BOOK II.

CHAPTER ONE

_Effingham_

"I'll take that change now," whispered the porter, nudging Wyeth, as he

lay trying to sleep, as the train roared westward toward Effingham, the

iron city, and greatest industrial southern center.

Raising up, he reached in his pocket while yet half asleep, and handed

the porter two dollars. "I paid fifty cents for the ticket to

Spruceville, as you know, and the charge was to be two fifty?" The other

nodded, and pocketing the money, he melted away noiselessly.

A few hours later, Wyeth raised the shade and peered out. The train was

flying through a valley, that spread away from either side of the single

track, smooth and unobstructed, except for comfortable farm homes, set

back from the roads. He looked back in the seat behind him, observed

young Hatfield, whom he was bringing with him, dozing peacefully. Then

he looked toward the front of the car for the first time, and observed

another with whom he had become acquainted in Attalia. He had never

learned his name, in fact, he had never inquired it; but, since the

other possessed such long legs, and was tall and good-natured into the

bargain, he had called him Legs, which had brought no objection on the

part of the other. And it is by that name we shall follow him in this

story.

"Hello, there!" he greeted cordially, when their eyes met. "And where

did you get on and call yourself going?"

"Hello, Books!" the other returned, as cordially. He rose from his seat,

shook himself as if to start the blood, jumped about for a moment,

rubbed his face, and then came back to where Wyeth was and sat down.

"Say," he cried, "a little liquah'd go good right now, wouldn't it? I

had some, but like a pig I emptied the bottle last night. Oh, yes," he

cried suddenly, "I'm going to Chicago. Where are you going?"

"To Effingham; but I wish I were on the way for old Chi' along with

you," said Wyeth. The other smiled blandly, stretched his long legs in

the isle, then got up, went to the end of the car and looked around for

a cup out of which to drink; and, of course, not finding any, he lifted

the lid of the cooler, turned it over, and finding it had a disk, drew

it full and drank from it. Replacing it, he came back and reseated

himself. Since we shall become quite familiar with him, and very

shortly, a description is quite necessary.

He was tall, over six feet, and a mulatto. His shoulders were broad,

while his chest was thin and flat. His head was small, and straight up

from his back, while he possessed a pair of small ears that fitted

closely and oddly against his head--so oddly that, when one observed him

at a glance, he reminded one of an elf. He appeared to be smiling

always, although there was no great depth in the same. His eyes were

small, and danced about playfully in his head, while his hips were

arched and broad, between which was a full stomach which made him

resemble a pickaninny.

"You see, it's like this," he began confidentially. He lowered his voice

almost to a whisper, and held his mouth close to Wyeth's ear. "The

reason you did not see me when we left Attalia last night, was because I

had the porter lock me in the lavatory. I didn't come through the gate

at the station, but went out to the yards where he concealed me. When

the train was out of the town, I came out; but you were reading and

didn't look up, when I came out and took that seat."

Wyeth observed him now wonderingly. He could not understand this

unconventional manner of boarding a passenger train. He was not,

however, left long in doubt. In fact, before he could give words to the

question his eyes asked, the other enlightened him:

"I's havin' a little game Sunday night, and the bulls run in on me." It

was now all clear to Wyeth. He recalled the other's occupation. He had

become acquainted with him through "Spoon," and recalled that he kept a

rooming house for questionable purposes. In addition to this, he sold

liquor, and ran a game on Saturday nights and Sundays--or any time a

crowd gathered with enough money to start.

"M-m. Did they arrest you?"

"No; that is what I's goin' t' tell. I got away; but they got the rest

of the bunch, every damn last one of them, the fools! You see," he

explained, warming to the narrative, "it was not altogether my fault. It

was like this: I had a nigga watching, that is, I had him hired to

watch, but the d----n fool was a whiskey head, and had t' have a drink

eve' ten minutes, claiming, of course, that it was necessary that he

have plenty of booze t' keep himself awake."

Wyeth laughed quietly.

"Well, I was 'head a the game and winning right along, and didn't give a

damn; so I fed him all he could pour down. The result of this was that

he got good and full by and by, went off t' sleep, and the bulls walked

right in on us without a word of warning.

"We were shooting craps on the bed, and the game was going along nicely.

I was sitting at the head holding the lamp, and getting the cuts. At

least fifteen dollars was in the betting, when, on hearing a slight

noise to my back like some one creeping, I looked around--and, man! The

room was full of bulls with dark lanterns, which they at that moment

flashed upon us!

"I didn't know what to do for a moment. 'Up with yu' hands, niggers!'

they cried. All the shines looked then into the barrels of a bunch

a-guns. 'Don't try no monkey business there, you big nigger,' the

sargent cried, as he observed me shifting about. All the time, though, I

was edging toward a place I knew none ov'm didn't see. Suddenly, I drops

the lamp, and there is some tall cussin'. A little pup--I think he was a

sup'--put a star on the back of my head"--he turned and Wyeth saw it.

"I staggered about now like I was knocked out. They were all over us

now, a-hand cuffin' the nigga's like a lot of cattle with halters. By

this time I see's my way clear t' make this break. One sucker spots me

and cries: 'Look out! That big nigga!' But they were too late. I had my

hand on the knob of a door that none ov'm have seen; and, swinging it

open quickly, I ducked out. As I did so, one of the bulls takes a shot

at me, but missed. He was determined to have me, though, if possible, so

he comes after me in a hurry. That's where I am wise and he wasn't.

There is a fence a few feet from the door, that he didn't see. Out he

came after me in a blind fury, and, 'bing!' He ran full into the fence,

and knocked the wind out of himself. I saw my chance. I was mad and

scared now, too; so I rushed upon him while he was staggering about and

'bingo!' I landed on him, and knocked him cold. Then I 'beat' it. I had

his gun and club and 'peeper,' and I flew. Out the back way I went like

a race horse. In the rear, two or three bulls were a-workin' over this

bull that I done knocked stiff. I entered the alley, and ran until I

reached Bell street. An onry bunch of dogs kept barking away at me as I

hurried along, and kept me scared, because I's afraid I'd be located by

other bulls. I ran down one, a little pug-nosed bull. He was game and

tried to bite. I reached down and got'm by the head, whirled him over my

shoulder three or four times, and when I turned him loose, he landed

beside a second story window, and fell to the ground a dead dog, I

didn't try to see. I then began to jump fences. I bet I jumped a dozen

fences, and then got hung on the last one, which held my shirt. I fell

off at last, and liked to have bust open. My face was bleeding, and my

head, while my shirt was soaked. I looked like the devil. I at last tore

off the shirt, and tried to tie up my head, then went to my

brother-in-law's."

"Gee!" exclaimed Sidney, "but you certainly had some experience!"

"Aw, man, I done some runnin', believe me!" he declared, and looked

grim.

"They had plenty a-liquah--the bootlegs, too--, so's soon's I's cleaned

up with my head bathed and a clean shirt, I took a few drinks, and went

to bed, feeling all right.

"I laid around town hid away, until he could slip me my clothes and a

few dollars. So I happened to know this porter, and arranged to come

over tonight, and here I am," and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"How did those they arrested come out, and how come the cops to be next

to your little game?" Wyeth inquired, casually.

"Oh, yes," cried Legs. "I forget to tell you that part of it. You see,

there was a guy in the crowd--or had been, rather, whose wife didn't

want him to gamble. Now he came down there and lost what little he had,

and went home drunk. His wife, of course, learned that he had lost his

money, and got sore. He was a damned tramp, and told her the whole

story, with tears, perhaps, and you know a nigga with tears, so she went

and put the cops next.

"Now 'bout them other shines--the ones who got arrested--they came

before Judge Loyal's the next morning, and got ten seventy-five each."

"I thought it was fifteen seventy-five for gaming."

"They were let off lighter, owing to the fact that I was not brought. If

they'd a caught me, it would have been fifteen seventy-five for them,

and about a hundred for me."

Wyeth laughed amusedly.

"You don't gamble or drink liquah, either, do you?" he asked, and then

answered his own question. "No, I know you don't. You're lucky for using

such common sense. It doesn't pay, even if four nigga's out-a five do.

Yeh," he went on wearily, "only the straight and narrow path leads to

happiness in the long run," and with that he turned on his side, and

went to sleep.

"Say," he cried suddenly, raising up, "what did you pay?" Then looked

around quickly to see if he had been overheard.

"Two and a half," the other replied. "How much did you?"

Legs held up two fingers. "I told'm 't'was all I had, and I didn't have

but a precious little more."

"Are you acquainted with any one in Chicago?" Wyeth inquired.

"Aw, yeh, a plenty; but I am not going on through now. I'm going to stop

in Effingham for a while, it depends."

"Hello, Red," cried young Hatfield, coming up now, rubbing his half

closed eyes. "I see you got out all right."

"Say, man!" cried Legs. "Didn't I get out of that thing in luck?"

"Bet your life on that you did," commented Hatfield. "If they'd have

gotten you, the devil would have been to pay." He laughed a low, hard

laugh, and then added: "Those church people have had their eyes on your

place for some time, and the chances are if you had been caught, they'd

have appeared against you."

"They certainly put old Jack Bell out of business proper," Legs

commented, thoughtfully. "That old nigga conducted such a rotten dump

and tiger, though; and all those dirty little girls around on top of it,

I don't wonder."

"Wonder whether he had any money left when they got through with him?"

Hatfield inquired.

"Hard to tell," said Legs. "They fined him out of hundreds, that I _do_

know."

By this time, the train was entering the city. From the car could be

seen an incomplete mass of varied buildings, little shacks that faced

alleys, and at the front of which played dozens of little unbleached

pickaninnies. Wyeth viewed the city as the train crept slowly along, and

his impression did not agree with what he had gathered from reading of

it. It was not, he felt positive, the city Attalia was, although

claiming almost an equal number of people.

"You see those two brick cupola's extending into the air?" he heard

Hatfield saying. "That's a Negro Baptist church." He was mistaken,

however, for the same proved to be the large, new station, the pride of

the city.

Soon the train rolled into this, and a few minutes later, they stood in

the waiting room.

"It's going to cost like the dickens to get all these grips of your

hauled," said Hatfield, with a frown.

"Only had to pay thirty-five cents to get them to the depot in Attalia."

He walked to the lower end of the platform, and began a series of

inquiries relative to the hauling of the same. He soon came upon an

express man, who agreed to unload them for fifty cents, at where-ever

they found a room.

The three walked down a level street, paved with brick. On either side a

lot of houses appeared behind a row of trees, dense with foliage. It was

a calm, soft morning, and the sun, red and glorious, was just peeping

out of the east. The street they followed led from the depot into the

business section. Perhaps eight blocks ahead of them, several buildings

of extraordinary height, stood outlined far above those about them.

Wyeth counted the windows of two, and found them to total sixteen.

"There are two or three buildings here higher than any in Attalia," said

Hatfield, following his gaze. "I think the ones you have been noticing,

are twenty-five stories high."

The other whistled. "That's going some!"

Soon they were well into the business section. "Let's go by and look at

that hotel they have just completed and opened," suggested Legs; for,

just then, a little to the right, the outline of that beautiful

structure arose. It was a grand affair, to say the least, and stood as a

monument to the enterprise of the populace. It was claimed, by them, to

be the swellest in the south.

"I think I can get on there after a bit," said Legs. "I'm a head waiter

by trade, but I haven't done any hotel work for some little time now."

"I hear they brought all the waiters from the north," said Hatfield.

"Well," said Legs, "I'll _be_ from the north when the time comes, so I

can make a fit if there is an opening."

"You'll pass, Red," laughed Hatfield, as they walked onward now in a

different direction.

As Wyeth saw Effingham, he observed that it lay very differently from

Attalia. It had been built up recently, so to speak, and had, therefore,

broad, spacious streets, unusually so, he thought, as he now found

himself in the heart of the business district. Perhaps they may have

seemed wider, because he had become accustomed to the narrow highways of

Attalia. In addition to the wide streets, the sidewalks stretched back

from the buildings they fronted, from twelve to twenty feet, giving

pedestrians plenty of room to walk unconcernedly along. As they

continued on their way, he further observed that the business section

covered an unusually large area, and it was hard to tell which might be

called the main street. As the street cars clanged by him, he noticed

another feature, also. The position occupied by the Negro passengers.

They entered and left the car from the front instead of from the rear,

as was the custom in Attalia.

"Negroes do lots of business in this town," said Hatfield, as they came

abreast of a large, new building, that reached five stories into the

air. "This, now," said he, pausing and surveying the structure, "is the

Dime Savings Bank building." Wyeth, having read much about the bank,

observed the building carefully. To one side, through the street door,

there was no entry, or, rather, the small entry was to one side of the

building, and not in the middle, and one elevator was in operation.

Straight back from where they stood, the open doors of the bank (which

the janitor was now sweeping) revealed the inside of the institution.

A few hours later, their wanderings brought them back again before the

bank, which they entered. It proved to be a busy place, and at that

hour, was filled with black people, depositing and withdrawing money,

and attending to other business in connection therewith. He observed, in

the first glance, that the furnishing was elegant. Behind the first

desk, enclosed by an oak office fence, sat a black man, the cashier he

thought, since the insignia was plated conspicuously before him. And

still to the left of him, behind a grating with the insignia of

_Collections_ before it, was another man, and he was blacker still. And

then, in the next cage, over which was labeled boldly, _Receiving

Teller_, worked still another black man. He was younger, and he worked

rapidly, counting the money that was continually being thrust to him.

There was another cage to the right of him, and this was marked

_Paying_. Behind this worked another black man, young and intelligent,

and seeming perfectly efficient, as had the others. In the rear, working

over books, he saw the first mulatto. Another, brown-skinned this time,

worked near him, and these made up the active members of the bank. No

blue veins held sway here. It was truly a black man's bank. It was, as

he had long since learned, the largest in the country conducted by black

people, and the footing exceeded a half million by almost a hundred

thousand dollars.

Young Hatfield, who was a student in one of the colleges of Attalia, had

been to the city before, was well acquainted, and pointed out the many

places of interest, and, in particular, those conducted by black people.

"The president of this bank, Dr. Jerauld," he explained, "is in failing

health, and is substituted by the vice, Dr. Dearford."

"I see," acknowledged the other. "So the president, then, is a

physician."

"No," corrected the other, "a minister."

Wyeth recalled now, that "Reverend" or "Elder" was almost a thing of the

past among Negro preachers. They were all called, and called themselves

"doctors." But he did not then realize to what extent this title was

usurped. Beyond the instant of medicine and dentistry, he had noted that

"doctor" was an honorary term, conferred upon men who had done something

notable in the evolution of mankind; but he was soon to learn that the

title had become a fetish with his people, sought after and preempted by

any and everyone without even the remotest right to claim it.

"Everything that has ever been started down south has been done by the

preachers. A Negro preacher down here, in the past in particular, has

headed everything. Of course, that would be natural, granting that

almost every man with ambition to be before the public has been a

preacher," Hatfield explained. "Now, for example, the largest insurance

company in Attalia--that is, with offices there and conducted by our

people--has for its president, a preacher located in this town."

"I've heard of him. His name is--"

"Dr. Walden," he explained. "He's the pastor of a big church on the

other side of town. Dr. Jerauld, before he retired, was pastor of the

Sixth Avenue church."

"And what denomination do these preacher business men represent?"

"Oh, Baptist, of course. As I said, they are at the head of everything,

including," and he smiled humorously, "a great many wives of other men."

They both laughed, and Legs, who was almost forgotten, joined in.

By this time, they were wandering aimlessly down a street that finally

came to an end, and ran abruptly into a brick wall. Changing their

course into another street, they continued their indefinite pilgrimage.

Presently, they paused before one or two neat looking houses, and

inquired regarding rooms. Both were full. A convention of preachers was

still in session, which explained the state of circumstances. So, on

again they went, until they paused at a corner. A middle-aged woman sat

on the front porch of a house that rose to two stories, and was

decorated with two vine-laden porches. The house appeared to contain

possibly seven or eight rooms.

"Hello, Mis'!" exclaimed Legs, in greeting so familiar that Wyeth felt

he surely must know her.

"How-do," she answered as familiarly and smiling.

"Three tramps we are from Attalia, and without a place to roost. Do you

happen to have a spare pole or two?"

"Sho has. Come upon the po'ch and be seated," she invited.

"A-hem. That's when you said something," smiled Legs, "eh, Mis'?" She

joined in the humor.

"Well, boys," said Legs, when they were comfortably seated, "this looks

good to me. Supposing we just hang up here, and send for our stuff?"

It was agreeable to the other two, and they were, therefore, duly

installed, three in a room. Legs, being the longest, was given a bed to

himself, while Hatfield and Wyeth agreed to share another together. It

was fortunate for both that it was arranged thus, since Legs proved to

be a dreadful night man, and, from his apparently restless way of

tossing, required a halter.

"Any saloons around here, Mis'?" he inquired shortly, when she

reappeared on the porch a few minutes later.

"Sho is!" she exclaimed. "Yeh, most sho. Go right down this street, turn

the corner, and across the street near the other corner, is what you

want," she laughed, taking them all for granted. Wyeth and Hatfield

followed Legs to the inevitable fountain he now sought energetically.

"Got t' have a little liquah before I c'n feel like myself," he grinned,

as they sauntered along.

"Hello!" called some one from the rear. Turning, they observed a medium

sized Negro walking rapidly in their direction, and beckoning to them.

They halted, and presently he stood before them, introducing himself.

"Pardon me, gentlemen," he began very properly; "but the Mis' back

there," pointing in the direction of the house they had just left, "was

telling me that you have just taken a room with her, and, since I am the

man of the house, I wish to offer my name and make you welcome."

He was very cordial. His name was Moore, John Moore, he said, and to

describe him, our pen fails to a degree. He had, however, an odd looking

face. His cheek bones were high, slightly Indian-like, while his face

was broad. His nose was not flat, nor was it high or medium, it

was--just a nose, that's all. He held his head forward aggressively, his

eyes were twinkling, and possessed a cordiality that, to a careful

observer, was distrustful. And still, his appearance in general, was

that of a Negro who might be expected to bluff, but not to fight; to

steal when the opportunity was ripe, with enough cunningness to keep

from being caught. Otherwise, he was apparently harmless.

They acknowledged his welcome, and, joining them, they all went toward

the place of happiness by proxy.

"I'm buyin' this," said Moore, as they lined the bar, four abreast.

"Let me do the buying this time," insisted Legs, who proved himself a

sport, and a good mixer.

"I've paid him already," said Moore, as if in dismissal, shoving at the

same time, a half dollar across the bar.

"Whiskey," nodded Legs familiarly, to the bartender.

"Little liquah, too," from Moore.

"Beer."

"Beer."

"Drink whiskey!" insisted Legs and Moore, of the other two. "Something

that has the kick."

"These are my sons," said Legs, teasingly.

"Hold on heh', George," argued Moore with the bartender, "you know how I

take mine. A half-a-pint 'n' two glasses." The bartender obeyed.

Here Wyeth observed, was diplomacy, albeit economy. Moore paid

twenty-five cents for the half pint, wherein he and Legs had six

sociable drinks, three a-piece; whereas, the same would have totalled

sixty cents otherwise.

"How's this town for gettin' hold a-something?" inquired Legs of Moore,

when John Barleycorn was doing his duty.

"Best town in the south to get it, if you're wise," Moore winked.

Legs responded with a big wink. "I'm the man that put 'w' in whiskey,"

he smiled. "I'n get mine when it's in the gettin'."

"What's your line?" from Moore, pouring more whiskey.

"Anything from heavin' coal to sellin' liquah and operatin' a crap game,

and a little 'skin' when the crowd's right."

"I see," said the other thoughtfully, then added: "And your friends?"

"This lad here is going to school to learn how to get 'his without

workin'; while the other boy," pointing to Wyeth, "is already doin'

it."

"Well, men," began Moore, as he opened a fresh half pint that Legs paid

for, "as I said, 'f you're _wise_, Effingham is the best town in the

country for pickin's. It is, as you should know, the greatest industrial

center in the south."

"So I have understood," interposed Wyeth, waiving the bartender's

invitation aside; "I am anxious to learn something, everything about the

town, and the colored people."

"Are they employed in considerable numbers at the mines, steel mills and

furnaces about here, of which the city possesses so many?"

"Thousands upon thousands," he was informed.

"And how are they paid? From a personal standpoint, I'd be glad to

know?" went on Wyeth.

"All kinds of wages, and at various times. Some receive as low as a

dollar and a quarter, while others make as high as seven and eight; but

the average wage runs from a dollar fifty, to three dollars."

"How's the crap games?" from Legs, with the usual smile.

"Nigga's will shoot craps, yu' know," grinned Moore. "I shoot a little

myself when the moon's right," he winked.

"I want t' find a good game as soon as possible, and win about a

hundred," said Legs, beginning to show the effects of liquor. Hatfield

and Wyeth left them to their cheerful diversion, which was now, to all

appearance, warming to the superlative.

The former went toward town, looking for certain friends. Wyeth went

back to the place where he was going to stay, and retired. They had

called up for their luggage before they went to the saloon. Wyeth was

sleeping peacefully, when he was aroused by an argument on the porch. He

tried to close his ears, but the same was persistent. It was between the

landlady and the expressman, who had arrived with the stuff.

"That little trunk is as heavy as lead," he heard that worthy saying.

"That has nothing to do with it," from the landlady. "They left fifty

cents here to pay for it, and you must have agreed to that amount, or

they would have left more."

"Seventy-five cents, seventy-five cents. That little trunk is like

something filled with bricks."

"My trunk," mumbled Wyeth, coming to himself, and listening to the

argument. "And that sucker is trying to work her. The dirty cur!" he now

cried, angry for two reasons. One for being disturbed when he was

sleeping so peacefully, and another for being worked, or trying to be.

With a bound he was on the floor, and in a jiffy he was in his trousers

and upon the porch.

"Well, 'f' y' ain' go'n pay it, I'll haf t' take th' stuff back," the

expressman said, as Wyeth came up. The other did not see him until he

mounted the porch. Then he looked into his eyes which were fighting, and

recoiled.

"What's this you are going to do!" he demanded, filling the doorway, and

bestowing upon the other, a look that corresponded with his feelings.

"Well, stuff I brung down heah's mor'n I thought 't'was, so I'll haf t'

have a quarter mo'!"

"What kind of a proposition did we make with you in regard to hauling it

at the depot awhile ago?"

"You said yu'd give me a haf a-dollah fo' haulin' it, but I didn't say

I'd do it fo' a haf," he sulked, evasively.

Wyeth glared at him, but the other refused to meet his eye. "Then," he

began, "when you took hold of it and loaded it into your wagon, you

subsequently agreed to my offer, and now I want to see you get more."

"I'll haf t' take the stuff," argued the other, shifting about, but

keeping at a safe distance. Something in the eye of the other did not

offer welcome.

"Give him a quater more," called Legs, who had returned in the meantime,

and had been trying to catch a little sleep.

"I don't intend to pay him one little dime more!" exclaimed Wyeth

stubbornly.

"Then I'll haf t' see 'n' officer," bluffed the other, and turning, he

started briskly down the street. Wyeth learned later, he was sure he

could not have found one. He was not looking for any, but the landlady

and Legs made up the quarter, and calling him back, paid him.

"Books is stubborn when he thinks he's been worked. M-m," said Legs,

going back to bed. "Yeh, comes down to a show, believe he'd fight."

CHAPTER TWO

"_These Negroes in Effingham Are Nigga's Proper_"

The next day dawned calm and beautiful, and Sidney made preparations to

begin his canvassing. In one city in Ohio, and which was also a great

industrial center, he had found much success in selling his book to the

multitude of workers employed there. Therefore, with what Moore had

already told him, he was anxious to get his work under way.

The first thing necessary, of course, would be to secure agents. School

had closed recently, and he had intended coming to the city, to enlist

some of the teachers for that work. Securing a number of names and

addresses, he began calling on them, but without any immediate success.

Late that afternoon, however, a teacher, a settled woman, gave him the

name and address of one whom she felt, she assured him, would take up

the work. "At least," she said, "she always does something during

vacation. Her name is Miss Palmer," so thither he went.

She lived not far away, and near the center of a block in a small two

story house, rusty and somewhat ramshackle. He mounted the steps, which

were perhaps a half dozen, and asked for her. She was out, they informed

him, but was expected to return shortly. Before they were through

telling him, she came. She was a brown-skinned woman, although in the

fading twilight, she struck him as being a mulatto. Of medium height and

size, she gave a welcome that played about the corners of her small

mouth. Her chin was long and tapered to a small point, which made her

appearance unusual; her eyes were small, very small, and playful.

They were very soon in conversation, and he was pleased to learn, after

he had talked with her a few minutes, that she was a woman with the

strength of her convictions, although there was something about her he

did not, and was not likely, he felt, to understand for some time to

come, and he didn't.

Presently he stated the object of his visit, and suggested that she take

up the work during her vacation. She shook her head dubiously, and said:

"I don't mind canvassing; but I don't want to sell books."

"Why not books?" he inquired, in a tone of surprise, and then added: "It

would seem that, being a teacher, selling a nice book would be

preferable to something else."

"Yes, that may be," said she, thoughtfully now, "but nigga's here don't

read. At least they won't buy and pay for books. Sell them toilet

articles or hair goods, something to straighten their kinks or rub on

their faces, anything guaranteed to make their hair grow soft and curly,

or their black faces brighter."

He laughed long. She now observed him with something akin to admiration.

"Then the people of your community--the black people--don't consider

feeding the mind an essential to moral welfare," he suggested

mirthfully.

"Naw, Lord," she replied flatly. "These Negroes in Effingham are nigga's

proper. They think nothing about reading and trying to learn something,

they only care for dressing up and having a good time."

He was silent and resigned for a time. They now sat together in a swing

that hung suspended from the porch. Directly, when he had said nothing

for some time, she looked again at him, and with something in her

demeanor that was anxious.

"What book is it?" she inquired.

He told her.

"That's a good title, and should take if anything will," she said, a

little more serious now than before. She did not impress Wyeth as being

much of a literary person, as he now observed her. For a moment, he felt

the interest wane, that he had experienced the moment she came up. She

was speaking.

"I sold books one summer, 'Up From Bondage,' by the greatest Negro the

race has ever known, and I had a time! I never want such another

experience! They told me a thousand lies, and had me trotting after them

all summer," whereupon, she shrugged her shoulders disgustedly.

"Well," said he, "I'm confident there are people, and plenty, who _do_

care to read, and will likewise buy when the book is properly presented.

So, of course, the duty of a distributer, will be to find these people,

and it is for this purpose, I am here. I do not, of course, know what

kind of a black population you have; but it is reasonable to suppose

that, if I could and did, personally sell twelve hundred copies in

Attalia in a matter of five months, I should be able to find a few

readers here. Do you not agree with me?"

"Oh, of course," said she; "but you cannot as yet appreciate the fact

that Effingham has the orneriest Negroes in the world. I am frank when I

say that I do not have any confidence in them, but wait," she

admonished, "you'll find out."

They sat together now, and conversed on topics otherwise than books and

literature, which he observed, could be engaged in with more success.

Moreover, as the minutes wore on, he also came to see that Miss Palmer

was somewhat sentimental. She smiled freely, moved close at times, and

then away, artfully; saw him at moments out of liquid eyes, and said her

words with a coquetishness that came by careful practice.

And so, Sidney Wyeth, a man free to practice the arts of coquetry--if a

man may do so--accepted Miss Palmer's attention, and to that end he soon

became a friend.

When he departed that evening, she had taken the agency, and had agreed

to go with him on the morrow.

That night it rained, a heavy rain, and when he went forth the following

morning, the streets were heavy with mud wherever there was no

paving--which was, in this part of town, almost everywhere. Moreover, it

showed signs of raining more. It had been one of the dryest springs the

south had ever seen, and it was now probable that the deficiency in

rainfall would be eradicated by an excess in moisture.

Wyeth, however, was impatient to begin as soon as possible. He wished to

ascertain to what extent intelligence and regard for higher morals was

prevalent in this town.

Miss Palmer was not ready when he arrived, and it was two hours before

she was. "Thought since it rained," she explained, "that you would not,

perhaps, go out today."

"Won't know the difference this time next year," he jested, with a

cheerful smile, nevertheless, surveying the threatening elements

anxiously.

"If we go into the quarter districts," she advised, "we will most likely

get our feet wet--muddy."

"Are there no sidewalks out there?" he inquired.

They had decided, the evening before, at her suggestion, to begin in one

of the many little towns, inhabited by Negroes employed in the mines,

mills and furnaces, that made Effingham what it was. These little towns

encircle the city proper, laying, many of them, at a considerable

distance, to be incorporated as part of the city.

Some years before--between one census and the next--this city is

recorded to have trebled and over in population. It had, but in doing

so, it gathered all these little burgs for miles around. Some of them

were even beyond the car lines, which were built to them after the city

had incorporated them, and counted the people as a part of the

population of Effingham. Wyeth perhaps, as well as the world at large,

had not known this. The population, at this time, was estimated to be

one hundred sixty-six thousand. Of this amount, two-fifths were Negroes.

Only a portion had been born in Effingham; the rest came in the last few

years, in great, ignorant hordes from the rural parts of the state, and

from the states adjoining. And as Wyeth soon came to know, they included

some of the most depraved and vicious creatures humanity has known--but

of this, our story will reveal in due time.

The most extraordinary part of Effingham, was its staggering number of

churches. That is, among the Negroes. Notwithstanding the fact that the

city was the resort of every escaped convict, and the city where every

freed one headed for, which, of course, naturally made it the scene of

excessive depravity, there was, apparently, a great amount of pious

worship. Wyeth recalled, as he became better acquainted with the city

and the people, that a year before, in a northern city, he had one day,

gone to the library, where he found the directories of all cities of any

significance. He was preparing a circular campaign, and, in going

through the various directories, chanced to look through the part of

those of the southern cities that had recorded the churches. Effingham

had, according to an old one, almost a hundred Negro churches.

But, having digressed at some length, we will return now to Miss Palmer

and Sidney Wyeth, preparing to spread intelligence among a people who

greatly needed it.

"Sidewalks!" Miss Palmer exclaimed, in derision, "Lordy, they hardly

have streets in some places!"

A few minutes later, they were sailing through the country--although it

was counted as part of the city--to a town, a suburb, nine miles

distant, a suburb of mills. "I used to sell toilet articles out there,

on and right after pay days, and did quite well," said she, as the heavy

car thundered along at a great rate of speed, for an inter-urban. "I am

skeptical in regard to books, though, because these are 'bad' nigga's,

with the exception of a precious few good ones."

They were just then passing through a district that was well kept, and

apparently quiet. "We are now in a part of the town, where a large

number of the better class of our people reside," she said, "and I am

going to point out the homes of some of them."

"There is where Mr. Judson, paying teller at the Dime Savings Bank,

lives." She pointed to a handsome bungalow, setting well back from the

street, and surrounded by many young trees, with a well kept lawn upon

three sides. "Now over there is where Paul Widner, contractor and

builder, has his home." Following the direction of her finger, he was

moved by the sumptuous and imposing structure that met his gaze. "That

is the finest residence owned and occupied by one of our kind in the

city," she said, with evident pride. "Still, though, here is Dr.

Jackson's, which is almost as fine," and she pointed to another that was

a credit. "He is the financial secretary of one of the church

denominations of the south.

"See that long house over there?" she pointed to another. "That is Dr.

Wayland's. He runs the drugstore."

"A preacher?"

"No; a pharmacist."

They were now in the wood, a deep forest with great trees all about,

that darkened the inside of the car. The picked over and slim pines,

mingled with large water oaks, rose gloomily against the heavy clouds

that now rumbled ominously overhead. Before long, large drops of water

began an intermittent patter on the car roof, while the windows were

spat upon occasionally. And then, of a sudden, the very heavens seem to

open, and the rain fell in torrents. Through it the heavy car pushed

resolutely forward. The line was one recently completed, and facilitated

travel between the city and the suburb wonderfully. Built of steel, the

cars were long and heavy, with doors that opened near the center,

allowing the colored passengers to enter on one side of the conductor,

who operated the doors, from a convenient position near the furtherest

side of the opening.

"We will surely get soaked today," grumbled Miss Palmer, but not

lightly, for she trembled on observing the terrific downpour.

"How much further is it to this place we are going?" he inquired. To

him, it seemed they had been riding an hour. "You do not mean to tell

me, that all that stretch of forest and open country before we got to

the forest, is a part of Effingham?"

"We will soon be there now," she evaded, and then added: "Effingham

includes everything that electric cars operating in and out of the city

reaches," and laughed. He believed her.

At last, the big car came to a stop. They alighted in the downpour, and

rushed to shelter beneath the porch of a small grocery store, conducted

by a kind-faced little colored woman.

"Oh, how-do, Mrs. Brown," cried Miss Palmer, when the latter, upon

seeing them, opened the door and bade them enter. "I'm certainly glad to

see you," whereupon they kissed, and Miss Palmer cheered the dark

atmosphere with many cute words.

"Permit me, Mrs. Brown, to introduce Mr.----I forget your name?" "You

see, Mr. Wyeth," said Miss Palmer, with a delightful smile, "I taught

out here these past three years, and Mrs. Brown is one of my many

friends. Yonder is the school," she pointed to an old frame building,

that could barely be outlined through the storm. "They have transferred

me back to the city again," she turned to Mrs. Brown. "So I regret to

say that I shall not be with you next year."

Miss Palmer had a way of finishing her sentences with a show of her fine

little teeth; and her chin, at such a time, reached to a fine point,

which at first amused Sidney. She would bestow upon him a coquettish

smile, when she found his eyes searching her mysteriously.

"Mr. Wyeth," said she, with her arm linked now within Mrs. Brown's, "is

general agent for a new book by a Negro author, _The Tempest_, and for

which I have accepted the local agency--why not," she broke off

suddenly, "show Mrs. Brown the book?"

"She is clever and suggestive at the same time," thought Sidney, almost

aloud; but he forthwith obeyed the suggestion with much pleasure, and

took Mrs. Brown's order amid the rainfall, collecting twenty-five cents

as a guarantee of good faith, in addition.

It had ceased raining as suddenly as it had commenced. They turned to

leave the store, and, as he was passing Miss Palmer, he bumped against

her roughly. She was looking at his picture on the frontispiece now,

with apparent suspicion. He pretended not to see her or her suspicion,

that had now grown to excitement. She was yet apparently in some doubt,

as she tried to make connections.

"Look here! Look here!" she exclaimed at last, in subdued excitement.

"This picture! This picture! It is you! You!" She held the book open,

and looked at him in amazement. He waved her aside depreciatively, and

passed outside, while she continued gazing at the picture in a state of

excitement. She followed him, and they were alone.

"Why didn't you tell me this?" she cried, unable to stem her tide of

excitement. She had lost interest, for the present, in all else, and

pursued: "You, the author of this book!" She now saw him as another

person entirely. Feeling much put out, he felt something should be

resorted to, to dissipate the spell.

"I'm not the author," he said, with straight face. "Where shall we go

now?" his demeanor was calm and imperious.

"Stop next door--no, that's Mrs. Brown's house," she said, as she

followed him in a meditative mood. "The next house," he heard her say,

as if speaking from far away. Miss Palmer was now serious, and very

thoughtful.

Disturbed by her discovery, and, in a measure, disconcerted, Wyeth

concentrated himself upon the demonstration of the book to a creditable

degree that morning; and, one by one, with his voice and look charged

with dynamite, he secured those black people's orders, and the deposit

wherever they had the amount available. Miss Palmer merely followed him,

insisting upon the point of authorship, until, with a touch of

impatience, he admonished her that their purpose, on that occasion, was

to sell the book, the author, therefore, insofar as they were concerned,

was a matter of secondary consideration.

"Going to be angry with me so soon?" she pined, looking into his eyes

with a feigned appeal. In spite of himself, he smiled back

disconcertedly.

"You are the author, though, aren't you?" she asked softly.

He ignored the question.

"We have eleven orders, and have collected a dollar and seventy-five

cents, in exactly an hour and a half," she informed him, at the end of

that time. "Whether you _did_ or did _not_ write this book--say what you

will, I'm convinced you did--you _do_ know how to sell it. I never heard

a man talk so fast and so effectively in my life!"

"I must leave you now," he said. "I have agreed to be back in town for

the afternoon, and help start my young friend."

"Please don't leave me," she whispered artfully, and smiled in her

winning way, then suddenly hurried into the next house.

* * * * *

"Thought you had quit me for good, Books," complained young Hatfield,

when he saw Wyeth, on his return to the city. "When we goin' out?"

"As soon as I have fed my face, and the car will take us to--where, or

what is that place you spoke of? Where the girls work in service?"

"South Highlands," he replied.

They followed the street until they came to the main street, or rather,

to one of the main streets, and caught a car from the front end, that

took them to the North Highlands, and not to the South, as they were

accustomed to go.

"You'll have to pay carfare back, Books," said Hatfield. "I have only

fifteen cents left."

"Go right over to where you see that girl, that little colored girl

standing on the steps that lead to the rear, and tell her the tale of

_The Tempest_, and get her order," said Wyeth, when at last they had

come to the right place.

"I thought I would go along with you this afternoon," he said with a

frown, but obeyed the command, nevertheless.

Two hours later, Sidney found him where they had left each other. "What

have you done?" he asked holding back a frown, because he felt the

student had succumbed to a lack of confidence; but he was cheered in a

degree, when the other replied:

"I got four, how many did you get?"

"Eight," and they went on their way rejoicing.

CHAPTER THREE

_"I Have BEEN Married," Said She_

Thirty-five years ago, Effingham was an unsuspected factor. That was

before somebody had demonstrated that the chain of red hills encircling

the then small town, contained immense deposits of iron ore and coal,

and other mineral matter, that could be converted into practical

purposes.

Effingham lay, at that time, in the valley, where, as yet, most of it is

found; then, it was regarded as only an ordinary town, without any

expectation of future greatness. It had, to be exact, thirty-eight

thousand, fourteen years ago, fifteen thousand Negroes, and the

remainder white population, including a few Chinese. Today, the city

boasts of approximately one hundred seventy thousand.

Thus the city had developed, regardless of circumstances, which our

story will unfold.

But Sidney Wyeth, our erstwhile observer and literary contemporary, had

not been long in Effingham, before he had come to learn that it was not

the city Attalia was, in spite of its great industries, and its million

dollar payroll, which was employed in advertising the iron city.

To begin with, capital--hard cash--was a very expensive thing to use

toward the development of its extension. When the city incorporated the

many little towns that make up a large part of its present population,

it began to run in debt; a great deficit was customary at the end of

each year, and now, at the time of our story, it was still energetically

engaged in the same task--piling up a deficit. The many little towns

that are a part of the city, and where most of the great industrial

concerns are located, are practically controlled by the interests. But

when the Tennessee Coal and Iron Company became a vested interest, it

took over all these various concerns, and merged them into a trust,

which is a problem to every congress. And now as Sidney Wyeth saw it,

the company owned everything. It almost owned the Negroes, and thousands

of foreigners who were employed by the company.

But there was one thing the T.C.I. company did not own, and that was

train loads of liquor consumed by its black help, and, of course, the

whites also, to a degree, but not in such proportion. Drink was very

popular in Effingham, exceedingly popular. It operated to an alarming

degree everywhere, and about pay days, held sway in certain portions of

the town, and made everything run riot. And yet there were not nearly so

many saloons in Effingham as there might have been. It cost too much for

the privilege. At three thousand dollars a year, only about one hundred

fifty saloons were in operation. But some years before, while the state

was under prohibition, "tigers" became the order. And now many of them

still operated. Especially on Sunday and after closing hours, they were

busy. They dealt in a liquor known, in general, as "busthead;" and to

say that it deserved such a title, is saying little enough.

It was Miss Palmer, who became at once a personal friend of Wyeth's, and

who first told him of these conditions. From her, before he had time to

observe of his own initiative, he also learned a great deal in regard to

the black people.

He was waiting on the porch for her when she returned late that

afternoon, in fact, it was night when she arrived. She was tired, but

cheerful and greatly encouraged. She had secured eleven orders for his

book, and collected considerable more deposits in connection therewith.

"I certainly did some talking to those Negroes this afternoon," she

exclaimed, drawing herself upon the porch when she arrived. "I talked a

blue streak; and believe me, one after another succumbed," she boasted.

"You work too late," he said, with a note of kindness and admiration in

his voice. "I do not usually work to exceed six hours a day, and quit by

six at the latest," he added.

"That's the trouble with Annie," said her cousin, and a teacher also.

"She has so much ambition when she sees herself succeeding, that she

invariably wears herself out."

"Have you met my roomers?" Miss Palmer inquired. He shook his head and

waited, while she, with much ostentation, introduced them one by one.

"This is Mr. Jones, who carries mail upon a rural route; Mr. Farrell is

a student at Tuskegee. He is spending his vacation in our city. And you

have been talking with my cousin, Miss Black."

Mr. Farrell was a small creature, so black in the darkness of the night,

that only a gloomy outline of his features was discernable, while his

white eyes reminded Sidney as he winked them, of a pair of lightning

bugs on a warm June night. This was augmented by the occasional flash of

his white teeth. He was studying architectural drawing. There was

another student from the same school, a West Indian Negro, and who, like

his kind, was always apparently desirous of learning, and asked Sidney

many questions. Mr. Jones, who happened to be another cousin of Miss

Palmer, and the aforementioned mail carrier, was a suave creature who

read books, and discoursed with much practical intelligence.

The following morning, Miss Palmer and Sidney were starting toward the

car, on their way to canvass, when they stepped in a small drugstore

conducted by a tall, slender man, of about thirty-five. Wyeth had been

in the store two evenings before, or the day he arrived, and overheard a

big argument. He had now come to know, that this was a place for warm

debate, with the druggist ever conspicuous as one of the debaters.

He had not displayed his book there, or suggested a sale to the

druggist. There were certain classes of his race to whom he never made a

practice of showing the book for several reasons. The first and most

significant of these reasons was, that he almost always found the

Negroes who were engaged professionally, including teachers, not very

appreciative of the work of their race, although any of them would have

been insulted if this were told them. He had also made observation from

other sources, concerning the possible sale of his book. His decision to

dispense henceforth with showing the book to certain classes, had

resulted, because of a little incident the year before in Cincinnati. He

had observed the same in other cities before he reached Cincinnati. In

Dayton, Indianapolis, and elsewhere; but in Cincinnati, it was so

evident, that he was, in a way, ashamed to tell it afterwards. This is

what occurred:

The colored people were making great efforts to secure a Y.M.C.A., and

were, when he left the city, within fifteen thousand dollars of the

amount they were required to raise. The white people had given sixty

thousand. He became well acquainted with the secretary, and it was from

him that he learned, without inquiring, that, of twenty-nine colored

teachers who were receiving a minimum of sixty dollars a month,

twenty-one had not subscribed one dollar toward this small amount the

colored people were strenuously trying to raise. And of the eight who

had subscribed, five had grudgingly given one dollar each. The

secretary, himself a former teacher, admitted this with great

humiliation.

Wyeth had always found the teachers profuse with excuses, when it came

to buying the book. And he had found the doctors little better; but, to

avoid what he had grown to expect, and which he invariably met, he had

decided to ignore this class of his race. He did not offer criticism

upon the whole teaching staff, because, of the three teachers out of

twenty-nine in Cincinnati, who had actually contributed toward the

colored Y.M.C.A., the professor had shown his sincerity and race

appreciation, by subscribing one hundred dollars, and had paid it.

So Sidney Wyeth would never have shown the book to the druggist, with a

view of sale, but Miss Palmer did. In her insistent manner, she urged

him to buy. Now Wyeth, as was his custom, always went to the leading

book store in each town, and had never failed to sell them a few books.

The leading store in Effingham had purchased ten copies, and had placed

an advertisement of ten inch space in the colored paper, that ran for a

month, and which the druggist had seen. So, when Miss Palmer approached

him insistently, he declared that he had seen the book advertised at

that store, and, as was their custom, sometime during the year they

offered all books at forty-nine cents, he would, if he wanted the book,

purchase it then. Of course, he didn't want it, and Wyeth was provoked

that Miss Palmer had even shown it to him; but Miss Palmer had, and,

upon being told of these conditions, she at once ceased her efforts.

Of course, the druggist was wrong, and Wyeth knew it; but the druggist

didn't. He wanted to bet--any amount, that he was right--that one of the

biggest booksellers in the southland, offered all books, regardless of

"best sellers," sometime during the year at forty-nine cents a copy. It

cost the druggist two dollars to learn that he could be wrong, or

mistaken at least, even if he had _been to school and graduated from

college_, which, in the minds of his august contemporaries, meant that

he _knew_ everything.

It was Miss Palmer who advised Sidney that Dr. Randall, for druggists

were called doctors also, among these people, had _been to school and

graduated from college_.... And Miss Palmer was much chagrined that

Wyeth had acted so hastily.... For times were hard and two dollars was

_something_.... If he had caught her eye when she tried so hard to get

his, she would have gotten him outside for a minute, one little minute,

and then she would have told him who the other was.... She was almost in

tears as she remonstrated with him for his hasty act.... Miss Palmer was

sincere and meant it, because, for some reason, she was unable as yet to

account; she really liked Mr. Wyeth. "He has such eyes," she told her

cousin when she returned, while the bet was being settled.

"Well, we have lost two hours, so we will have to get a move on us now,

to make up for lost time. Of course," he said cheerfully, "I've made two

dollars, which is as much, maybe more, than we would have made in the

meantime----"

"You did what!" Miss Palmer was amazed.

It was some time before she could be brought to believe it.

"We will go to a different part of the quarter today," she said after a

time. Wyeth looked at her. Miss Palmer was very kind. And Sidney Wyeth

longed for kindness. When he saw Miss Palmer as she was that day, he

felt something amiss in his heart. She had said nothing today; whereas,

yesterday she had acted, he thought, boldly.

The car now seemed to be flying through space. It roared like a mad

thing, and filled him with a peculiar feeling; exhilaration overwhelmed

him. For one moment he forgot everything, and he felt a burning desire

to touch the woman. At his side sat Miss Palmer. She had been kind to

him, even though he had known her almost no time. And then suddenly his

hand found hers, and, closing over it one moment, he crushed it. A

moment later the impulse had passed.

The powerful car thundered on its way.

Miss Palmer worked hard that day. All the hours through, she talked and

talked. She simply _made_ those black people buy. "The story of a young

man, a young man of our race, who had the strength and courage of a

pioneer, went alone into the wilds of the great northwest, and there

made conquest. Think of that as an example, and incentive to effort for

your children!" They nodded and joined her in seriousness, though they

knew not what it all meant; but they did feel the strength of her eyes,

and the insistence held them.

Wyeth suggested the route.

She offered no objection. Whither he suggested, she followed meekly,

almost subserviently. And always, she sought, whenever she could get his

attention, his eyes, and into them she looked for something; but it was

ever something unfathomable she saw therein. But the more she was unable

to fathom those depths, the more her eagerness to do so became apparent.

She talked of her work as a teacher, she told him then of her ambition,

and her hopes; but Miss Palmer, withal she felt that day, could not,

somehow, impart the secret of her great ambition. Vainly she tried, in

her most artful way, to have him tell her something--something of

himself.

But he never did. That made it harder for Miss Palmer, for soon, she

felt, she just _had_ to know.

"Over there," said she, pointing to a row of new houses, uniform in

splendor, "are homes that are beautiful and still economical. It is my

intention to begin the purchase of one of them next year. All the people

living there in those houses are personal acquaintances of mine and

friends. And, as you will observe, there is a school just around the

corner, which adds greatly to the value of the property. I want also to

buy another home in that neighborhood, as soon as I have the first one

well under payment, and so have it paid for by the time my boy becomes

of age."

"Your boy!"

"Yes," she admitted, with a tired, hard smile.

"Oh...."

"I have been married."

"Oh...."

"But am now a widow."

"Oh...."

"But not by death."

"Oh...."

"No; _he_ is not dead--at least he wasn't a month ago." She shrugged her

shoulders, and went on now somewhat doggedly. "I am a grass widow, and

you know what that means...."

He made no answer; but she knew he heard her, and was listening. She

went on as only an unsuccessful and unhappy woman could. "Yes, when a

woman marries a man that she loves, and gives to him the best that's in

her, and, after years, is forced to give up the fight, her very heart,

for a piece of paper marked 'divorce,' she is never the same woman she

was, and might have continued to be. There are those who say: 'Oh, I

don't care;' but I'm going to tell you, they do. The woman lives on

apparently gay, but her heart is dead within her." For a long time now,

there was silence. Presently, she spoke again.

"I am living entirely now for my little boy. He is all I have, and I am

willing, I feel, to slave until the skin falls from my fingers, that he

may have his chance. I am planning to graduate him as early as possible,

and place him in a good northern school in the study of medicine."

Again Sidney Wyeth felt a peculiarity about his heart. His thoughts went

back into yesterdays, and he recalled all that he had lived and hoped

for, and then for one brief moment, another stood before him. Miss

Palmer was talking, but her voice seemed to come from far away.

Presently she touched him. He looked up and she saw the _something_ in

his eyes, and suddenly all she had been feeling passed, as she now

observed him closely. Her lips parted. They started to say: "You strange

man. You've had your troubles too." And then something else seemed to

say: "But you're game, oh you're game. You've lived a bitter pill, a

very bitter pill. Look into those eyes; study them, and if you have

suffered, and by that suffering you have learned, you can read that a

secret lurks therein; you say nothing, but you feel, nevertheless." What

Miss Palmer did say when her lips spoke was: "We'd better be going, Mr.

Wyeth. It's getting late. Hear the whistle of the furnace, and across

from that we hear another. That belongs to the Semet Solvay; but they

both are right. It's one o'clock and thirty minutes. Time to canvass; we

must go." Her voice was kinder now than ever.

They went.

CHAPTER FOUR

"_Eidder Stuck Up ah She's a Witch_"

They now passed between two large industrial plants of the Tennessee

Coal and Iron Company. To the left, roaring mightily, was one of the

many blast furnaces, where the pig iron was made from the crude ore.

Innumerable small cars, upon which sat huge ladles, whirled to and fro.

Backward and forward they were pulled, out of the great shed, where they

received their supply of molten matter from the largest cupolas in

existence. Everywhere the white heat flashed. Hundreds and thousands of

men, black and white (although as they were now seen, they were all

black), worked away. System was everywhere evident. The cars, with their

loads of molten heat, moved with systematic regularity, while each and

every man seemed to know and fill a certain place. Only a little

carelessness, a little disregard for established rules and regulation,

would lead to death, of one to a score of men.

To the right of them, filling the hot summer air with sulphuric and

gaseous fumes, the plant of the Semet Solvay Company was visible in all

its activity. It rose grim and forbidding, with intense heat, and

stretched back for a mile, seemingly, from where they passed. Even the

dirt upon which they walked, as they went into the quarters between the

plants, was hot and dead. No grass was to be seen. A sickly little short

weed struggled for existence in this medley of industry.

And now, before them rose a hill, at the top of which were the quarters.

High above the factories, as though seeking the air, and as if to be as

much as possible free from the sulphuric fumes that at times almost

stifled one, these houses stood, dirty, grim and forbidding. They rose

sinister-like in the dull sunlight, and fell back beyond as they

approached.

When the two had reached the summit and viewed the place closer, Sidney

was, for a time, awed by the sight. Row after row of little red or

brown, shell-like homes they were. With a thin board porch, they made

little resistance against the intense heat, for it seemed hotter here

than elsewhere.

At this hour, the inmates could be seen spread about on these little

porches, if it happened to be on the shady side; or else, they could be

seen in the houses, and some were even beneath them, anywhere they could

find a spot that would permit of a little rest; for, from one to three

weeks they must work at nights, twelve, thirteen and fourteen long

hours. The furnace cupolas had not been cool, in many instances, since

they were erected, and only two shifts were employed. They were

predominantly black people.

Only here and there was a mulatto to be seen. Little children filled the

grimy streets, that are made to stink fearfully from the slag used in

the paving. And now, as the sun beats down, it was soft and stuck to the

shoes, much to the provocation of the walker. Notwithstanding the

apparent lack of comfort, evident everywhere in this little village of

workers, these little black children, with an occasional Italian, seemed

as cheerful and happy and gay, as those of the aristocrats of the South

Highlands. They played busily, while their little faces, tanned by the

heat, were full of joy. They were as courteous--more so than one would

expect under the circumstances.

When Sidney Wyeth inquired, he learned that the T.C.I. company maintains

and pays the teachers well in the schools for the education of these

masses of little, growing human beings. Unfortunately, so torn and

frittered by race law legislation, the city and the county and the state

are far in arrears financially, and, were it left to those bodies, these

little children would not all, by any means, learn the art of reading

and writing; for, with all our boast as the greatest nation of civilized

people, there is no law here, that compels the parent, guardian and

what more, to send these children to school. Which, perhaps, accounts

for the fact that forty per cent of the black population are illiterate,

and almost as large a per cent of the whites.

They walked along together in silence, Miss Annie Palmer and Sidney

Wyeth. This silence was interrupted only when they drew near one or a

number of these little human beings, who smiled upon them, and made eyes

back at Sidney, who winked humorously, and then made them all happy with

a few pennies, for he loved children. They passed through this mass,

which our pen has attempted to describe, and found themselves soon in a

part given over to nature. Trees had made a brave fight for the right to

exist against poisonous gases, and some had succeeded, in a measure;

while garden truck, closer to its mother earth, had apparently succeeded

to a still greater degree. Fences were in evidence; pride as well. The

children were cleaner; the houses were not quarter-shacks any more; but

commodious, even large homes, and were occupied by a class, while

workers, nevertheless they had employed their earnings otherwise than

for liquor and dice, and other frivolities, the curse that submerges the

more ignorant and prideless. They were a kind people, these were, and

when approached with a suggestion of literature, they smiled and

replied: "We are fond of reading."

Thus Miss Palmer and Sidney Wyeth began work that day, and until the sun

was hurrying toward the west, they talked and said words of kind

sincerity to the many they met, for these people deserved it. What was

more important, some made effort toward their betterment. These were few

in number. For this reason, such kind words of encouragement--ay, very

often praise, was necessary.

So, one by one they subscribed, and hoped for the book soon, until their

orders were many. The evening had approached until the hour was near

six, when they came upon another, a black woman truly, but pride,

apparently, she had plenty. While not the finest, in point of value, her

house was one of the cosiest. It was painted in two colors, and reposed

quietly behind a medley of small trees, around which was a fair stand of

blue grass. The lace curtains, all clean and white, contrasted

beautifully behind and below the pale green shades, while within the

furniture was artistically arranged.

They were invited in, and made most welcome. "Yes," said the black

woman, "I am fond, very fond of good books, and when it comes to one

which my race has produced, I want it, for such are few. So you may take

my name, and bring the book as soon as you can."

They thanked her profusely, and spoke, as they had spoken many times

that day, kind words of encouragement and praise. She appreciated it.

Yet some said of this woman, before the two made this call:

"She's a mean nigger, and you'll neveh be 'vited in da' house! Um-m! She

has no 'commadation 'bout her, and she's eidder stuck up, ah she's a

witch!" Whereupon they shook their black heads, and went their way with

a mutter.

But 'ere long another--and he was himself a practical and successful

man--said: "She's O.K., a fine woman; but she runs a grocery store while

her husband digs coal, and, well, she doesn't credit Tom, Dick and

Harry." And then Wyeth and his companion understood.

* * * * *

The day's work was done at last, and they were hurrying back to town.

They were tired, both mentally and physically, but their spirits were

high. They were, moreover, grateful, and seemed, to a great degree, to

understand each other. Their friendship has reached the stage at which

they could indulge in confidences, Miss Palmer especially. She regarded

Wyeth, out of her liquid eyes, and smiled kindly, confidentially. "I'm

glad I took up the work--now."

She smiled with more confidence than before. "Yes; I am, really. I have

_enjoyed_ it." And still she smiled. He did too. She smiled back, and

then, in a voice that was so soft, and kind, and confidential, she said:

"You wrote it, didn't you?"

He heard the car as it crashed along through the night, for the sun had

set long ago. The trees, for they were passing through the forest,

flashed darkly through the electric lighted car, and Miss Palmer waited.

He did not reply. After a time--shall we say minutes--she sought his

eye. She was languid, and resigned to a degree. "If you would only admit

that which I am positive is true, it would be so nice. I would truly be

satisfied."

"What matter could it make?" and then he stopped. She might be more

interesting curious than otherwise.... He remained silent.

"Oh, why do you maintain this silence regarding the authorship?" she

fretted, moving restlessly about.

"Cannot we go along and sell it--that, in particular, is all that

matters, isn't it?" He tried to be reasonable. "You will, as you must

now see," he argued, "only need to go to the _industrial_ people, and

success will be yours." She was oblivious to all this. He resumed,

somewhat uncertainly:

"If many people--especially those in the class to which I feel you

belong--knew or thought that I am the author of this book, their

possible interest might become doubtful; whereas, with no thought than

the ordinary--that is the usual fetish--they _might_, after reading it,

be much impressed with its message. Don't you agree with me?" He wanted

to be reasonable, but Miss Palmer was silent.

She was still so when they left the car some minutes later. When they

had reached the curbing and stepped upon the walk, they saw Hatfield. He

had his suit case and was in somewhat of a hurry, from the strides he

was making.

"Where is he going, home?" inquired Miss Palmer.

"I don't know," replied the other, "but I wouldn't think so at least. He

never said anything to me in regard to it, when I left him this

morning." Yet so he was, though he never said so, when they met him and

exchanged a few words.

"I'm going to a friend's house," and he gave Wyeth a number. They told

him of their success, whereupon he secured a dollar, and that was the

last time they saw him. He went back with the same porter they had come

over with.

* * * * *

It was Legs who informed Sidney that young Hatfield was going back to

Attalia. Legs was having some experiences of his own. Before he related

them to Wyeth, he inquired:

"Well, Books, how goes it?" He was cheerful as usual--in fact Legs was

always cheerful--with one exception, which we shall cite presently.

"Fine, Legs," Wyeth beamed. "Couldn't be better, which is saying a great

deal. How's things with you?"

"_Could_ be a whole lot better," he laughed, with dancing eyes; "but

they have been worse. I've been busy though. Working right along. Got me

a gal now, and won a little change today that I might lose tonight."

He did--and more. He lost all he had, borrowed a quarter from Wyeth,

wanted a dollar, but Wyeth halted him, advising that he loaned only to

purchase the means to fill his stomach, and then only when it was

begging for bread.

After this, and for some time to come, Legs' fortune varied from near

prosperity, to going for a whole day without anything to eat. And at

these times, he dispensed with his usual cheerfulness.

One day, he pawned his meagre jewelry for all he could obtain thereon,

which amounted to only a dollar and a half. He ate a big meal at a cheap

restaurant, got his shirts from the laundry, paid fifty cents on his

room rent, and went with the remainder to a game. Luck was with him, as

it is with all, once in a while. True, it was only in a small measure,

but he had sufficient to finish paying his rent, bought a cold lunch

that he sensibly tucked away for future purposes, and went to bed with a

dollar in his pocket.

Sleeping peacefully at two A.M., he was awakened by John Moore, the man

of the house, who told him--Sidney heard this--of a great game close by,

and where hundreds were at stake. So Legs got up, not too cheerfully,

from his comfortable bed and peaceful sleep, dressed, and a moment

later, followed Moore out into the night, and to fortune. (?)

He came back in about an hour. He was drunk and broke, angry with

himself, and more so with John Moore.

"Damn that nigger!" he cried terribly, when alone with Wyeth. "Damn him,

damn him, d-a-m-n him! Came in here and got me out of bed," he roared,

brandishing his long arms. "When I was sleeping the sleep of peace.

'Nigga's gotta big game on; all kinds a-money. I'n beat 'm in scan, know

I c'n.' And then like a fool," and here he looked down at himself, as if

to see which would be the best part to kick, "I up and goes with him. Of

course, he must have a drink for himself; so a quarter first went to

'get him right.' And then to the game. No sooner had we arrived than

'slip me a haf,' said he, and like a damn fool I did. He bet a quarter

that a dinge who held the craps wouldn't hit, and lost. He repeated--and

lost again. He wanted the last quarter, declaring his luck would begin

with it; but I forestalled him and got the craps myself and threw them

dancing, clear across the table, and they turned up," Wyeth waited

eagerly, "--craps!"

"Doggone that nigga! 'f he comes around me again, I'm going to shoot him

in the head--right through the middle of the head!" And with this solemn

declaration, he went forthwith back to bed. He slept peacefully, and

awakened the following morning, hungry and madder than ever, as the fact

dawned upon him. Wyeth loaned him a quarter, and gave him some good

advice.

"Quit it! Get a job! Work! Honest work! Come to the room with a book,

read and thereby learn something and save your money!"

"I will, so help me God!" declared the other, feeling repentant all the

way through.

"And remember--in speaking of the God--he helps those who help

themselves."

"My father was a preacher!"

Wyeth made no further comment; but Legs was a good rustler. He did

better--for a while. He looked the town from end to end for the kind of

work he followed, but without success. So it continued, day after day,

his great problem was to get something to fill that stomach, which was

now flabby, very much so at times. He managed, by diligent application,

to drop something into it once and sometimes twice a day, and one night

he came to the room with an exclamation, that he had eaten three times

that day, and had a dime left in his pocket. He drew this forth,

balanced it on the tip of his forefinger, observed it long and

earnestly, and then said: "Little one, we are friends, it's true, but

such we cannot possibly remain; for tomorrow you will have to go the way

of the rest," whereupon he touched his stomach with the forefinger of

his other hand. "So, tonight, on a pilgrimage of fortune we must go, you

and I. It's more or less--possibly nothing. So, to the first crap game I

take thee. And once there in the glare, I shall risk you against the

rest. Therefore, little one, prepare thyself, for soon I shall bet thee,

understand, in the first crap game I come to, a nickel at a time."

He did--and won. He continued then for some time to win and win, and

resumed all the cheerfulness he once possessed. His winnings continued

until he had redeemed his jewelry, paid a week's room rent in advance,

was clean, and seven dollars to the good over all. Then it began to go

the other way. He quit, however, and deposited five dollars with his

friend Wyeth.

"I'm doing this," said he, "because these roomers, who shoot craps too,

would not allow me to be otherwise than broke." Thus the fortune of Legs

took a turn for the good, for one day. The next night he went broke.

Thus we will leave him for the present, and return to Sidney Wyeth and

Miss Annie Palmer, who sold books.

CHAPTER FIVE

"_A Bigger Liah They Ain't in Town_"

John Smith was a large man, fat, and big-hearted as well, so Wyeth had

been told previously. Sidney met both Smith and his wife, and she was

larger still. She, too, was a good, kind woman, with a multitude of

friends whom they had made by kindness to others. She was a full blood,

while he was not more than half. Together they would weigh to exceed

five hundred pounds. And, of course, he was a preacher.

Said he, when he had heard the story of _The Tempest_: "Yes, I'll take

one--no, you may put me down for two." And then he seated himself with

as much comfort as was possible upon the greasy counter, for John Smith

was a successful merchant, who made his living by the sale of

necessities, to a multitude of his clan, who were employed by the Semet

Solvay Company. As he made the above remark, he was ready, as we can

see, for a long conversation.

"Been takin' many odah's?" he inquired.

"Oh, lots of them," the other replied, cheerfully.

"M-m. Who all yu' got in that list?" he went on.

The other shoved it before him.

"M-m," said he, running his eyes over the order list. "See yu' have Lem

Jackson down he' fo' one."

"Yes," said the other; "seems to be quite a fine fellow," he commented.

"M-m; but a bigger liah they ain't in town." He was not much excited by

the statement, and went on calmly: "He's fine all right, though--to

drink whiskey. M-m. Fight 'n' steal, and lay around drunk, and go

regularly to jail, and likewise have somebody pay him out. I have done

so myself, a few times, 's why I happen t' know. M-m. Two times in

succession I have done that in the last thirty days. M-m; but the next

time he gets his black hide in there, in so fo' 's I'm concerned, he c'n

stay. Yeh, 'n' 'twouldn't 'sprise me 'f the officers didn' come rid'n up

at any time fo' 'im, 'cause 'es been actin' mighty suspicious the last

few days. I'n bet he's been int' somethin'."

"Heah! Heah!" he cried, jumping from the counter and hurrying to the

platform in front, "what'n the devil you all makin' all this he' noise

'bout!"

"O-oh, uncle," cried a little one, grasping his trousers and looking up,

"the p'lice uz jes' gone ova the hill wi' Lem Jackson. Dey has 'rested

'im fo' stealin' coppa wiah."

Sadly, Wyeth drew his pencil through a name he had written not an hour

before.

"I'm glad to get your opinion concerning these, Elder," he said

gratefully. "The ones we have had down here have been pretty good, and I

don't wish to be cherishing expectations that are not likely to be

realized. So tell me, if you don't mind, who can be relied on."

"Aw, I do'n mind," he rumbled; "'cause them that's all right is all

right; and them that ain't, ain't. So whateve' I tell you 's all the

same in the end, exceptin' you won't need t' build on them that ain't.

"These people who had oh'd, 'n' took the' books so readily, 'n' did'n'

haf t' wait fo' pay day, ah, among the good people we got out he',

that's the reason." He took the paper from Wyeth's hand, and, pointing

out the names, he began:

"He's Joe Sim's now, I see you have, 's as good as gold. You c'n count

that book delivered; also I see you have Tom Hutchis, 'n' 'es O.K. Jerry

Carter is also; but here's Joe Tuttle, outside-a Lem Jackson, a bigger

liah, gambler--tin horn gambler, never lived; 'n' he caint read, why has

he subscribed fo' the book?" The other looked at the name, and then

said:

"I think Miss Palmer took that order."

"Aw, that's it. He's chivalrous, all right, and would be gallant enough

to subscribe to anything a woman's carrying around; but he won't be man

'nough t' take it, 'n' he knows it." At this point he laid the list

down, stuck his big stomach forward, rested his hands thereupon, and

with his finger to emphasize, he forthwith gave Wyeth a lecture on

Negroology.

"I been runnin' this sto' heah fo' thoiteen yeahs, 'n' lemme tell y',

brother, I know these nigga's fo' what they is." He paused a moment, and

surveyed the list again, critically. Then, laying it down, said: "Jump

up on the counter and rest yo'se'f, I gotta story t' tell yu'." Wyeth

obeyed, and John Smith began.

"I was run outta Geo'gi', 'n' I ain' 'shame to admit it; but

notwithstandin' the fact, 'twas a mistake 'n' aftwa'd the whi' people

found it out 'n' was sorry, 'n' wanted me t' return. That, however, was

afta I was ove' he' 'n' doin' business, 'n' mo' bus'ness than I had eve'

done befo'. So I jes' thanked them fo' admittin' to the mistake, 'n'

stay's he'. Well, 's I was sayin', I came ove' he' 'n' sta'ted a sto'. I

had owned a big fa'm back the' in Geo'gi', 'n' I received $10,000 fo' it

'n' put's most uv it in th' sto' 'n' trusted cullud people. In three

ye's I's broke--flat broke. Did'n' have nothin' but my credit. I had

opened that sto' wi' the finest stock of eve'thing: Clothing, boots 'n'

shoes, groceries 'n' hardware, 'n' 's I said, trusted my people.

"Now a nigga, with rare exceptions, will not pay 'n' hones' debt, oh,

no! He'll lie, 'n' lie, 'n' lie! T' make a long story sho't, they lied

me outta bus'ness. So I broke, but wi' plenty sense, I sta'ted all ove'

agin, wi' the help of the Lawd 'n' the whi' people, what knowed I was

hones' 'n' ambitious.

"That was ten yeah's ago. Seven ye's ago I made a 'rangement wi' the

Semet Solvay Company t' give these da'kies credit, and th' company has

since then, held the amount from the' pay envelope. From then on I began

to climb, but I had a drawback that was like a tick in my shirt, but

I'll git t' that later. Now nobody c'n say I gets my money by holding up

these nigga's, either; fo' I gives 's much 'n' mo' fo' th' money than

does the average sto' keeper 'bout he'.

"And so, with the help a th' Lawd, and a good wife, I have now

twenty-nine houses 'n' lots, 'n' a little money besides. And he' comes

the drawback I sta'ted t' speak uv. Eve' week that comes ove' my head, I

mus' spend good money t' get some a these low-down big mouth nigga's

outta jail. Last ye', 'n' you wouldn't b'lieve it, but I spent nine

hund'd dollahs a-gettin' nigga's outta jail, 'n' this ye' promises t'

exceed that."

"But why will you pay their fines?" exclaimed the other. "Why don't you

let the skunks stay and work it out?"

"That's it! That's it!" he exclaimed, moving about on the counter. "I

swear at the end of each ye' that I ain' go'n pay another fine, but they

pr'ceed diligently t' get locked up, 'n' I, bye and bye, comes fo'th wi'

the long green 'n' pays'm out.

"Now he's a incident uv it: Take this heh Lem Jackson, fo' instance. A

low-down o'nry hound, it would be a blessing t' this dirty little

district 'f he was in his grave; but the troubles comes by him not being

there. So he, on earth a-runnin' a-roun'; but wi' a family--a wife 'n'

chillun a-hollerin' fo' bread.

"It comes 'bout by his wife, who was one a-the finest girls in this burg

when he married her. So yu'n see, when he pr'ceeds t' git drunk, 'n'

drunk right, understand, 'n' then gets t' squabblin' wi' some other no

count nigga, 'n' gets run in, who's affected?"

The other winced.

"It's the same wi' dozens of the others. I'd let them stay in there 'n'

rot, so fo' 's they is concerned; but t' me comes a cry'n wife, 'n'

a-string-a hongry kids, so I goes 'n' bails the devil out." He paused a

moment now to breathe a spell. "'Cassionally," he resumed, "I c'n, with

some 'nfluence I have with the judge, get some out without payin' a

fine; but th' lawyer must have his, anyhow, 'n' a nigga, 's I done

already said, would'n' pay the Lo'd Jesus when he's out; but promises to

bring eve' dime he makes t' you when he's in.

"So, the're my bu'den, come day, go day. Over theah, fo' 'nuther

instance, stands a nigga--see him? The one that's so drunk 'n' noisy? I

got him out las' week, when he had received two hund'd days on th'

gang, 'n' t'day I got his brother out who was locked up Friday."

"Why can they not keep out of so much trouble?" said Wyeth seriously.

"Whiskey. The minute they get the' pay, the first thing they wants is

whiskey, 'n' then a crap game."

"And women," said Wyeth.

"Yes," said the other; "but they won't spend any money on them; no, that

would in one sense, be too much like right."

"What per cent of them, do you think, who, after giving their word as a

bond, would stand to it, a promise, you understand?"

"I'm 'shame t' admit it, I'm 'shame t' admit it; but, honestly, I

wouldn't estimate that more than two out of ten could be trusted to keep

their word, other than t' buy a pint a whiskey, or shoot dice until they

did'n' have a dime."

"What effect is the white man's prejudice having upon him directly?"

Wyeth inquired.

"None! None! In the days of old, and even yet, the white man's prejudice

was very hindersome; but, as time has wore on, and the races have come

to expect each other as they know they will be, the prejudice of the

white man is not near so hindersome as some a ouh people would have you

b'lieve it. Of co'se," he added thoughtfully, "politic's is in a way

denied him; but a great many more can vote than they do if they would

pay the' poll taxes. All in all, you'll find so much ignorance, and

ignorance by preference among them, and their minds are so polluted with

the devil, until politic's as they are now, would not make much

difference. I sometimes shudder when I look around me and listen, to

conclude what the race is sometime coming to."

"You have a large number of churches, a hundred odd, I think. That

should act as a great feature toward the moral evolution."

"Very little, very little," he returned, shaking his head sadly. "For

this reason: The churches, while having, of course, many good men as

their pastors, are filled up with more grafters, it seems, and mean

rascals as well, until the calling is not fulfilled. I don't hesitate t'

say that there are more grafters among the preachers, than any other

profession among the colored people in this town. And the Baptists have,

and still are, building so many little churches, until every dime

available, and unavailable too, is used fo' this purpose, instead of

some means to help the chillun."

"Don't you think, figuratively speaking, that there are too many Negro

churches?"

"'Course the' is, a-course. Why there are more than seventy Baptist

churches among Negroes in the town alone. That in itself, is an example

of the utter selfishness tha' p'vails heh."

"How does it come about? It seems to me that the organization of the

church system must be very loose, to permit of such a wholesale building

of churches all the time. It would seem advisable that if they had fewer

churches, with better conduct in the administration of those few, more

good would result."

"Well, the Baptists are dominated, to some extent, by the association,

but it is inadequate in many ways. For instance, when they rule a pastor

out, he claims to a handful of devouts and friends, that he has been

made the goat of a frame-up, starts him a church in some shack, or any

other place where he can concentrate a few shouters, and continues."

"And what effect does all this have upon the children?"

He held up his hand in despair. "Brother, brother! That is the sad part.

The colored child in this town is lucky, 'f he becomes anything else but

a criminal before he does anything else. His surroundings 'n'--what's

that other thing?" he stopped short, and held his hand to his head.

"Environment?"

"That's it! His 'nvironment is so bad. He is surrounded by eve' thing

conducive t' crime 'n' degeneration. He sees, hears, 'n' is brought in

contact, in his eve' day life, with all that is evil, 'n' learns t'

drink whiskey befo' he gets into pants. And now, instead of the Negro

churches concentrating their efforts toward the raising of the child,

they put all the fo'ce into the preacher's lungs, trying t' convert ole

sinnahs that nothin' but hell itse'f will effect."

"A library, and Y.M.C.A., properly conducted, might have some effect for

the good, don't you think?"

"A dead investment fo' yeahs t' come, fo' the reason that they would

have no incentive to attend either. Without clean, intelligent parents,

'n' better conducted churches, such cannot fulfill the purpose."

"Hadn't we better be going?" called Miss Palmer at this moment. "It's

getting late."

The two shook hands as they parted. As Sidney went over the hill, that

sloped for a long way down to the car line, he did not seem to hear Miss

Palmer, and he answered her mechanically.

He was thinking, thinking of what he had learned, in the last hour, from

John Smith, merchant.

CHAPTER SIX

"_Yes--Miss Latham_"

Three weeks had passed since Mildred Latham first saw the city she now

called home. She considered it the only home she ever really had;

because she had in one person a friend, such as she had never felt she

would have. That friend was Constance Jacobs. Daily, they went forth

together in their work, which was the sale of _The Tempest_. There was

another, who was, apparently, a friend also. That was Wilson Jacobs--but

more of him later.

Where there is congeniality, understanding and sympathy, there is

happiness to a degree. When such is the case, every day--despite even an

arduous task, within itself, becomes a holiday. Such were the days which

Mildred Latham experienced. Constance was like a sister. One of those

rare creatures, whose happiness came in her honest and sincere desire,

to see that others were happy about her. She had found Mildred a girl

secretive to an unfathomable degree, and, to say the least, strange; but

withal, a personality, and a sympathy that was so sincere, even devout,

that she loved her more than her own soul. That affection seemed to grow

and become more apparent when she saw, slowly but truly, nevertheless, a

cloud lifting from the brow of the girl who came to her door in quest of

lodging, not long since.

"Wilson," said she one day, "do you know, can you appreciate how much it

means to one to please somebody; to make one feel happy, relieved, and

in turn, see that person, come to know her, and see how genuinely she

can, in turn, appreciate what one does?"

"You are dealing in riddles today, Constance. I don't understand; but I

will guess. Is it Mil--Miss Latham?"

"Yes--_Miss_ Latham," whereupon she smiled upon him, and then looked

away.

"Yes," she resumed, looking out of the window upon a small garden she

was trying to further, "it is she. I think if I know her until the end

of my days, there will always be something strange--something I do

not--can never understand; but, in addition to showing a kind regard for

the little things it pleases one's heart to do, she makes me so happy."

"She keeps me puzzled," said Wilson. "I can never make up my mind about

her. She is indeed a mystery. I do not, as I can see, have any clue in

guessing who she is--and what she is, nor can I even conjecture. She is

a lady. But as you say, and have said before, there is something about

her that one can never understand." He was thoughtful. Presently he

heard his sister.

"She is an excellent saleswoman, although I do not think she was selling

the book until she came here. I have not asked her. She is one of these

people who, while not forbidding approach, yet her manner does not

invite questioning. But she is a business woman--girl. I cannot come to

see her as a girl, and yet, in the sense we know her, she is not a

woman."

"I finished the book. That young man had an extraordinary experience, to

say the least," said Wilson.

"Mr. Carroll has finished the copy I sold him, but his sympathies are

not altogether with the pioneer; he criticises him."

"How's that? Oh, yes, I understand. I have heard the same thing from

others. They see it; that the pioneer should have seen the evil and

insincerity of the preacher, and should have governed his happiness

accordingly. Yes," he went on, "but the pioneer _did_ see that the

preacher meant no good; he was aware, fully aware that he was about to

become the victim of an intrigue. But regardless of this fact, it must

be appreciated, that if this grave incident had not come to pass in the

life of that young man, we would not now have the book. Men do not----"

"And women."

"Yes, of course," he smiled, "write that kind of book unless their lives

have met with extreme reverses; something in their souls has gone amiss,

and, as a last resort--I can't quite find the words to explain it; but

it--what they write--is a brief of the soul; while the public is the

court, and to this court, as in the common court of the land, they cry

out for justice, restitution."

"Well," sighed Constance, "whoever this Lochinvar is, and regardless of

his misfortunes, writing the book has made one person happy. That person

is Mildred Latham. The book is her hobby. I would give something to

learn why she is so wrapped up in the work; but it gives her more

pleasure, I am sure, to show it to someone, and tell them the story a

dozen times a day, than it does some of those levee Negroes to get

drunk. And the work, she is simply lost in it. She makes the six work

days of the week seem like one, with her cheerful enthusiasm. The very

life in itself seems to please her. To make readers out of multitudes

who've never given reading a second thought, seems to be her great

ambition. She succeeds, too. And at the end of such days, more than at

any other time, she is like I fancy her to be: Feminine, lovable,

sympathetic--human in all its depths."

"We certainly struck it rich when she condescended to play for the

choir. And she can seem to get more out of the organ than anyone has

heretofore."

"She sings too. I never knew that she could sing so sweetly, until she

led last Sunday, when Bernice Waverly was ill."

"She almost made me forget my text."

"She's coming now," whispered Constance, as, upon the narrow walk, a

familiar footfall sounded. Presently the screen slammed lightly behind

the one of their conversation.

"I've been clear to the river, walked all the way there and back. Thirty

blocks in all," she cried cheerfully, surveying both, smilingly.

"And after all the walking you did today in delivering!" Constance

remonstrated softly. "You mustn't overdo your good health, dear. We

would both be terribly upset if you were taken down in any way. Did you

know that?" The other was taken by surprise. She was plainly embarrassed

for a moment, and to dismiss it she plucked childlike at her skirts.

Presently she said lightly:

"Always saying something, Constance." And suddenly she flew into the

caress of the other. "I haven't become used to such words, yet, and

you'll have to be careful in using them. Because," and here she buried

her head against the other's shoulder, "I might be likely to boo-hoo."

The three laughed it away now.

"Constance tells me, Miss Latham," said Wilson, "that you are an agent,

sophisticated in all the arts that result in a sale." His eyes now

sought hers with unfeigned admiration.

"Constance is, too; and did she not mention herself?" She rated

Constance now the least bit severely. "You never give yourself credit

for anything. Why don't you?" She frowned, but it was too grateful--her

appearance--to be accepted seriously.

"How many copies are both of you delivering weekly now?" he inquired.

"We delivered eighty-seven this week so far, and forty-five last week,"

replied Mildred, sitting very close to his sister on a small settee.

"Have you ever thought, Mildred," said Constance, "that selling a book,

or anything, for that matter, is a task within itself, calling always

for initiative. The average person has not the courage, at least he has

not practiced it, that would make a salesman or saleswoman. All of us,

with possibly a few exceptions, are chattels, human chattels. The

ordinary person would stand on his head on a nail for an hour, if

someone told him that was right; whereas, to take upon himself the task

of leading anything, he is an utter failure."

"Constance is psychological today, don't you think?" smiled her brother;

but Mildred accepted the words seriously and listened for more.

Constance had a turn of logic, and was in the habit, Mildred had

learned, of saying some very serious things at times; although she could

not be regarded as entirely serious.

"That is why I think you are so successful, Mildred," she went on. "You

seem to be possessed with initiative; it seems a part of your

construction; you seem charged with it; and, in addition to this, is

your kind regard and appreciation, for another's point of view."

"Oh, please don't tell me so many nice things. I can't believe it; I

have never seen myself in the way you speak of, and if you persist,

dear," and her smile upon Constance was the softest, "you might make me

vain--and I would almost rather be anything than vain--and spoil it all.

Here!" She kissed her a long lingering kiss, and then flew to her room.

"Wilson," said his sister, when they were alone again, "when I think of

the young man and his experiences in the story, and his make-up and

point of view, I find myself connecting Mildred. She fills my dreams in

that story as the One Woman. How successful and how happy that man could

have been, had he had a treasure like her, for his own."

"Well, yes, possibly. No doubt; but if, taking the story as it is, if he

had her now, after what has come to pass, I judge he could appreciate

her real worth to a greater degree. Don't you agree with me?"

She was thoughtful a moment before replying. "Yes, I think I do. It

_would_ be different now." She was reflective for some time before she

went on again. "The other day I said to her: 'If you had been in the

girl's place in the story, how would you have accepted this father?' I

shall not soon forget how strange she looked. Her entire being seemed to

undergo a change. From the way I recall it, her mind seemed to go back

into the past, and she was so odd for a few seconds, that I was sorry I

said it. Then, after a moment, during which she seemed to struggle with

something, she said: 'I would not, you may be sure, have been like the

girl.' That was all, and I said no more; nor do I think I will again.

She acted--ah, I can't hardly frame it; but, frankly, too peculiar."

"I'm going to bed, Sis'," said her brother now. His eyes were evidence

that he should go. He was awake now for a moment. "I've been much

interested in what has passed tonight, Sis'. I'll be glad to talk on the

same subject again." He was silent a moment, and then, rising, he said,

"Good night."

"Good night, Wilson."

Then she heard his door close, after watching him until he reached his

door; after that, she fell into deep and serious thinking. It concerned

him. He was all she had--this brother--and his future was in her

thoughts now, a grave concern of hers. Yes, and Wilson Jacobs was now

one and thirty.... He had no wife--not even did he see women in that

sense. Constance didn't think of herself now--nor at any other time,

apparently. And yet she was twenty-eight; but she felt, if her brother

was to be a happy man, he should consider his life more seriously. He

was lost in his purpose. Mildred Latham was a girl, the kind of girl she

would like to see him take notice of.

And then she was jerked back into a sudden reminder.... Wilson _had_

been acting different lately. How could she, for one moment, have

forgotten it. Yes, he had been acting _very_ differently.... He was all

attention when Mildred was saying anything. He was careful never to

disturb her. And only tonight, when they had spoken of her together, he

had almost called her by her first name.

Constance Jacobs was now oblivious to what was about her. She continued

to think. Mildred was kind, she was intelligent; she was--and here

Constance forgot the words Mildred had said not an hour before, 'I

cannot stand vanity'--beautiful.

She retired presently, but it was sometime before she went to sleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"_It All Falls Right Back on Society_"

"Two Negroes killed yesterday in the city, is the homicide record for

this town, which makes thirteen killed in the last week," said Wilson

Jacobs the following morning, as he laid the paper down to take up his

knife at breakfast. "Every day, at least, it is almost every day, there

is a murder of each other by our people in this town. Saturday night or

Sunday usually sees four or five such crimes."

"Isn't it deplorable?" breathed Mildred, seating herself at the other

side. "What accounts, Mr. Reverend"--she somehow found it awkward to

call him Reverend--"Jacobs, for such acts, that is, such is to be

expected; but why does there happen to be so much of it here?"

"Ignorance--lack of intelligence in our people. This city has a

preponderance of ignorant, polluted people among the Negroes. They flock

into this town from all around, and represent the low, polluted, and

depraved element of our race. They settle about the levee district,

spend their earnings for the worst whiskey, give the remainder of their

time to gambling and all forms of vice, and murder is the natural

consequence."

"Is there no way, there are so many churches, it would seem that so many

places of worship would have a good effect upon these people?" said the

other anxiously.

"More than a hundred Negro churches in this town; but they are, for the

most part, churches only. Seventy of these are Baptist, and they are

building more right along."

"I meet it every day in my work," she said. "Always so many apparently

good women, mothers and daughters, sisters, who say: 'I sho would lak t'

have that book, but y' see, it's lak this. We's building a new chu'ch;

or, a rally is on next Sunday, 'n' all the women is axed t' give five

dollars 'n' the men ten,' etc. and etc. But that is not the most I hear;

it is: 'Lawd, Lawd, honey, yu' sweet li'l chile. I sho is sorry to

disappint you. I sho is. You walkin' way up heh 'n' bringin' tha' book;

but don' you know, honey, that low down nigga man a mine went off Sat'dy

night un got drunk, got t' fightin' and was 'rested. I did'n' pay no

'tention when 'e did'n' show up a-Sat'dy night; nor was I wo'ied Sunday;

but when Monday mawnin' come 'n' no nigga, den I knowed de p'lice done

got dat nigga. And dey had, Sat'dy night fo' fightin' 'n' 'sturbin de

peace. So I done took yo' money, honey, 'n' got dat nigga out. 'n' now,

honey, I jes' cain' say when I'll be ready, 'cause 'e done lost his job,

too, so that means I gotta take ceh' a both uv us.'"

"If we allow our minds to dwell too long on it, frankly, Miss Latham,"

said he, "we will become discouraged. Where ignorance is bliss, it may

be folly to be wise; but it is unprofitable, from a moral point of view.

So, as long as we have a preponderance of ignorance, just so long are we

going to have a dreadful homicide record in this, and other towns."

"I read an editorial in the paper recently, with regard to murder and

the record per city," said Miss Latham. "I see that the south leads. And

this town and Effingham seem to struggle for the lead of them all. It

was not decided as to which had the most, but it stated that more people

were murdered in either one of them than in any other city in the world,

regardless of population."

"And that is not all. In both of these cities, no data is kept of the

number the police kill. I know policemen personally, and see them on

duty, who have killed as many as half a dozen Negroes."

"Oh, be merciful!" she cried. "Can this really be so?"

"It _is_ so," he maintained. "Why last week I stopped a few days in

Effingham on the way from Attalia, and read on the front page of one of

the leading papers, and which was accompanied by a cut, that an old

policeman, who had seen twenty-five years on the force, and who had

recently been made a captain, had never killed a man. It was this fact,

obviously, that was the most extraordinary."

"Cannot the city government do more toward the suppression of so much

crime?" she asked, forgetting to eat her breakfast.

"They cannot to any great extent, because it is the task of society. The

very foundation upon which this crime rests, is due to ignorance on the

part of the masses. You cannot reason with a mind that has no training.

Have you ever seen it that way?" he asked, more serious now than she had

ever seen him before, notwithstanding he was a serious person.

She nodded.

"No one can, the law of the land cannot. It all falls right back on

society." He was too serious now for a time to say anything, and he ate

his meal with his face contracted in serious thought. Presently he said:

"I am a minister of the gospel, and have the highest regard for the

Presbyterian faith; but, honestly, when I see the Baptists with their

loose system, keeping the black population that make up their body, and

with little, almost no effort whatever toward the education of the

children, and when I see still further, the Methodists with their better

system, in that they are not held back so much by 'splitters,' I

sometimes regret that the world took Martin Luther seriously. For, say

what they will, the conduct of the Catholics in regard to the children,

marriage and divorce, has an encouraging result in our civic life."

"I believe that if there were a Christian movement here as there is in

the northern cities, Y.M.C.A. and libraries, and if those who are

leaders of the race would encourage the patronage of these places,

eventually, it would result to the public's good," she said, after some

thought.

"Only one place in the south, as yet, seems to be making any effort

along such Christian lines. And you would not believe it, but the

greatest barrier to this has been the preachers. In their church effort,

they have the people fairly well under control, but to their own end.

In Attalia, they have almost come to appreciate the fact, that a more

intelligent and cleaner populace reacts to the welfare of the church.

Everything seems favorable toward getting one."

"I am sure that would make a great difference in time," said she,

heartily. "In Cincinnati, they expect to begin one soon. They have

almost all the subscriptions in now." She was silent for a time, and

then pursued: "Do you not think such a movement could be stimulated

here?"

"Not at the present, I think, regardless of the great need of one, and

of the great good it could do. It will be some time before the preachers

would come to lend their support--in fact, I do not think it could be

expected until they have been shown, in a majority, that such would

react for the good of all."

"Oh, my!" cried Constance, entering at this moment, "you two appear to

have worked yourself into a frenzy of excitement." She surveyed both,

questioningly.

"We have," her brother replied.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"_Where Are You From?_"

Mildred worked hard that day. As she went from the rear of one house to

another, she studied the people she met, more seriously than she had

done before. By this time, her work had become automatic, and she did

not find it hard or monotonous, to say the same thing over and over

again. She had, moreover, become accustomed to the class of people among

whom she worked. She liked it now, and for more than one reason; but

perhaps the greatest reason, was because it brought her into the closest

contact with humanity, without regard to conventionality. The people she

met daily, with few exceptions, made no attempt to be conventional. They

were human, almost all of them. She met them in their vocations; she

studied their environment. Some she saw, grown people with families, but

themselves like children. They gave their word with apparent sincerity,

and did not make any more effort to keep it than the merest babe. Why

did they not? She asked this question, and then studied them carefully

for the answer. It was ignorance. It amused her to find so many who were

positive they did not want it, did not even read, so how could they use

it? "But you can read?" she would inquire. "Sho!" would invariably come

the answer. Then came argument. Force of reason on her part, and

sometimes, she guiltily felt, it was by force of argument they were

induced to buy. She now paid little attention when they remarked that

they did not want the book. Obviously, since the most stubborn ones

were, very often after argument, the most appreciative buyers, she found

it reasonable to ignore their words of objection.

Mildred's life was a diversion that was much to her liking. She was

learning the greatest lesson a woman could learn--the study of human

nature.

On Sunday, when she met others (Wilson Jacobs' church had for its

members the more thoughtful and respectable Negro element), she was the

recipient of many surprised expressions. They were, she invariably

found, surprised that she canvassed among the servant class. She did not

appraise them of the practical side of it; in fact, of the masses, these

were more able to buy. She saw, as the Sundays went by, that much of the

display was a pretense. Many of those who expressed such surprise were

themselves unwilling to buy a book. Always she found (and especially

among the teachers, whom she thought the most pretentious) some artful

excuse. Most of them had a library which contained many books, but few

by their own race. They had the works of a poet who had died some years

ago; they also had a copy of a book or so by the principal of Tuskegee.

And then, one day she learned, from a most reliable and unbiased source:

"That those people bought the works of the now dead poet, because his

name had become a fetish. The white people had accepted these men's work

and called them great. Therefore, the Negroes had accordingly followed

suit. So the Negro author must first get a white audience, which will

laud the greatness of his pen, and then the Negroes will buy, calling

the book great also."

Miss Latham found conditions thus, and governed her work accordingly.

But, as time went on, she met surprises. They did not buy _The Tempest_,

but they read it. She found it borrowed among them all. They never

offered to buy it, but they read it nevertheless.

She did not understand this at first.

So she found the masses, often amusing, to say the least, but often with

more active race regard. They had the many faults of ignorance; easy to

influence into giving an order, they were still more ready to back out,

lie out of taking it. Some of those who took orders, and even the books,

did not read, she learned. While others could read, but did not; but

when she told them all the story, the story of her hero, for now she

held him thus, they were all thrilled, and inspired. Thus it happened

that many bought the book because it was by a Negro, and said as much.

Mildred Latham succeeded in her work. And with her success, there came

to her each day, almost every hour, thoughts of the one of her dreams.

This day, and others as well, she shuddered when she could not forget

what he had been told. It was worse, and more, because he had been told

the truth. It hurt her. He was somewhere, and he didn't know that she

loved him; but, even if he did, he could not accept this knowledge with

any delight. No, he was out of her life, or, rather, she was out of his.

He would never, no never, be out of hers. Never, because, as she felt

every day, it was his memory that stimulated her, made her feel and

appreciate what great good a life can do. And she did all she could, in

her way, to assist others. Some day, maybe, she might be able to do

more.

When she undressed each night to retire, she fell on her knees and

offered thanks to Him that is Holy. She asked for strength and

conviction and courage to continue in the same on the morrow. She

struggled to lead a Christian life, and to be acceptable in the eyes of

her Creator.... She was a believer.

Mildred was welcomed everywhere, and treated with all the courtesy due

to a lady. When she left a house one day, where two women had given her

their order, she overheard them say she was beautiful. She felt her

heart throbbing. She was not vain, but she loved to be called

attractive. Then she thought of him. He had called her beautiful also.

She wondered whether he, at any time, forgot the words he heard, and

remembered her as he had seen her that day. The day they had danced and

he--kissed her. She seemed to feel still that kiss; she hoped to feel it

always. She wondered, if he knew she was working in his memory and made

happy thereby, would he be pleased--and would he, at least, try to

forget as much as he could what he had been told. He could, of course,

not forget. That made it hard. _She did not expect him to forget._

When the day's work was done, and she had returned to her place of

abode, she lay upon her bed, and for a time, she gave up to thoughts of

him. She knew not where he was. She did not try to find out, that would

make it worse. Sometimes she felt that if she did, perhaps, it might

help her in her picture of him; then again, she did not think it best.

That might bring him too conspicuously before her. Sometimes at night

she would suddenly awaken, and her very soul would be on fire. She sat

up at these times, and almost declared it could not go on this way. She

must know his whereabouts; he must feel, know that she loved him. And

then, when the spell had died--was killed, for its death was inevitable,

she would lie down again and try to forget. But she never succeeded in

this.

More than a month had passed since she came hither. She had, with the

assistance of Constance, sold more than three hundred copies of the

book. She had saved the greater part of her earnings. She wondered, one

day, as she left a Negro bank, where she kept it, what he would think of

her, if he could know. She saw him viewing her in many ways, as she was

now. But always she was left undecided. Never would what he had been

told, seem to leave her free and undisturbed.

One day she returned home very much excited. She didn't let Constance

see her though. She had an adventure that day. She encountered a man who

looked at her strangely, when she was offering the book. She had seen

him in Cincinnati; and she recognized him by a scar on his forehead; but

she had not known this until she looked into his face, and asked him to

give her his order. Then he started. Did he recognize her? She thought

not, because she had not known he ever saw her, when he used to pass by

the house in Cincinnati, where she then lived. When she recognized him

this day, she had bungled in her talk. This fact made him suspicious. He

regarded her with undisguised curiosity. Presently his face cleared, and

he said: "You remind me of a girl I once used to see and know in

Cincinnati. Where are you from?" She tried to ignore this question; she

pretended not to hear him. Despite this effort, she choked. He observed

it, and was convinced that she was the one he had seen and known. Then

she was frightened, and, of course, did the worst thing she could have

done. She asked to be excused, and forthwith fled. She had not gone many

steps when she heard him mutter: "Well, I'll be damned!" And still

before she got beyond the sound of his voice, she heard him again: "The

same. Wonder what kind of a game she is playing here. Books. Hump! Well

I'll be damned!"

She didn't canvass any more that day. She couldn't. She was too nervous

and afraid. Then she was upset for other days. She feared to meet him.

She could never again stand that gaze of suspicion. All that she had

lived suddenly stood before her when she recalled it. Night came, and

she retired early. The incident persisted in her memory. She was

exhausted, and then she did what any unhappy girl is most likely to do.

She cried all night.

Even if she felt Sidney Wyeth had closed the chapter of her in his life,

she wanted him. She _needed_ him. To have felt now that he loved her, in

spite of what he had heard, he could and would protect her. He stood

before her now and she saw him as she had never seen him before. How

strong and brave and courageous he was! He was her hero. She went to

sleep after a time, a troubled, fitful sleep, and when she heard

Constance calling her the following morning, she awoke with a start and

was rested, although she could not understand how it was possible. But

she was calm. After all, she felt, maybe, her fear was premature.

She worked that day with her usual good spirits.

CHAPTER NINE

"_But Smith Is Not His Real Name_"

Owen Beasely. That was his name, and Sidney met him while waiting for a

subscriber, who failed to show up. He was a relative of Smith's, whom he

had met the day before. It was two P.M., the fourth day of July, and the

colored people, as well as the white, had retired to a day of delight.

It was hot, and clouds rolled up, white-capped from the west. "It would

rain before night," the weather man said, and it did.

"And so you came from the west," said Beasely, who had been reading _The

Tempest_. Wyeth had seen him working behind the counter, and they put

aside all formality of introduction. Wyeth was glad to meet someone to

talk to that day. He had come out to this suburb, under promise of

subscribers to take the book. And, since every one of them had

retracted, he was discouraged, which is a disagreeable feeling.

"Yes," he replied gloomily, "and the day I return will be one of great

happiness. I am not particularly in love with being down here anyhow;

and the sooner I see the plains again, that much sooner will I be happy

and contented."

"Well," drawled the other lazily, "having been born down here, and never

having seen the rest of this great domain, I do not, of course, know the

difference; still, I have always cherished a longing to go west. I

intended going to Oklahoma years ago, and getting in on some of that

government land they were giving away, but I put it off until it was too

late, and then too, I had trouble in my family. My oldest daughter

married a worthless rascal who burdened her with those children you see

playing about the store, and I had to take care of them and her too,

since her marriage left her in bad health."

The other listened without comment. Beasely, however, went on,

apparently in a mood to relate the past.