to
one-eighty for me and ten cents for him, and we gets up to start forth.
But just as we gets to the door, going out, he takes a look at a clock
on the wall and he says:
"I can't go 'long wid you--you'll have to go by yo'se'f."
I says:
"Whyfore you can't go?"
He says:
"I jes' this minute remembers 'at I got to ketch the 'leven-forty-two
fur Hartford, Connecticut, whar I is gittin' ready to open up a branch
'stablishment--tha's whyfore. I been enjoyin' talkin' wid somebody frum
my own dear state so much 'at I lets the time slip by unbeknownst an'
now I jes' about kin git abo'de the train at the up-town station ef I
hurries." He scratches his head. "Lemme see," he says, "whut-all is we
goin' do 'bout 'at now?" Then it seems like he scratches an idea loose.
"I got it," he says. "Mainly on 'count of my bein' in sech a rush, an'
you bein' frum my home-town, I'm goin' mek you a heap sweeter
proposition 'en de one w'ich I already has made. I'm goin' halfen this
yere reward wid you; 'at's whut I'm goin' do. Yere's the plan: You jes'
hands me over twenty-five dollars now fur my sheer an' 'en you keeps the
ontire fifty w'ich he'll pay you. See? I knows I is a fool to be doin'
it, but gittin' to Hartford on time today 'll mean a heap mo' to me in
the long run 'en whut de diff'unce in the money would. How 'bout it, ole
boy?"
I says to him that it listens all right to me, and I'd give him the
twenty-five in a minute, only I ain't got it with me. When I says that
his face falls so far his under-jaw mighty near grazes the ground, and
then he says:
"Well, how much is you got? Is you got twenty--or even fifteen?"
I says I ain't got nothing on me in the way of ready cash, only carfare.
But I says I is got something on me that's worth a heap more than
twenty-five dollars.
And he says:
"Whut is it?"
I says:
"It's this yere solid gold watch," I says. And I hauls it out and waves
it before his eyes. "It's wuth fully forty dollars," I says, "but I
ain't needin' it on 'count of havin' a still mo' handsomer one in my
trunk, w'ich it wuz give to me by a committee of the w'ite folks two
yeahs ago fur savin' a lil' w'ite boy from drowndin' off the upper
wharf-boat. You tek the watch an' give me, say ten dollars boot," I
says, "an' I'll collect the reward an' thar'by both of us 'll be mekin'
money," I says; "'cause you kin sell the watch anywhars fur not lessen
forty dollars. I done been offered 'at fur it befo' now."
He studies a minute and then he says that whilst he ain't doubting my
word about the watch being worth that much money, still, business is
business, and before he consents we'll have to take it to a
jewelry-store half-a-square down the street and have it valued.
I says to him, I says:
"Tha's suitable to me, but," I says, "I thought you wuz in a sweat to
ketch a train?"
"I'll tek the time," he says. "I kin hurry an' mek it. Come to think of
it," he says, "'at train don't leave the up-town station 'twell
'leven-fifty-fo'. 'Leven-forty-two is w'en she leaves frum down-town."
"I'm glad to hear it," I says, "'cause w'en the jewelry-store man has
got th'ough 'zaminin' my watch we kin ast him to look at the pin, too,
an' tell us ef it's the genuwine article. It mout possibly be," I says,
"'at they wuz two of these yere clover-leaf pins floatin' round loose
an' one of 'em a imitation. By havin' it 'zamined 'long wid my watch, we
both plays safe."
He stops right dead in his tracks.
"Look yere, Poindexter," he says, "whut's the use of all 'is yere
projectin' round an' wastin' of time? You trusts me," he says, "an' I
trusts you--tha's fair. Yere, boy, you teks the pin an' collects the
reward. I teks the watch an' sells it fur whut I kin git fur it. Le's
close the deal 'cause I p'intedly is got to hurry frum yere."
"Hole on!" I says. "How 'bout my ten dollars boot?"
"I'll mek it five," he says.
"Gimme the five," I says.
So he counts out five ones and yells something to me about the Palace
Afro-American Hotel being straight down the street about half-a-mile, on
the left-hand side, and in another second he's gone from view round the
nearest corner.
But I does not go to look for no Afro-American Hotel, nor yet for no
Colored Arabian Prince, neither. Something seems to warn me 'twould only
be a waste of time, so instead of which, as I steps along, I figures out
where I stands in the swap. And it comes to this: I is in to the extent
of five dollars in cash, also one dollar and eighty cents' worth of
nourishing vittles, and a clover-leaf pin, which it must be worth all of
seventy-five cents unless the price of brass has took a big fall.
I is out to the extent of telling one lie about saving a little boy from
drowning and also one old imitation-gold watchcase without any
mechanical works in it. Likewise and furthermore, I can imagine the look
on that gold-tooth nigger's face when he gets time to take a good look
at what he's traded for, and that alone I values at fully two dollars
more in private satisfaction to J. Poindexter. So, taking one thing and
another, getting lost has been worth pretty close on to ten dollars,
besides which it has taught me the lesson that when a trusting stranger
goes forth in the Great City he's liable to fall amongst thieves, but if
only he stays honest himself and keeps his eye skinned, he cannot
possibly suffer no harm at the hands of the wicked deceiver.