"About ten dollars and seventy-five cent_The Forged Note: A Romance of the Darker Races

Wyeth did some counting. "I have ten fifty. Will they let me out on

that?"

"I think so."

"What you goin' do 'bout me?" put in the chauffeur.

"Do about you!" said Wyeth. "What you going to do about yourself? I'm

not your guardian."

"But I ain' got bu' fifty cents," he wailed despairingly.

"Then methinks you will sleep on Dalton street tonight."

They had arrived at the station by this time. Wyeth recalled a few hours

before with a feeling of awe, as he recognized the place and the words

the man had used.

"What's your name?" demanded the clerk of the chauffeur.

"Boise Demon."

"Yours!"

Wyeth gave it, and as the clerk made a record of it, he made inquiry

regarding a bond.

"All right. Ten seventy-five."

"I have but ten fifty."

"See the sargent."

"What's the charge?" inquired that orderly, coming forward.

"Id'ling and loitering."

"Let him off for ten."

"Pay me out, pay me out!" trembled the chauffeur.

"Shut up!" commanded Sidney. "Haven't you heard me say I had but ten

fifty?"

"Then do'n go, do'n go; stay with me!"

"Like Hell, I will!" exclaimed Wyeth with a laugh. The officers standing

about, laughed also, and said:

"Don't be 'fraid, honey. You'll have lots a-company."

Wyeth handed over ten dollars, and a moment later passed into the street

where a soft rain was falling. "Jesus," he muttered; "I'm sure glad I

kept that money." And then, ere he had got far, he heard a cell door

clang, and thought about Demon. At the same moment, there came to his

ears the music of many throats singing: "Don't you leave me here!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"_Jedge L'yles' Co't_"

Wyeth sneaked into the room without waking Thurman that morning. Nor did

he inform him of his good fortune, when the other arose two hours later

to go to work. He did not sleep any that night, and, since he had to be

to the court at eight-thirty or forfeit his bond, he arose early,

dressed, and in due time, he sat in the large theatre.

Perhaps if Sidney Wyeth had suspected what would come to pass that

morning, he would have forfeited the bond by not putting in his

appearance; but when he put up the collateral the night before, he had

observed a mark of respect in the officers. He was sufficiently

acquainted with the courts from a distance, to realize that the average

Negro brought before that tribunal--with the possible exception of a

boot-legger--seldom brought any money or had any at home, and invariably

went in great numbers to the stockade. Moreover, the sargent and the

clerk, too, had advised him that he might not possibly be fined at all.

Therefore, when he left for the court, he had no thought other than that

he would go free, and have his money returned.

"It will, of course," they had said, "depend upon how Judge Loyal feels

when you appear."

He had heard something regarding this "feeling" before. He meditated as

he made his way in that direction. And still he recalled more of what he

had heard, which was to the effect that if "his stomach was upset, look

out!"

He hoped Judge Loyal didn't suffer with dyspepsia or indigestion....

As he neared that place he now remembered so well, he was overwhelmed

with memories. He recalled this same court, more than ten years before.

It was in a leading magazine. It was, moreover, he recalled, an

interesting story, too. "Wonder if it will prove so today," he mused

silently....

And now he was inside the court room. He was early, and so were many

others. He recalled, with another twitch of the memory, that Judge Loyal

had presided ten years before. He would see him today. "There he is

now," he said to himself, as an old man with white hair came upon the

platform, and took a seat behind the bench.

But it was the clerk. Judge Loyal came later, so did others, many

others.

And now all that he had read in that article many years before, suddenly

came back to him clearly. It overwhelmed him. The article concerned that

court--and Negroes--Negroes--Negroes--a court of Negroes. And now he was

a part of them. Although on the outside, he felt guilty. He was supposed

to answer when his name was called.

The court room was filling rapidly. They were herded behind huge doors,

to the left of the room. Black men and a few whites. A mass of criminal

humanity. He shuddered. He wished now to be over and out of it as soon

as possible. And then he experienced a cold fear. It became stronger. It

developed until it became a chilly premonition that Judge Loyal (Jedge

L'yles, as these Negroes called him) would be feeling badly that day.

This feeling persisted until it became a reality.

It was now eight-forty. In ten minutes court would begin. But still

others came, and came, and came. Women and men, boys and girls--even

children. And eighty per cent of them were Negroes, his people. Would

they never quit coming? What manner of business did these people conduct

that brought so many into court? And at last came the judge. He was, in

all appearance, a young man. Evidently he was not, because Sidney had

been told that he had been on that bench for twenty-five years.

Court was then opened. Inside a fencing, many white people sat in

chairs. Who they were, or what part of the proceeding they represented,

he could not tell. Prisoners were then being arraigned. From somewhere,

he did not see, but it was not from the detention room where the

"_great_" herd was, a young Negro of striking appearance was led

forward. He was tall and slender, and what caught the attention of

Sidney Wyeth was, that there was nothing criminal in his appearance. He

was about twenty-five years of age, and wore shackles about his ankles,

as well as upon his wrists. He made a pathetic picture. Sidney listened

carefully, as he stood before the judge, while talking in an undertone.

He could not hear what was said, but, presently, the prisoner was led

outside and away. He never learned what charge was made against this

young man, although he would have liked to know.

On a table that stood to one side of the bench, behind which the judge

and clerk sat, were several cases of liquor.

Evidence against some poor devil was strong, thought Wyeth.

The gavel fell.

The first prisoner brought forward and placed before the judge, was a

Negro of medium size and height, and about middle age. He did not

possess the look of a criminal either. In fact, not all of these people,

or any great part of them, appeared to be criminal, if Sidney Wyeth had

observed criminology correctly. Yet there was a charge, himself for

instance. This one was charged with having been drunk and making a big

noise.

He admitted the charge.

"Where did you get it," demanded Judge Loyal.

"On Dalton street."

"Who from?"

"A nigga."

"Who was he?"

"A nigga."

"I don't mean that. What was his name?"

"Dunno."

"You don't know, yet you purchased enough liquor of him to get drunk,

whoop it up and disturb the peace of the populace."

"Yassar."

"Did you ever see him before?"

"Nawsar."

"Was it corn whiskey or rye?"

"Niedda."

"Well--what was it?"

"Gin."

"Oh! Gin...."

"Sparrow Gin."

"Ten dollars and cost. Next!"

There was some delay before the next ones were brought forward. When

they came, there was some anxiety. They were white men from one of the

suburbs. As to how they happened to be in this court was a matter for

conjecture; but the charge was fighting.

A witness mounted the stand by request.

"Your name is?--"

"Bill Sykes."

"William Sykes. Very well, William Sykes, what do you know about this

affair? Tell it to the court."

"Yer' 'onah, Judge," began Sykes, drawing his jeans coat sleeve across

his mouth. "Yistidy I left home 'bout four a-clock 'n' come dawn to Abe

Thomas' store, as I usually do for some t'baccer."

"State what you know about this disturbance," cut in the recorder's

voice. "The court has nothing to do about your tobacco."

"Well, 's I started to say. I come down after some t'baccer.----"

"Witness ordered removed from the stand. Put up the next," commanded the

judge.

Bill Sykes was summarily removed, as he muttered: "This is shore an all

fired place to tell somethin'."

"Your name is?"

"Silas Harris."

"Silas Harris, state briefly to the court what you know about this

case."

"Well, sir, Judge, yer 'onah. It was sho'tly afta' fo' er-clock when I

came down to Abe Thomas' store, 's I always do to get a chaw t'baccer."

The judge looked disgusted. Silas resumed.

"'N' I wa'nt no morn' inside before Chris Tuttle says, says he t' me,

'ah Si', says he t' me, ah gimme a chaw t'baccer. Then I says to him,

says I t' him, 'ah Chris,' says I t' him, 'I ain' got no t'baccer, 'n' I

jes' come down t' see 'f I couldn't get a chaw of'n you!' says I t' him;

'but,' says I, says I t' him. 'I ain' got no t'baccer, Chris,' says I t'

him; 'but I God, I got some a 's good-a ole rosin as yer ever broke a

tooth on.'"

"Case Nolle-prossed."

Several Negroes were brought before the bar for various misdemeanors,

were fined and few dismissed, while a great many were bound over. The

next case to arouse any special attention, pertained to two white girls

who were brought forward with drooped heads, and made a picture that

attracted the attention of the crowd. The recorder frowned, as he

observed then questioningly.

"What's the charge?" he inquired of the officer, who presented himself

as prosecutor.

"Soliciting."

"All right, prefer it."

"Your honor, Judge. I found these young women hanging around Dewitt and

Carlton streets this morning about one o'clock, and advised them to

'beat' it. They disappeared for a spell, but at a quarter past two they

were out again, and I heard them and saw them accost several men who

happened to be coming from work. Presently a couple halted, and a few

minutes later the four disappeared within a rooming house. I had been

watching this house, and was positive it was crooked. I followed them a

little later, and when I was inside, I looked about for a clerk and

couple of the rooms. When I knocked on the door, all was quiet and the

doors were not opened. I then demanded the doors be opened in the name

of the law. A scrambling followed, I heard windows go up, and a little

later men hit the ground below. When I entered the rooms I found these

young women alone, and put them under arrest."

The court room was very silent. All eyes were upon the prisoners. The

fact that the girls were both beautiful seemed to provoke the judge, and

he was very cold of demeanor.

"What excuse have you to offer for such acts of indiscretion?" he

inquired presently, and eyed them severely.

They both burst out crying and clung to each other, which made a very

pathetic picture. "We wasn't doing anything, Mr. Judge. Not anything. We

lived there and the men were our husbands," said one, while the other

cried woefully. The recorder eyed them critically, before speaking in a

tone of extreme severity:

"Why, then, did they jump out the windows and run away.... Don't you

think that was very cowardly for _husbands_?"

"O-oh," they cried now like two poor souls about to enter purgatory.

They almost made others cry, too. But the judge was unbending. He looked

forbidding, and as cold as steel as he said:

"Young women like you two should exercise more discretion. If you _must_

conduct yourselves to the disgrace of the community in such manner, you

should keep off the streets with your _men_ at such ungodly hours. I am,

therefore, going to impose a fine of $10 and costs upon each of you for

delinquency. Next!"

"Boise Demon and Sidney Wyeth!" called the clerk with his eyes on the

docket.

The pair now stood facing the court.

"Your Honor," began the officer, who had Wyeth in charge the night

before, preferring the charge, "we found these fellows at two o'clock

this morning, going in the direction of Warren street. And since, as you

know, we have orders to intercept all people whose appearance is

suspicious, and since they failed to give an account of themselves that

was satisfactory, we considered it expedient to place them under

arrest."

The recorder nodded his acquiescence.

"Your name?" he inquired of the chauffeur.

"Boise Demon."

"And yours?" of Wyeth.

"What's your occupation, Demon?"

"I'm a chauffeur 'n' wo'ks fo' Mr. Baron Ciders. You know him. 'Es mah

boss. 'Es got a office in the--"

"Why weren't you at home in bed ten hours before you were charged with

being on the street?" he demanded.

Demon's jaw fell. Sidney looked discouraged.

It was a self-evident fact now that Judge Loyal's stomach was out of

order....

Demon's excuse was a variation that failed to impress the judge as being

the truth. Wyeth languidly resigned himself to the inevitable.

"What is your occupation, Wyeth?" he now turned his gaze upon Sidney.

He was told.

"What's your excuse for being upon the streets at two A.M.?"

"Nothing!" calmly.

The judge regarded him in silence, while the pair waited for the

sentence. Still the judge paused. As he did so, Wyeth heard him belch

slightly, as if decided. A moment later came the words:

"Fine you fellows $5 and costs. You must keep off the street loafing

about all night. Next!"

They were turned about automatically, and then Wyeth found himself

looking down on a low, deformed creature. He had been told about him

also, and why he was deformed.

It had come about during a terrific race riot of a few years before, and

the incident will ever live in the history of Attalia. It was then this

creature became crippled. He was, at the time, one of the strongest and

most capable officers on the force. But, upon being sent to make an

arrest, he happened onto a "bad" Negro, run amuck. He was, to say the

least, however, far more fortunate than a dozen others, for they had

been sent to their happy hunting ground before the riot was quelled.

Since then, he had acted as a sort of bailiff.

Peeping up at Wyeth he said: "You have up collateral, do you not?"

"Pay me out, pay me out!" cried Demon, at this point.

Wyeth nodded.

"Then you step aside, and follow the officer downstairs to the clerk's

office," he instructed.

"Pay me out, pay me out!" from Demon again.

Wyeth frowned and pinched him good. "I wish to confer in regard to this

fellow," said he to hunchy, as they were being waited for.

In the detention room, Demon secured a loan of fifty cents from another

miscreant, and a moment later, they stood before the clerk.

When the fines had been paid, the officer said: "Now Demon, you can go,

but I am ordered to hold Wyeth as a suspicious character."

"Well I'll be damned!" was all Wyeth said.

* * * * *

"Take me at once before him," he cried, when they were again in the

court room, at the same time flashing his check book which he had placed

in his pocket for precautionary measures. Demon had followed them

gratefully back up the stairs, and now stood about muttering in a low

tone: "Ain' that Hell, _ain' that Hell_!" Wyeth motioned him aside,

resolutely.

Once more he stood before his Honor. Upon recognizing him, the recorder

looked at the officer with a question. His face had cleared of the frown

it wore some time before, and Wyeth concluded his stomach was better.

The officer preferred the charge, whereupon he looked at Wyeth keenly.

Wyeth made a motion. It was granted.

"I dislike, very much, your Honor, to be kept in this court room so

unceremoniously. I am no criminal, and my time is worth something. Now

if I may be permitted to put up more money, I have just paid a fine for

being out late for myself, as well as for another, and go my way until

this thing is done with, I'll appreciate it."

"Very well. Twenty-five dollars."

Wyeth paid it, and never returned to take it down.

When he got back to his room after it was all over, thirty-six dollars

to the bad, he opened the book of resolutions and recorded therein:

"Resolved! That to give heed to the 'Call of the Wild' in Attalia, is a

very expensive diversion, albeit a lesson; therefore, henceforth, twelve

o'clock will find me in the land of nod."

CHAPTER TWELVE

_A Jew_; _a Gentile_; _a Murder_--_and Some More_

"Look here, kid, they tell me they had you," jollied Spoon, when he saw

Wyeth that evening at Hatfield's ice cream parlor.

"You're breaking into print," laughed "Bubber" Hatfield, unfolding a

green sheet, _The Searchlight_, a sensational four-page afternoon

affair, which made a specialty of court news, and which most colored

people read. They are fond of such news.

Frowning, while all those standing about laughed, he took the sheet and

read:

NEGRO FROM THE NORTH WAS SURPRISED

In a few colored paragraphs, it described his appearance before the

recorder. And in conclusion, it had these trite words, purported to have

been said by him: "Dey don' have dem kind of laws up norf."

* * * * *

The following Saturday, he dropped into Tompkins' and was introduced to

a man who impressed him considerably. At the first glance, he could see

he was not a southerner. Before he made his acquaintance, he overheard

him discussing books with Tompkins, and when he heard him speaking of

the latest works of fiction, he opened his ears. To hear a Negro in

Attalia discussing novels, the late ones, was something new to him; in

fact, he had heard the most of those he met discuss but one, a salacious

one from the pen of a noted English author and playwright, and which

cannot be had at the libraries, but is, nevertheless, a masterpiece.

He grasped his hand cordially, and they at once entered into

conversation. His name was Edwards. "This gentleman," explained

Tompkins, "is the author of the book you and your friend were looking

at this afternoon." Edwards' eyebrows went up with considerable

pleasure, as he cried in a voice that was, to say the least, cordial:

"Indeed! I am honored to meet a real author." Sidney, however, was much

embarrassed. He disliked to be pointed out as an author among his

people. The most of those he met had impressed him with the feeling that

an author must be something extraordinary, and were usually disappointed

to find them only human beings like themselves. Edwards, however, was

not only an individual of good breeding, but one with perspective, and

quite capable of appreciating an effort, regardless of what the

attainment might be.

Sidney had met few of his race, but who seemed to feel that to write was

to be graduated from a school, with a name that was a fetish, and to be

likewise a professor in some college. In order to get material and color

for a work, they had not yet come to realize that it was best, and much

more original as well, to come in contact with the people and observe

their manner of living.

This may account, in a large degree, for the fact that so many whom he

met were impractical, even badly informed.

Edwards and he became agreeable acquaintances at once. "Come take dinner

with me this evening," Edwards invited, grasping Wyeth's arm, and

leading him into the restaurant next door, where he had already ordered

dinner. And such a meal! Wyeth had not realized that it was in the range

of possibilities for the little place to prepare such a one. Moreover,

to say that Edwards knew how to order would be putting it mildly. He

spared no cost obviously, since the meal came to $3.75. Wyeth felt

guilty, when he recalled that he ate three times a day at the same

place, the kind termed "half meals," and which came to fifteen cents

per.

Before they had sat long, Edwards' friend came to the table. And of all

the Negroes Sidney had met, this one was the most extraordinary. The son

of a Japanese mother and a Negro father, he had been educated abroad.

He spent his youth in Asia, lived a portion of his life in Japan, the

remainder in America and was a Buddhist. One Negro at least who didn't

spell "ligon."

History and science, from the beginning of time--before Adam whom he

scorned, astronomy, astrology, meteorology, the zodiac and the

constellations, in fact, he seemed to know everything. Sidney, anxious

always to learn what he did not know, could only sit with mouth wide

open, while the other declared Jesus of Nazareth, Noah, the flood, Adam

and Eve, and all the rest, the biggest liars the world ever knew.

When Sidney had occasion to speak of him to religious Negroes in

after-months, they would say: "Shucks! He couldn't a-convinced me

'gainst mah Jaysus." And he would then be sorry. Sidney "believed" as

much as any one else of moderate intelligence, and his acquaintance with

the unusual Negro had no effect whatever upon him as a believer; but he

knew that many of those who professed so much faith in "Jaysus" and

cried: "We is God fearin' fo'kes," were mere "feelers" who had no

thought of God whatever, in the sense he should be regarded and

respected. Indeed, they did not fear him. They feared but one thing,

these black people, and that was the white man, which belongs to another

chapter.

"I grant all you say to be quite possible, my dear sir," said he, when

the other paused in his serious discourse; "but, having been raised to

the Christian faith, I am, therefore, a hopeless believer. I do,

nevertheless, respect your point of view and your faith, and am glad

indeed to have met you," which ended it.

Edwards proved to be a graduate of Yale, and was well informed in every

way, as Sidney suspected.

He had always found it this way. The great fault he was finding daily

with those of his race, was that they did not read, did not observe, and

were not informed in the many things they could just as well have known.

As the days went by, Sidney's friendship with Edwards developed to the

point, where Edwards insisted upon paying half the rent for the

privilege of loafing in the office whenever he was at leisure. Sidney

did not inquire his business, or what he was engaged in; but his

curiosity was aroused nevertheless. His friend always had plenty of

money and spent it not foolishly, but freely. He never permitted Wyeth

to pay for anything, and he never ate a meal that came to less than two

dollars.

After a few days, another fellow joined him, who, while surrounded with

an air of mystery, did not happen to possess so much apparent education.

His name was Smyles, and he purported to be from Boston. At the same

time acknowledged Alabama to be his birth place. He still carried the

accent. He was dark of visage, had long legs, and wore trousers around

them, which appeared never to have been pressed. (Wyeth wondered why

some of the many pressing clubs did not kidnap him alive.) His head was

small and obviously hard, and he wore his top hair so closely cropped,

that no one could quite describe what kind it was.

Now Smyles was a sport, likewise a spender, and, moreover, with money

a-plenty to spend. And, as the days passed and Wyeth became better

acquainted with him, he learned that he was "mashed" on the girls to a

considerable degree. For instance: There was Lucy, who waited on them at

Miss Payne's cafe, who got "crazy" about him. He did about her, too, for

awhile, at least he pretended to. Then he became interested likewise in

another who had "better hair" than Lucy. Thereupon Lucy became "mad"

with jealousy, and threatened to do something "awful." She didn't, so we

leave her to her fate, and go on with Smyles who becomes, for the

present, the hero of this story.

"Smyles is a great fellow," remarked Sidney humorously to Edwards, one

day.

"Isn't he the limit?" said Edwards, with a touch of disgust.

"All the girls are liking him," resumed Sidney, enjoying the

conversation and discussion.

"Takes with all the kitchen mechanics, and anything else that wears a

skirt." Edwards had dignity, a great deal of it, Wyeth had come now to

know. He was plainly disgusted. Sidney went on.

"Has lots of money to spend, which makes it exceedingly convenient."

"He's the luckiest coon in town," said Edwards thoughtfully.

"Indeed!"

"Shoots craps I think."

"And wins, evidently."

That Wyeth might not gather an adverse opinion of him--or rather, a

questionable one, Edwards had informed him that he was connected with a

northern philanthropic organization. Wyeth assumed that he was connected

with something of the kind, and that he was actually the recipient of

plenty of the dispensation. Every Monday he would go uptown, and return

with a roll. Most of this would be spent by the next Monday, which was

unusual.

He didn't gamble, but better light will be thrown on this later.

* * * * *

About a year before, there had been committed in Attalia, a most

dastardly murder. A man, a Jew he was, had killed a little girl, a

gentile. This murder had occasioned more comment in those sections, than

had anything in the way of crime for a decade. We stated that the Jew

had killed the girl; it should have been said that he was _accused_ of

having killed her.

This was the state of affairs in regard to the murder at the time of our

story. Notwithstanding the fact that the Jew was accused of the murder,

the charge against him, and the public sentiment in particular, had

reached a very serious stage. It would have been very serious for any

one to be accused of such a crime in those parts, be she gentile,

Jewess, or anyone with a white face.

The body of this girl had been found in the basement of a factory, at

which she was employed at a very small wage, foully murdered. It was a

mystery at first, as to who was the murderer. A Negro had been arrested

and charged with the crime. It appeared that he was surely guilty; but

he wasn't--at least so it was decided shortly afterwards. It was

confidentially whispered about town to this day, and may be for all

time, that he was a lucky Negro, too. Because, with the way they treat

Negroes accused of doing much less serious things in a part of this

country, he was fortunate to have been accused in Attalia, where

protection is quite ample now, and not in some of the smaller

places--but we are digressing.

Evidently he was not felt to be guilty, and, moreover, since suspicion

was quickly diverted to the Jew. And yet he, the Negro, had been

discovered in the back yard of the factory, washing a bloody shirt. Such

incriminating evidence! For some reason, the people could not seem to

bring themselves to feel that the Negro had sense enough to kill the

girl, had he wished to. He was put through a severe examination of some

length, and finally confessed to having helped the real murderer

dispose, or try to dispose of the body after it was all over. It was, of

course, duly found and as duly buried. It was, thereafter, exhumed two

or three times, as evidence for the state. The Jew was discovered acting

very peculiarly a few days after the murder. So they had taken him into

custody to ascertain the cause of these actions. Accusations followed,

and he was in time brought before the high tribunal on a charge of

murder, convicted and sentenced to be hanged until dead, however long

that might be. The date of execution was set for a day, which happened

to be the same day a year later, than that upon which he was supposed to

have committed the deed.

Thus our story found it.

Sentencing a man to be hanged, and hanging him, however, are two very

different things. Yet the court persisted. It was determined to carry

out the decision of the jury of "twelve good men and true,"[A] this Jew,

scion of Jacob, of Israel, of Solomon, and Job, and others, had money at

his back, plenty of it, as we shall see presently; and they were

spending it lavishly, to save his neck, which was long. Perhaps that

explains what came to pass later.

[A] Author's Note: The usual term applied to juries is, "Twelve good

men and true."

The counsel for the defense hired a detective, _A Great Detective_. The

greatest detective in all the world. No one can deny this, since he said

so himself, at least this is how he was quoted by a paper, which, for

the purpose of this story, we shall call the "Big Noise." It was a

"noise," too. But, to get back to the detective, _The Great Detective_.

The leading papers corroborated the fact that he was the greatest in the

world, and so he shall be, in this story, as well. We are compelled to

quote the "Big Noise" again. It claimed, very urgently, that these

papers were paid to corroborate the detective. So be it.

The leading dailies and the greatest detective in the world got

together, with a view to obtaining a new trial for the Jew, after which

they hoped, of course, in some subtle manner, to extricate him from his

very embarrassing predicament.

The detective did the posing, and he was _some_ poser, and the papers

did the rest. The most obstinate proposition which they were up against,

was that the people believed the Jew to be guilty, but naturally read

the papers.

Now The Great Detective's picture had been seen by almost everybody who

read, or ever had read anything, so we must appreciate that he was a

familiar figure. But, in addition to what had occurred in regard to the

detective, more came to pass. Pages of the Sunday edition were devoted

to his cut, and other pages to his ability as a mystery solver. From the

way the papers wrote of him and reproduced his pose, he made Sherlock

Holmes, Raffles, Arsene Lupin, and even Nick Carter, look like thirty

cents with the three invisible.

He began, in opening the case, a series of angles. At first, of course,

he viewed it from an Attalia angle. Forthwith, after this, he went to

Chicago and viewed it from a windy angle. From St. Louis, he viewed it

from a "show me" angle; and while he was out that way, he chased across

to Kansas City, and saw it from that angle. And 'ere anyone was aware of

it, he had crossed the prairies to Denver, and viewed it from a mountain

angle. Behold then, upon picking up the morning paper, where the great

detective has reached New York, and was viewing the case from that

angle; but space will not permit of recording further these many angles

indulged in by _the greatest detective in the world_, for the defendant

in the case of the state versus the Jew.

All of these angles were followed with much color by the Attalia papers.

Moreover, papers elsewhere mysteriously took up the Jew's cause, by

following the angles of the detective. All except the "Big Noise." It

was busy viewing the detective from its angle. But it was not, of

course, endowed with such an abundance of readers, therefore, for the

time, it was not noticed much. It was later, however.

Now we come to the most extraordinary phase of the case, leaving the

prisoner in his cell for the present.

While all this angling was going on, witnesses who had testified for the

state, and whose testimony had resulted disasterously for the defendant,

began to come up mysteriously, with affidavits to the effect that what

they had sworn to was a falsehood, no, a lie! Many of them declared, in

these affidavits, that they were inspired to make these statements, that

they might face their God with the truth on their lips! The city became

chaotic. No one had even suspected that the city possessed such people.

This renouncing of testimony developed into an almost everyday affair.

"Everybody was doin' it". So it came to pass, in an incredibly short

time, that almost every one who had supplied damaging testimony against

the Jew, had renounced it.

The newspapers were the most interesting things to read in Attalia

during this spell. But more mysteries followed in due order. Every one

who produced, or had produced an affidavit, renouncing his or her

previous testimony, became automatically prosperous, no, we'll have to

change this statement. They did, and again they didn't. Alas! Some had

not received all they had been mysteriously promised, it seems. And

still others, unaccustomed to wealth, and feeling that money is

rightfully the medium for the good things they had never been able to

enjoy, including liquor, proceeded to fulfill this long felt desire. So,

many got drunk. And, trust John Barleycorn to do the rest, they imparted

secrets to their near friends. And then, of course, the friends imparted

such illuminating information to their friends, whereupon it was duly

imparted, in time, to the people through the paper.

Truth combined with a conscience, is always a danger, a menace to

falsity. And, of course, not every one possesses the strength to stand

on a falsehood, therefore--and in an incredibly short time--affidavits

began to be voluntarily offered by these many, to the effect that the

renunciation was a falsehood; the original testimony was true, quite

true. Accompanying many of these latter affidavits, was money.

We are reminded at this point of Judas and the thirty pieces of silver.

Conspicuous throughout the trial, and conducting the prosecution, was

one Doray, the solicitor, and he was there, very much so. Doray became

quite busy about this time. He had ambition, and was being mentioned for

the governorship. So the state, with its many poor people and slim

treasury, labored relentlessly in the prosecution, while the purse of

the Jew seemed to have no limit.

We return to _The Great Detective_, the greatest one in all the world.

Naturally, when he began, with the reputation he possessed, with the

notorious angling, with hundreds of newspapers all over the country

supporting him, and from the fact that he had uncovered many dark plots,

many people took notice. A half dozen extra editions was the average per

day, but some days they reached a dozen, all replete with subtle

mystery. The populace lived in an ecstacy of expectation. They were

hurdled between so many conflictions, until they knew not what they were

expecting. But, as the days went by and the mystery deepened, they

glared dry-eyed at the headlines of the many extras, expecting at last

that the greatest detective in the world would lead forth a diabolical

creature otherwise than the Jew, declaring, and subsequently proving him

to be the murderer.

He did, but he was not a man of mystery.

The announcement came in a blazing morning extra. Shops were forgotten,

people gathered upon the streets, blocked the corners, and everything

became a medley of excitement, as the news became general.

"The real murderer of a little innocent girl has been found!"

The population waited in abated breath. In the order in which he had

reported, or as had been reported by the papers, the detective set a day

upon which he would point, with the forefinger of his right hand,

straight to the murderer.

The day would never come, everybody seemed to feel. All the anxiety

attendant during the trial, before as well as after, for it must be

understood that the Jew had not been seen to kill the girl, was lived

over again during this spell. But at last the mighty day came. It was a

dark, drizzly, gloomy, forlorn day. Just the kind for what was now the

order in Attalia. On this day, the people now felt, the real murderer

would be placed in the lime light. The detective had declared, a few

days after he had been retained and put on the case, that the Jew was

innocent. Moreover, he declared that the prosecution, abetted by public

sentiment, had been affected in its decision, by the worst of all that

is inherent in our advanced society, race prejudice. He lied here--and

knew it. There is no prejudice in Attalia against any race but one, of

which we will pass. In addition, he flaunted in the face of the people,

the idea of perversion on the part of the Jew, of which the latter had

been accused. This accusation had been advanced as the only excuse for

the murder, of which he stood accused. But the real murderer was that

day announced as per reports.

"Jim Dawkins," cried the detective, "killed that girl! So now, free this

poor man thou hast persecuted these many months, and hang that murderer,

that beast, that pervert, for he is guilty!"

It was some time before the people recovered. Many of them had to pinch

themselves to be quite sure they were awake; for it was positively

incredible, after all this waiting, after all this angling, after all

the mystery, that this detective, the greatest one in all the world, by

his own admission and that of the press, should come right back to where

the case had begun.

Jim Dawkins was the Negro accused in the first instance.

And now we hear from the "Big Noise"--and it made some noise now.

Moreover, the public, with a relief from their long tension, began to

hear it. Its editor had once run for president, on a ticket we cannot

recall; moreover, he had the reputation of being opposed to every man

elected to anything in the state and the United States. This included

the democrats, of whom he, although a southerner, was not one.

The people now bought and read his paper with as much eagerness as they

had the others, in the beginning.

_The Great Detective_ was absent for a week following his sensational

discovery. (?) Then he returned, but alas! The day of angles had become

contagious, as we shall see presently.

Following his return, he happened to go to a nearby town to view the

case from that angle. This town happened to have been the home of the

murdered girl. So, when the great detective whirled into town, seated in

the tonneau of a huge automobile, they proceeded at once to entertain

him with true southern chivalry. (?)

A night extra told all about it, before he had returned to Attalia,

which was marvelous, when one considers this place was only twenty miles

away, and from reports, the car took its highest speed on the return, at

least it did in leaving the other town. But, lest we forget, the eggs

used at this entertainment could not all have been guaranteed as the

freshest. And with a few more words, we leave this story.

Shortly after this, Edwards and Smyles took their leave. Wyeth missed

them considerably, for he had grown very fond of them about the office.

When they were far, far away, the mystery connected with their

occupation was still unsolved. Then, one day while Sidney was folding up

an old newspaper, his eye happened to fall upon an article of two

paragraphs. It related to an incident that cleared up the whole thing,

and was to the effect that, while doing some sleuthing on the ground

floor, Smyles had, after refusing to explain the occasion of his

mysterious action, been arrested and locked up for an hour, at the end

of which the great detective had come forward and got him out.

"Well, I'll be blowed!" exclaimed Sidney, for it revealed that his two

friends were detectives, in the employ of the noted chief, and hired, no

doubt, to view the case from a "dark" angle. But the most extraordinary

part of it all, was that their names were not Smyles nor Edwards either,

but--I guess it doesn't matter.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"_Cause Nigga's 's Gittin' so Rich_"

In the building to the furthest end from where Wyeth's office was now

located, he observed a man one day. He was standing in front of the

bank. He was a white man, and was tall and slender, while his complexion

was sandy, his hair red and awry. His eyes were keen and piercing. "A

collector," thought Sidney, for there were so many about the building,

especially on Monday, and this was the day. He lurked in the entry on

Tuesday, when Wyeth passed that way. "Must be a contractor, the way he

is studying the inside of the bank," mumbled Wyeth, as he took the

elevator upward.

Wednesday came, gray and gloomy, and then it rained. It was four o'clock

and thirty minutes in the afternoon. Sidney passed through the entry to

the elevator on his way to the office of Dickson, and again the man

stood there. He had drawn no conclusion as to what was the occasion of

this presence, when from behind came a sound. He did something else

then. So did others about him.

"Throw up your hands, nigger, and get into that vault!" came a command.

It was from the man he had seen, and he was holding up the bank.

There was a silence, followed by a scuffle, then a lull, and a shot, and

still later,--for the shot went wild, landing in the ceiling where it

cracked the plastering, and made bits of it fall upon a score of

frightened Negroes--a thud. This had not gone amiss. There was a groan

and a dull sound, as some one sank to the floor. This part was witnessed

by Wyeth and others. It was the teller, and the son of the bank's

president. On the floor he lay bleeding, while the other was standing

frightened over him. Then he looked up. Open-mouthed like dumb

creatures, Negros of all shades, including the green, stood about. And

then the man seemed to awaken to the emergency, and the danger.

Those Negroes would not be dumb for all time. He sensed this aright. And

then he took initiative, action. With a flash, he fired off the huge

gun, and with a leap and a bound, he came forth, while Negroes, black

and brown, yellow and green, and some white, fell back upon each other,

in a hurry. He had plenty of room, for a time, and made use of it. Out

into the hallway he must perforce come on his way to the street, and

freedom. He started, but one little moment he hesitated. Then, firing

again, he made his great rush. Through the hallway he dashed, and

entered the street through a side door that was open before him. A

moment later he was gone.

But so were the others.

They were led by a barber, who shaved black faces next door. He was a

mulatto with a flat nose, which made his appearance grotesque. With a

roar like that of a mad guerilla, he ran in hot pursuit. Away they went,

all of them now, including Wyeth.

The barber led the others by far, and in his hand, open for action, was

a razor. It seemed quite large to Wyeth as it glistened in the sunlight,

for the day had cleared. Perhaps he was seeing double, but he followed

while the "victim"--which we shall call the other--preceded the other

only slightly. The barber was breaking wind now, but gaining

nevertheless.

As Wyeth followed in that dark pursuit, a picture of the possible

consequences rose before him. This Negro, scion of two races, embittered

by an instance in our history that will never die, was wild. Blood, blue

blood, it was he thirsted. All the hatred of a thousand or more years

was now privileged, by the unwritten law, to give vent. This other has

attempted crime--the robbery of the people's where-with-all. To kill him

now was to get revenge, revenge upon those who have long since died--and

go scott free!

Perhaps the other appreciated this point of view.

He rushed pellmell, wildly through the street he came into, and turned

at the end up another that led, whither, he did not take time to think

or to consider. It seemed impossible for the man to escape dire

consequences, as Sidney Wyeth saw him now. He wished he could save him,

but he did not know how. Only a few steps ahead, the culprit led the

other. It was only a question of minutes--a minute. And then--horrors!

Up this new street, which happened to be Herald, they went, and closer

and closer the Negro came to the victim. He was breaking wind fearfully.

A block had been covered, when, ahead to the left stood a laundry with

doors wide open. Then, suddenly, when abreast of it, the victim plunged

into it, but so did the barber. Others followed, and workers fell back

amazed. To the rear the chase led, and then, lo! A brick wall faced the

victim, with a closed door only. This door could not be opened in time!

That appeared to settle it! The poor creature, frightened out of his

wits, fell to the floor, and then rose to one knee, with hands stretched

Heavenward. At last the end had come. The Negro now, the picture of

which our pen cannot describe, stood over him with razor upraised, and

eyes dancing with murder like huge coals of fire. "Don't cut me with

that razor, Mister," the victim whimpered. He pushed the other back

until he was against the door. For the first time in his life, Sidney

Wyeth was to see a man killed. One moment he looked. The sunlight played

through a transom window, falling strangely upon the blade of that

poised razor. He closed his eyes to shut out the fearful sight. The next

moment, he opened them as he heard a noise--a momentous instant. It was

the opening of the door, against which the victim had been pushed.

A moment later, the two went over the steps a-tumble, below; but the

razor had flown in a direction which they had not gone, and the tension

was relieved.

Soon, the victim emerged from the rear, and another chase began; but the

razored Negro was then far to the rear. He eluded his pursuers for a

moment during the mix-up. But suddenly in chorus they cried:

"Dere 'e goes, cetch 'im!"

The crowd had now grown to a mob, a sullen mob. They cried out in loud

tones for blood, blue blood; but the culprit was illusive. A street car

was passing, and into it he vaulted. "I've shot a coon," he cried; "and

the niggers are after me!" The car lunged forward as the mob reached the

door, whereupon they looked into the muzzle of a revolver held in the

hand of the conductor, as he commanded: "Stand back!" They did, but 'ere

he had gone far, there came to his ears from the crowd in the rear:

"'S robbed d' bank! 'Es robbed d' bank!"

The conductor immediately rang to stop. The victim rang to go forward.

The motorman obeyed the former, and the car slowed down. The victim

leaped off before it came to a halt, while at the rear, the mob, howling

like a bunch of savages, came on in mad fury.

Then he tore across the street to where an old man, with bent shoulders

and flowing white beard, sat half asleep in a buggy. He rushed to the

side of this, and permitted the old relic to smell the muzzle, as he

cried: "Unload!" The old man did, in a pile. The victim jumped in, and,

jerking the whip from the socket, brought the old horse, half asleep

also, to appreciate the state of affairs, by dealing him a blow that

made his tail stick out, as his legs speeded up the street. The crowd

roared diabolically, as they saw themselves being left to the rear; but

many on bicycles gave chase, and followed in close pursuit. He suddenly

drew his revolver, and let go the trigger, which made a flash, point

blank in their midst. That settled it. One fell to the street with a

sad, sickening cry, an arm limp at his side. The others gave up, turned

back, and quickly went the other way.

And then he disappeared.

Wyeth had returned to the scene of the opening--so had the rest. And the

crowd, combined with those who had gathered about the bank in the

meantime, filled Audubon Avenue the entire length of the building, a

block and a half on the side. All was uproar. Report followed report,

and each flashed through the crowd with much comment. He had, so the

news ran, been captured here, and everywhere. As it stood, he had not

been captured at all. Opinions, expressions, conclusions and rejections

were in order on all sides. One was to the effect that the big banks

uptown, conducted by "whi' fo'kes," had conspired the deal on account of

fear, "'cause nigga's 's a-gittin so rich 'n 'a-posit'n they money in

the cullud bank, ontell dem whi' fo'kes done 'trigued' and got dat low

down po' whi' man t' come and tri' t' frustrate us 'spectable cullud

fo'kes." And again there came to the ears of Sidney another report, and

this was one of graver concern.

"Robbers 'roun' a-stealin' d' money, go'n be fus' one dare in d' mawnin'

t' draw mine out!"

"Gwan, you fool nigga! Yu' ain' got nothin' in dere; 'n' yu' aut a-be

run outta town fo' talkin' lak dat!"

"Who dat obber dare, da' whi' man dressed so 'maculete wi' du soft hat?"

"Dat's Judson, d' 'porter on d' Jou'nal."

"Who dat udder one wi' a big nose 'n' dark 'plection!"

"Ain' you ebber been 'rested, nigga, 'n' up a-fo' Jedge Ly'l's, 'n' seen

'im a-hangin' 'roun'? Dat's Jempsy, d' putective."

"Lis'n! lis'n! Wha' dat! Dey has captured 'im!" Forthwith, to another

point they rushed, through a bunch collected around the barber, who was

then telling and retelling "'Ow close ah come t' gittin' 'im."

It was not a report this time, but the ambulance that was taking the

wounded teller to his home. The sight of him, with bandaged head as a

result of the attempt, served to renew the local race animosity.

"Ah sho 's go'n kill me a whi' man, so 'elp me Jaysus!" muttered a

dinge, as the carriage passed him by, while all about dark faces scowled

ominously.

Darkness was approaching, when an authentic report came at last, to the

ears of the crowd. The would-be robber had really been captured, and it

was the papers that gave forth the news.

His name, so he said, was Rhynata, a "vaudevillian," who hailed from

Denver. His capture had been thus:

When he had eluded the mob, by holding up the old man for his horse and

buggy, he followed that street for only a block, when he turned into

another. After the crowd was lost, he left the buggy, and walked

hurriedly up the street, turned a corner, and disappeared in the

basement of a house.

A plainclothes man, some while later, happened to pass that way in

trying to locate him, and followed him therein. When he got to the

second story, he came into a room where a woman was bathing, with a damp

towel, the head of a man in bed. He backed up, begging pardon, and

turned to leave. As he was passing a dresser, in a half open drawer, his

eye espied a revolver which his hand forthwith touched. The barrel was

warm, which told the rest of the story.

The settlement began the next day before Judge Loyal. His court room was

filled that day, but the greatest crowd was outside. The man was duly

identified as the culprit, by many, including the Negro with the razor,

was as duly bound over under a bond that no one cared to go, and a few

months later was brought to trial, convicted on two charges, and

subsequently sent to the chain gang for five years.

He should have much of that yet to serve, but he escaped--rather, he

walked away a few months later, and has not been intercepted at the time

of this writing--but this is not our story.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

_And Then Came Slim_

Wintertime had flown, and over all the country, springtime had

blossomed. On one of those beautiful days, Slim came to the office of

Sidney Wyeth. His real name was V.R. Coleman, but, since he was so tall

and slender, to Wyeth, "Slim" seemed more appropriate, particularly when

the other did not object. This name, however, was applied sometime

later, and not on this particular day.

In Dixie there are many original characters, and this has made it the

source of humor. Undoubtedly, the Negro is the background of most of it,

and justly plays the part. Conspicuous among these original characters,

there is a particular class of men who will work from the time frost

falls in November, until the birds sing again in the last days of March.

When the smell of the honeysuckle, and the buzz of the bee become a part

of the day, they succumb to an inevitable longing to mingle, and become

"human" bees themselves. So, by the time May has arrived, and spring

chickens are large enough to fry, they go forth to the open, choosing

many varied ways--but always an easy one--of living until the leaves

begin to fall again.

Most of these men preach; for, since the beginning of the present order,

this has been the easiest way. No learning, of course, is required, so

long as they can spell "ligon" and preach "dry bones." Of course, if the

character is a good "feeler," with the magnetism, sufficient eloquence,

and a severe frown with it, he "gets by" much easier. Conditions, it

must be observed, are changing, even in Dixie. And, it is a fact that a

Negro preacher is beginning to pay for a meal occasionally.

But there were other ways of "gettin' by" as well, though not nearly so

prevalent as preaching. It was in quest of such a way, no doubt, that

Slim came to the office that day. Wyeth had become acquainted with him

while canvassing during the winter. He was, at that time, employed in a

grocery store as man of much work, a part of which consisted in driving

a little black mule about the streets, before a wagon in which he

delivered groceries.

They had become friends, and Slim was, in the opinion of Wyeth, an

original and sociable being also. He had informed Wyeth that music was

his line; singing schools he claimed to have conducted with great

success. So, during the summer and spring months, and some time into the

fall, he carried the title of professor. And it was as such, that Wyeth

welcomed him that day.

"Hello, Professor," he greeted him cordially, arising from his chair,

and grasping the other's hand, with much ostentation. "Professor" was

ushered into a seat, where he crossed his long legs with much dignity,

and gazed out the window for a moment, without saying other than the

return of the greeting.

As he sat by the window at that time, it was hard to even _fancy_ his

driving a mule in front of a load of groceries.

"Ah, my friend," he began, after he had swept the street below with a

careful gaze. "I am glad indeed to see you, and to find you occupying

such a delightful office." He scanned the office now, with an admiring

gaze, and went on: "You are sure fixed up in great style, just grand,

grand!"

"Oh, fair," Sidney admitted carelessly. "I am, however, glad you dropped

in, for I have been thinking about you for some time."

"I am honored," said the other, with an elevation of the eyebrows.

"Yes," resumed Sidney, with a serious and thoughtful expression, "it has

always been my opinion, that a man with the bearing and dignity you

obviously possess, could be much more in keeping with society, in a

position that would employ such a wealth of ability."

Slim did not make immediate answer to this, for the simple reason that

he was too flushed with vanity by the words, to do other than color to

the roots of his hair, and swallow.

"When I see a man like you carrying groceries up the back way of a

house, let me tell you, Professor," Wyeth said flatteringly, "I can't

help, in a measure, but feel despair for our race; but I was told by a

very responsible party, that your health required such an expedient."

Slim was then in the seventh Heaven of vanity, and looked away to hide

the tears of gratitude, he felt toward the man who had courage

sufficiently to admit what he himself felt. He admired Sidney Wyeth on

the spot.

Wyeth went on to say, "Now, for instance, I am in the book business,

which was never better. I have been anxious to enlist a good man's

service." As he said this, he looked in Slim's direction, and went on:

"But I did not wish to place this matter before you, until a time I felt

you would be in a position to consider it, possibly, favorably." He

paused long enough for his words to take effect, then continued, "So

Professor, I should like to have you consider this matter with a view to

taking it up."

"Well, sir, Mr. Wyeth," his honor began, "I confess that I have been

thinking of that myself." He was silent a minute, then proceeded again:

"My health is improved to such an extent, that I have, of course,

emancipated myself from a position of drudgery," and here he drew

himself up, with more ostentation than ever. "I shall be glad to tell

you, when it is more convenient, and we have the time, of my career as a

business man back where I came from. You can, I see, appreciate a man

that is possessed of ability," and he looked down at himself at this

point, before continuing. Directly he said: "I shall be glad to have you

explain this matter in regard to the book."

"Well," said Wyeth, slowly, "you should have some idea of the work,

since, with your years back in South Carolina, you were so successful;

but more so, since you have been over a territory I have worked."

"You certainly did fill Brookville with it, I must say," he admitted.

Wyeth smiled.

"Wish you hadn't worked that neighborhood, though," he said regretfully.

"Others are yet to be worked...."

"But I know everybody in that neighborhood."

"So do I--now."

Slim laughed a low, sorrowful laugh, and then was thoughtful. Then he

inquired: "What commission do you pay?"

"Forty per cent. Sixty cents the book."

"Do I have to pay for the books before I can have them to deliver?"

"I can, of course, trust you, Professor," Wyeth replied; "but the last

one I trusted, and who took eighteen copies out for the purpose of

delivery, has not shown up since."

"Indeed! Did he send the books back, or leave them somewhere?"

"He left them somewhere--several where's."

"Then you--ah--got them back?"

"Not yet."

"But you will?"

"Not likely. The people he left them with paid him $1.50 a copy

therefor, but I have charged that to the dust, and it has rained since.

You think over this proposition and come back tomorrow morning, and we

will get down to business. Should you decide to take it up, I shall be

glad to have you accompany me an afternoon, and hear me spiel it."

The following morning, full of book selling, Slim was on hand. Moreover,

he wished to begin that morning, but, as Sidney had made no arrangement

to that end, he was compelled to wait until the afternoon.

"I used to sell books in South Carolina," he said later, as he was

looking through the book.

"You have had some experience then," commented Wyeth.

"Wait until I commence. I'll show you a thing or two."

"Oh, I have a 'hunch' you'll 'clean up,'" said Wyeth with feigned

admiration.

"You sold a book to somebody I know on Fourteenth Street....," he

smiled.

"I thought you said I sold to many you know. I think I did," said Wyeth

innocently.

"I know this one a little _better_ than the rest," he admitted, now

showing his teeth, despite his effort to keep his upper lip stiff.

"Oh--ho, I see now," laughed Wyeth, good naturedly. After a pause he

said:

"Who is she? Come, 'fess up. At what number does she work?" But at this

Slim only laughed, and left his friend curious.

That afternoon, at two o'clock sharp, they sallied forth. Going to

Dalton street, they entered a cafe conducted by some people in the last

stage of hook-worm hustle.

"What'll you genamens have?" asked the waitress, who looked so tired and

sleepy.

Sidney scanned the greasy bill-of-fare, while Slim inquired: "What have

you?" As she drawled out the list, Sidney's ears came attentive to the

orders being given by others.

"Snout."

"Yo's, mistah!"

"Pig tail 'n' swee' taters."

"'N' yo's?"

"Stewed haid."

"Ah wan' some magetti," sang a small boy on a stool, with papers under

his arm.

"Gimme a yeah sanrich," from one with a very loud mouth.

Slim was very hard to please, as it now appeared, and was having some

difficulty in being satisfied.

"What is your specialty here?"

"Ah don' tole you du' ohdahs already. We has hog year, 'n' hog snoot,

'n' pig tail, 'n' collap greens, 'n'--"

"Give us a pair of feet," interposed Wyeth.

After the meal, they turned into a side street, crossed a back yard and

entered a house from the rear. Ahead, a flight of steps led up through

the basement, to the kitchen. Up this they went, and rapped on the

kitchen door. It was opened by a woman, presumably the cook. Wyeth

raised his hat, while Slim did likewise; whereupon she was very much

flattered. Said Wyeth: "Yes, ma'am! How-do-you-do. You will pardon our

interrupting you, but I suppose you are the lady employed herein," and

gazed into the kitchen before him.

"Yes," she replied embarrassed. "I work here."

"Very well, thank you." Then turning, he revealed his honor, bending

almost to the floor. "This is Professor Coleman!" Their prospective

customer was very profuse as she accepted the introduction, and then was

curious to know to whom she was indebted. Presently, unable to withstand

the wait, she inquired:

"Are you preachers?"

Wyeth looked at Slim who had his hat rolled up, and was showing his

teeth, then turned back to the lady and replied that they were not. He

then, without further ado, began his spiel, putting more dynamite into

it than usual, since he wished to make an impression upon Slim as well.

"I presume from your English, madam, that you are literarily inclined,

in fact, I feel certain you are." He bestowed upon her a hypnotic smile,

which he had cultivated for the purpose of impression, and then went on,

with eloquence:

"This is _The Tempest_, a tale of the great northwest, in which we

follow the fortunes of this young man," and he showed his picture on the

frontispiece. In this same picture, people seldom recognized himself as

the hero. Before long, he had her order, and a half dozen more, and Slim

was enthusiastic. When they were on the street for a time again, Slim

said, with much admiration:

"_Man_, but you are _a_ salesman! The spiel and look you turn on these

cooks and maids and house girls, and everybody, is guaranteed to make

the dead take notice. I can never get over laughing when I think of the

old lady back there, the one who said: 'I am not decided yet as to

whether I shall take it,' Then you said, and as serious as she was: 'Let

me decide for you in this,'" and then he gave up to laughter for some

minutes.

"Think you can learn it?" said Sidney.

"I want you to let me take this house," said Slim, halting before an

imposing structure.

"All right," said Wyeth. "I'll wait for you. Don't get struck on the

house girl and stay too long."

Slim disappeared. A moment later, a noise and the barking of a vicious

dog came to Wyeth's ears, accompanied immediately by a scuffling. A

moment later, Slim emerged from the back way in very much of a hurry,

with a bull dog in close pursuit. When he was safe outside once more, he

looked about him dubiously. "I don't like this neighborhood!" he said.

"You mean _that_ neighborhood," laughed Wyeth. "Did you make a sale?"

"Make Hell!" cried Slim, still breathing heavily from his nervousness.

"Talk about making a sale with a bull dog barking at my heels!" They

had, by then, reached a street that led across town, and they turned

into this. Wyeth took a few orders, but Slim decided to dispense with

further canvassing until the morrow. Several times, Wyeth tried to steer

him into a yard, but always he observed that his eye wandered around

toward the rear, and since nearly every one kept some kind of a dog--the

most of which would rather play than anything else--it was hard to

reconcile Slim.

At last he managed to get him through a gate that was close to the rear

door, and, while he explained his mission to the cook, Slim gave the

house girl a good talk, but she smiled on him and said: "I purchased one

from the other gentleman already."

This served to relieve him at least, and also encouraged him to a more

concentrated effort later.

When they returned to the office, Slim was again full of the book

business. The next day he went out for himself. After a few houses had

been made, however, he must have met another "sociable" dog, for,

shortly afterward, Wyeth saw him depart.

That afternoon, when they met again at the office, he was surprised to

learn that Slim had taken several names, and was in the highest of

spirits. Wyeth was too, but from other causes. He had taken about eight

orders, when he came into a back yard from an alley. Through a screen,

he caught a glimpse of a girl working in the kitchen. He approached the

house, and presently knocked on the door. She opened it with an inquiry.

He looked up into her face from where he stood on the ground. She looked

down into his, and blushed as she looked away. She made an impression,

and he was, for a moment, lost in a maze of delight. Soon he was

serious, however, and said he wished to speak with her on important

business. This was his style. He had observed that agents, the minute a

door was opened, began a spiel without getting the attention of the

prospective customer, so he made it a practice to get their attention

first, and leave them in doubt until he did, before disclosing his

business. If he failed to do this, he usually went his way, without

letting them know what he was selling. But, to get back to the girl.

She declared that she was very busy at the time, but would be glad if

he'd come back shortly. "In about an hour," she advised, as she watched

him walk toward the gate. He went his way with a subtle swimming of the

head.

He passed the next hour mechanically, made several sales, of which he

was hardly aware, and at the end of the hour, he returned. She was

waiting for him. He smothered his interest, and told her the story in

brief.

"Oh, that's fine!" she exclaimed, in an ecstasy of delight, when he had

finished. "When do you deliver?"

"Any time," he replied; "but I have several in this neighborhood for the

first. Could you take yours then?" As he finished, he looked at her

strangely. His thoughts went back to a place and a person he had almost

forgotten. (?)

She looked back at him, smiled, became uneasy, apparently she did not

know how to take him. Then she asked softly: "Why do you look at me like

that?" And then he came out of it, and replied candidly:

"I don't know," he started to say, "because you remind me of one I once

knew--and loved." The very thought of it, however, now pained him.

However, he dismissed these thoughts from his mind, and was normal

again.

She appeared as though she would like to say more on the subject, but

instead she added: "Have you been selling the book long?"

"Ever since publication," he admitted frankly.

The past lingered with him for some time, but it was temporarily

forgotten, when he had returned to the office, and noted Slim's success.

"You're there, Professor," he beamed, while the other assumed an air of

modesty.

A few days later--and he was apparently successful in the meantime--Slim

said to Wyeth: "I want you to go with me tomorrow. I've found a 'nest.'"

"A hornet nest?" asked Wyeth humorously. Slim looked uncomfortable. He

had a good memory.

"I'm serious. Out there around the colleges, man, are some of the finest

people you ever met, and rich! They own homes that will open your eyes."

"M-m. Are _these_ orders from them, or have they told you they would

'_think_' it over and you could drop in when you were in the

neighborhood again?" Slim's face fell for a moment, then he said, while

Wyeth thought he detected something.

"These orders are from _good_ people in and around that neighborhood."

He paused for a spell, and resumed, with a frown: "I have been thinking

very seriously, that you could do much better among the people in their

homes, and wouldn't need to go snoopin' around to the rear. I must

confess, Mr. Wyeth, that I have never been overly anxious to confine the

most of my work to domestics, as you seem to choose."

Again Sidney smiled, while Slim paused, disconcertedly.

"Now this list I have here, should convince you that you have simply

been over-looking the best people, for the kitchens. So, if you will go

along with me tomorrow, I will convince you to your own satisfaction."

Wyeth kept out of going with Slim in different ways, and 'ere long, the

day of Slim's first big delivery came.

Only about forty copies of the book were on hand in the office, but more

were at the freight house, with the bill-of-lading at the bank, and a

sight draft attached for the cost of the books. Sidney did not have the

amount available to pay it on that day. He reckoned, however, that the

number on hand should have been sufficient, but Slim didn't think so. He

was, moreover, insistent to a point that moved Sidney to make effort to

get the others out.

"I think we have books sufficient for today's delivery, Slim," he

argued. "And then Monday, we will get those at the freight office."

"It isn't business, it isn't business. I have taken these people's

orders for this book to be delivered today. There are fifty. I have

promised faithfully to bring the book this day, and when I was in

business, I did a thing when I promised. So I wish you would get the

books you have at the freight office down here at once, so that I can

fill every order and have no disappointments."

Wyeth looked distressed, but smiled all to himself. If he had learned

anything about selling books to colored people, and had forty copies to

fill fifty orders, he could figure on having a goodly supply left. But

Slim must have fifty copies, or a book for each order.

The books he had at the freight office would cost a pretty sum to get,

and he did not have the amount convenient. He went to the bank and

borrowed it. Slim went with him to the freight office to be sure there

would be no failure; he must have fifty books.

When they arrived, Sidney was chagrined to find he had one dollar less

than it took to get them. It was only fifteen minutes before the office

would close, its being Saturday. Sidney was up against it. Slim was in a

stew. He deluged the other with, "Why didn't you get them yesterday?"

or, "You should have known this office closes at twelve o'clock today."

And in the end he gave up entirely. Wyeth employed his mind vigorously,

hoping to raise a dollar in fifteen minutes.

"There's no use," deplored Slim hopelessly. "I will lose $7 or $8

through your business carelessness." Just then, Sidney observed a

drayman coming toward the freight house. A thought struck him, and he

hailed the drayman. In a few words, he explained the circumstances,

while the other nodded acquiescence, pulled out a dollar, and a half

hour later, the books were unloaded at the office.

Slim breathed a sigh of intense relief. He was a business man, and told

Wyeth so.

Wyeth admitted it. "Glad to be affiliated with a gentleman of your

ability, and you know it, Professor."

"You will always find me right up to the point in business, Mr. Wyeth.

That's always been my reputation, and if you don't believe me, you can

go over in South Carolina, and find out from the people there yourself,"

he said, very serious of demeanor.

"That's all right, Professor. I'll take your word for it."

At one o'clock P.M. Slim was ready. He had a cab hired for the occasion,

and with fifty nice, clean copies, wrapped deftly at the publishing

house before shipment, he sallied forth.

Wyeth was nodding in the office, when, about ten o'clock that night, he

heard some one coming up the stair. From the way he halted at intervals,

and set something down, he judged he must be carrying a load.

He was.

Presently the person reached the landing, and, halting again, dropped

something heavy, then breathed long and deeply. A moment later, he heard

him pick up whatever it was, and come on toward his door. It was burst

open in a moment, and some one stumbled in behind a big package.

It was Slim. He dropped the package as soon as he was inside, with an

air of disgust, and fell, apparently exhausted, into a chair. He was

silent, while he got his breath. When this had become regular, he got up

and moved to the desk, where he figured for some time. Wyeth remained

silent, but quietly expectant. It came presently.

"Liars! Dirty liars! Stinking, low down, dirty lying niggas. Damn all of

them, damn them!"

Wyeth was still silent. Slim looked about himself wearily, and then did

some more figuring. Presently Wyeth heard him again.

"Lying nigga's, o'nry nigga's, dog-gone the bunch!"

Wyeth was impatient. He wanted to ask very innocently what the matter

was. Suddenly he saw Slim looking at him savagely. Wyeth made an effort

to look innocent, and not burst out laughing. After awhile he heard Slim

again.

"I'm done! I'm through selling books to Negroes _now_!" He then arose,

and strode back and forth across the room in a terrible temper.

Wyeth started to say: "You mean you are through getting orders." But he

waited.

"The first old nigga I come up to, looked up when he saw me, and then

just laffed, 'ke-ha!' Then, when I held the book toward him, he said:

'Yu' betta' gwan 'way frum heh wi' dat book!' And then just laffed

again, like it was something so funny. I got mad right then, but kept my

temper and said:

"'What's the matter with you! Didn't you order this book from me two

weeks ago?'" He paused at this stage, and looked at Wyeth again with a

savage glare. "But that old devil just kept on laffing like a vaudeville

show was before him, instead of me with the book he had ordered, and

which he told me to be sure, _sure_ to bring today. My nigga was rising

now; but just then I heard a little half-naked kid: 'Uh! Misteh! 'oo

might's well ferget it. 'Cause th' ole man there,' pointing to the old

sinner, 'orders sumpin' from eve' agent what comes 'long; puvidin' i'

do'n cos' nuthin' t' give th' odah.' And all the time that old coon was

just laffing, 'ke-ha!'" He gave Wyeth another glare, and went on:

"The next one I come onto looked at the book as though it was something

dangerous. And then he squints up at me--I think he must have been

near-sighted--and says: 'Sah, I decided since I give you that odah, that

I wa'n't go'n' take th' book.' When he saw my eyes, he could see I was

mad enough to kill him on the spot. He saw danger in them too, because,

near-sighted or not, he began edging away, but again I held back my

nigga and says: 'What in Hell you mean by making up your mind like

that!'"

"He must have been drinking Sparrow Gin when he gave you that order,"

suggested Wyeth, with a twinkle of the eye.

"What?" inquired Slim, listening.

"I'd advise you to take along a little corn liquor the next time you go

to deliver; pour a little juice into them; get them drunk. They'll take

their books then."

Slim kicked a piece of paper on the floor before him viciously, and

said: "I'll take along a club and knock their lying heads off their

shoulders, 's what I'll do."

"Did you have enough books?" inquired Wyeth, ignoring the big package

Slim had brought in.

"You seem possessed with no sympathy, Mr. Wyeth," he complained, and

then grew thoughtful. Presently, seeming anxious to tell more of his

experiences, he went on. "One woman I had an order from, when I knocked

on the door, she opened it and said: 'I'm so sorry, but my husband won't

let me take that book,' and then she handed me a nickel, saying, 'so I'm

going to give you this for your trouble.' I could not, of course, be

ugly, as much as I felt like it, but I had to say something. So I

inquired, as kind as I could under the circumstances, 'What am I to do

with this?' She looked distressed at first, then brightened with a

thought, and replied, as though she were doing something wonderful:

'Why, you can use it for car fare. You won't have to walk back.'"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"_Shoo Fly_"

Wyeth had not been able, as yet, to awaken much literary interest among

his people in the south, but he had a great many agents working all over

the north. Of those he had secured in Dixie, he was deluged with

complaints to the effect that so many people failed to take the books

they ordered; so, he began shipping only fifteen when an agent sent in

an order for thirty books. This worked better, and the office was not

the recipient of so many complaints thereafter.

As for Slim, he went with the cook on Fourteenth Street, ate two meals

there out of every three, and canvassed whenever he felt so disposed. He

had some cards made, only one hundred. Four hundred more would have cost

but little additional. He handed them about, advertising that he would

conduct a singing class at his residence, beginning any time any one

wished lessons. He was successful in delivering more books, when he

returned to work among the domestics, but not so many that, at any time

afterwards, was Wyeth put to such strenuous efforts to secure books, in

order that he might have one for every customer.

When the colleges had closed for vacation, Wyeth hired the matron to

work in the office, and, upon finding her very interesting, Slim became

"About ten dollars and seventy-five cents."