BOOK I.

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[Illustration]

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?"