"Smith has been telling me about you, and I have been anxious to have a

talk with you. Smith is my brother-in-law, and he too, has had his share

of trials."

By this time, they had settled themselves on the porch of an empty

quarter house. Wyeth chanced to look around, and, seeing so many empty

ones, said: "How does this come to be? So many empty houses?"

"Bulgarians lived in this row," he said, pointing to them. "Hundreds of

them, and when the war broke out in the Balkan states, every last one of

them left here and went back to fight, and have not returned."

"Some patriotism, eh!" Wyeth commented.

"It is singular about these foreigners," he said thoughtfully. "Have you

ever observed them?"

The other nodded. Beasely went on.

"They come to this country without knowing a word of our language, and

from a poor country. But they are not here ten years, before they are

able, financially, to buy a car load of our people. Negroes are

certainly a problem to themselves. These foreigners always have money,

and many of them return to the old country and retire, after a few years

of just ordinary hard work here; while many of our people at the same

job, if they get sick a week, are on the county.

"Clerking in a store where the trade is of the kind we have," he went

on, "is an opportunity for the best study in human nature you can

possibly imagine. A man like Smith, for instance, can succeed with the

trade of his people, when he can get it. Smith has succeeded on the

heels of his own failure."

"It appears harder for one of us to succeed, than for any other race

now, doesn't it?" commented Wyeth.

"It does, it does indeed," said Beasely. "Somehow the money gets through

our fingers, despite our efforts to hold it."

"This morning," said Sidney, "I had an experience that amused me. I had

the promise to take a book to a certain fellow in Averytown. I called

accordingly with the same, but he had just left. His family didn't,

rather couldn't tell me where I was likely to find him. I came on up the

street that leads here, and made inquiries on the way. Every one who

knew him gave me the same advice. 'If,' they said, 'he is not home, just

go to every saloon between here and there, and you will be sure to find

him.' I did so, and found him at the second one."

"And did he take it?" asked Beasely.

"Oh, I hadn't thought of it since. No, he didn't take the book--but I

think he will. He had no money, and when I approached him he went to the

commissary, took a scrip and got some groceries. These he took to

somebody and sold them, a dollar and a half worth for a dollar. He then

gave me a quarter, and told me to bring it next pay day." After a moment

he said: "Smith is an exceptional business man for a Negro, and an

interesting man to talk to."

"Yes," smiled the other; "but Smith is not his real name. He took that

after coming here. And since we have spoken of it, I'm going to tell you

the story of John Smith, alias Thomas Rollins." He laughed as his voice,

very dramatic in what he had just said, came back to him.

The other listened, and prepared himself to do so comfortably, while

Beasely mopped his forehead, drew his breath, and prepared to tell the

following story.

Beasely was a black man--a full blood--and intelligent. Nearly fifty

years he seemed to be, although, at a passing glance, he would have

passed for forty. He had been a school teacher, and had some education,

Wyeth had observed from his careful use of English.

"We lived in Palmetto, Georgia, where he married my sister. He was then

a farmer and pastor of the Baptist church, while I farmed and taught the

local country school. He had been in politics quite actively in the

eighties and early nineties, as were many other Negroes during the

reconstruction period, and had served as postmaster for four years. Now,

in this town were what is called a bunch of pet Negroes. These were

coons whom the white people used as local goats for their amusements.

And, so to speak, they were a sort of privileged character, but became

too familiar. As everywhere in the south, this town had its herd of the

poor trash, that kept things stirred up in the way of lynching and other

lawlessness. Considerable incendiarism had occurred of late, and some of

these pets were accused. Friction had been evident for some time in this

county and all around, and, with this burning and accusations, a

wholesale lynching took place. About a dozen of these pets were herded

into a box car, and burned alive. It was the most diabolical thing that

could be perpetrated by human beings, and created much comment all over

the country. It drove hundreds of Negroes out of the county, and you

will find them scattered over the rest of the state and other parts now.

Sometime after this, a strange Negro came to town, and hung around

Smith's place for a while. He secured a job finally with a white man,

who was one of the men who led the mob. It seems, one day, he overheard

him relating how they burned the pets. This crazed the Negro, or it

might have been that one of the victims was a brother of his, who knows.

Well, this Negro took an ax, marched into the room, and without a word,

split open the man's head.

"He made his escape. Pandemonium reigned. Lynching by hanging and

burning at the stake became common, and a general state of lawlessness

reigned for some time.

"Now, after this Negro had killed the man, he came by Smith's and got

the clothes Smith's cook had washed for him. He threatened her with

death if she ever said anything about it. Well, a lot of the poor

crackers had become jealous of Smith anyhow, and they tried to implicate

him in it, while he knew nothing about it. Smith stood well with the

best white people; but when any friction comes up in these parts, the

cracker is supreme, because he has the numbers. So, while the mob spirit

was still prevalent, they decided to give vent to their jealousy, and

called on Smith with a dark purpose. They charged him with having

furnished this Negro with an ax and instructions to kill the cracker. So

they were on the way to see him, when I warned him at church one Sunday

morning, preparing to preach a sermon. He hurried home, grabbed a few

things, and left the state as fast as he could leave it.

"That is how Smith came to be in this country and doing business; but

there is another part of this chapter, and which brings us up to the

present.

"A Negro worked for Smith back there, and after the thing had died out

and people there saw that he was wrongly accused, this Negro came on

here, and since then, this has been his home. Having known him back

there, Smith trusted him in the store here, and continued to trust him

until he was head over heels in debt to him. There came a day when Smith

was tired of this, and called him to account. The Negro, then, instead

of paying like a man, or making an effort to do so, howled his head off

and was surprised, or professed to be. He told Smith that he was repaid

from the fact that he had kept his mouth closed about his past, his

changing his name, and all that. In conclusion, he threatened to tell

the world, or that part of it in which Smith and himself were known.

Now, if Smith had told all this in the beginning, it would, of course,

have been different. But, having deferred it so long, he naturally hated

to have it told and flaunted in his face by the Negroes here. You know,

too, how Negroes like to hear anything, envious and spiteful as they are

by nature. It was a nasty affair, and to hush it up, Smith let the bill

go hang. But this was not to be the end of it by any means, oh, no! This

Negro had the nerve to come back into the store and ask for more credit.

Then Smith, with his nigga aroused, stood his ground. The Negro then got

drunk, fighting drunk. He found an old revolver that had been lost for

years in a trash heap, and ran Smith all over town. It wouldn't shoot,

of course, but Smith didn't know that. The crowd finally got around the

Negro and held him, while he raged and swore. Smith went to the phone,

declaring he was going to call the officers. The Negro yelled that if he

did--he knew. Smith desisted, but then into it came my sister, his wife.

She has spirit and was now thoroughly aroused and with a big forty-five

left-hand wheeler, she sought this shine. When the people that were

holding him saw her coming, they turned him lose and flew. When they

did, she began to shoot, and shot to hit. She missed; but she picked the

dirt all about him, and he did some running.

"After that, the Negro--he had been doing fairly well outside what I

have mentioned--began to go down. Whiskey and craps got all his money,

and then he parted with his wife. But he still had it in for Smith, and

it had come to Smith and me, too, that he intends telling it all at the

ball game, today. Moreover, that he will kill his wife if she plays ball

or attempts to, today. Smith's nigga is up, and he is going to the ball

game, and if that Negro starts anything on that diamond, look out!"

"I'm afraid of these Negroes down here myself," said Wyeth. "A few

nights ago, I was standing on a corner in Effingham, when one of them

came up the street slapping his wife or woman, or whatever she was,

something outrageously. I felt constrained to punch him in the jaw, the

brute, especially when she ran around a bunch of us trying to escape the

blows he was raining on her face. I didn't, and some time later I was

talking with a cop that patrols that beat. I told him of the incident.

'That's nothing,' he said. 'I started to punch him,' I said. 'You'd

better not punch any of these Negroes,' he warned. 'They'll shoot you

down like a dog. This is Effingham.'"

"Well," said Beasely, "I'm going to the game myself to have a hand in

the affair, if he starts anything. Wanta go 'long?"

Since he had nothing to do, he decided that it would be a good outing

and some diversion, so, rising, he followed. As they started, a ragged,

dirty Negro rushed up. He wanted Beasely, being unable to locate Smith,

to let him have ten dollars to get his brother out of jail, who had

gotten into a squabble down in a saloon and got run in.

"Let him stay there until tomorrow, and we won't have to get him out but

once. If he is gotten out today, he's liable to be in again before the

day is spent," replied Beasely carelessly. The other went his way with

mutterings.

They had not gone far before they came upon another. He had a load, a

heavy load. So heavy that he could scarcely make it. However, with a

superior effort, he managed to drag his feet along, and join them.

"Abe Thomas," remonstrated Beasely. "You are a disgrace to yourself and

the human race." The other accepted the rebuke in good nature. He

declared, that since it was the fourth, he was entitled by the law of

the land to get drunk, and convince the public to that effect.

"The fourth do'n' come but once a yeah," he said. "But I'm a good guy

all the time 'n' all the time. Fifty years I've been in this world and

don't look forty." He didn't, which was an odd thing, thought Wyeth.

"Say, Beasely, lend me a dollar!" he exclaimed. Wyeth was again

surprised; for Beasely, without a word, but a laugh full of humor, drew

forth a silver dollar, and handed it over.

As they walked along leisurely, Wyeth remarked about the crops, which

did not appear to be doing much good in the highlands.

"You know why that is?" said their companion, winking wisely. "That's

because all this land about here is undermined, and the water goes on

through."

Wyeth looked at him. He looked back at Wyeth and winked. "You are

philosophical indeed," said he. "How far is it to the mines below?"

"Three hundred feet," Beasely replied.

"And between that is all kinds of rock, hard pan and shale?"

"Oh, sure," replied the other; "but what has that to do with it?"

Wyeth looked at him, but the other didn't gather what the expression

meant, so he said: "Jok, you are full." They were passing into a cut,

and he saw at a glance the reason for the plant suffering. About two to

six inches from the surface was a thick layer of jip, which, as he knew,

prevented the water from going into the subsoil, to come up when the sun

had dried the surface, and furnish nourishment to the roots. Further

argument was not necessary, for, as they came out of the cut, a saloon

smiled before them, and into this their companion disappeared.

When they arrived at the grounds, thousands had preceded them, and the

same was black with people, enjoying a holiday. The diamond had been

cleared, and preparations were in order for opening of the game. The

contestants were a set of school boys and girls, and women, in fact, any

girl or woman that could be prevailed upon for the occasion. The sun,

now in the west, could be seen only at intervals, as it hung suspended

above the heavy treetops. The air was unusually still and humid. The

heat was intense; but, notwithstanding the fact, the future American

Negro seemed to be getting all that a holiday afforded.

Popcorn and cracker-jack, lemonade and coca-cola, barbecue and fried

fish, were being consumed by the crowd in every direction in large

quantities, and all seemed to be happy.

At last the preliminaries were over. The game was called. On every base,

in the pitcher's box, the catchers, and in the field, stood black girls.

Gayly they flitted about, and caught the ball cleverly, as it was thrown

from one to the other.

"Play ball!" called the umpire.

Everyone had his eye upon the game. A strapping woman, wound up like a

professional, and let drive a swift ball that went far to the right of a

left hand batter.

"Ba-l-l one!" cried the umpire.

"Frow lak a ole maid," cackled a big-mouthed Negro, who was immediately

hooted down.

"St-r-i-k-e one!" cried the umpire, slapping his thigh, giving vent to a

big laugh, as the batter swung wildly at the ball just missed.

"Dat gal's got some speed, b'lieve muh!" cried another Negro, who was a

good support.

"Who dat gal?" inquired another, at this point.

"Do'n you know 'er?" someone else replied. "Dat's Bobb Lee's wife. Dey

is pa'ted, y' know."

Wyeth started. Bobb Lee's wife! Bobb Lee was the Negro Beasely had told

him about.... And he had threatened to kill her if she played ball this

day. She was playing. He felt a strange pulling at his nerves as he

watched her, and his imagination began to play. He was afraid of these

Negroes. Even if they did nothing, they could, so far as he had learned,

be depended upon to commit murder. No one, perhaps, paid much attention

to a Negro's threat; but he didn't feel just right in the stomach. A

chilly feeling was creeping upward and held him. He looked about him.

For a moment he had forgotten the game. The men were now on the bases,

while the girls were swinging in many ways at the ball. The wife of Bobb

Lee was there at the bat. Around him the crowd watched her closely,

expectantly. He did likewise.

"B-a-l-l one!" cried the umpire. The woman was a stout Negress, with

square, broad hips, and was conspicuous in the green uniform. Two balls

and one strike were against her, when the fourth came whizzing across

the plate. She struck it with terrific force, that sent it just over the

heads of all and beyond the fielders, making a clean home run, as well

as bringing in two girls that were on bases. The cheering that followed

was deafening. For a time Sidney forgot the threats of the bad Negro.

Again the wife of Bobb Lee was pitching. More speed had developed since

last she held the ball, and she was apparently more clever. She hurled

the ball across the plate so swiftly, that the crowd could hardly see

it, nor could the batters, whom, one by one she fanned. Two balls and

two strikes she had on the last one. Wyeth's gaze, wandering across the

diamond, observed John Smith standing to the other side, and again the

words of Beasely came to his memory. He wished the thought and the

threat would not so persist. He tried to concentrate his mind on the

game, but the words lingered. During his whole life, Sidney now

recalled, he was peculiarly given to predestination. If he had not seen

anyone he had known for some time, and happened to meet him, he could

always recall that he had just thought of him a few days before, or it

might have been only a few hours before. Strangely, as he watched the

game, there came to him a premonition that something was going to

happen. He felt it so strongly that he stood waiting for it. It was only

a question of a little while.

The wife of Bobb Lee had raised her arm and was winding up for the last

throw, when suddenly, from across the field in the crowd, came a cry as

of some one mad, enraged. In the still, humid air, the cry of a woman

resounded, and fell upon the ears of the crowd like a cry of death.

There was a shot, and so quiet did every one appear at the moment, that

the noise it made sounded like a cannon. A woman rushed upon the

diamond, and fell prone on her face, with a last scream that disturbed

the quiet.

Clouds had been gathering overhead for some time, and now they overcast

the skies. The sunlight, with all its brightness of a few minutes ago,

had faded; it became so dark that the people could scarcely see across

the diamond. Heavy peals of thunder added now to the darkness, while

flashes of lightning struck electrically all about. The crowd stood

awestruck. The woman in the box had lowered her arm, and was looking

wild-eyed at the woman who had fallen prostrate at her feet. And then,

through the still air came again the cry of the beast.

"Ah tole yu' 'f yu' played ball ag'in ah'd kill yu'. Ah've killed yu'

doity sista, in the' stands you, 'n' the' is John Smith who run away

frum Palmetto, Geo'gi', 'n' whose real name's Tom Rollins!" And with

that, the woman gave a long lingering cry that frightened all those

about. They turned in one great mass, the revolver sounded another shot,

and with scarcely a groan, the woman staggered for a moment, and fell to

the ground dead. For just a second it seemed, the crowd, tearing wildly

about, halted and turned their eyes upon the two dead women. And as they

did so, the murderer turned wildly in the direction of where Smith had

stood, but he was gone. In a blind fury, the drunken brute whirled

around dazed, yelling: "Wha' is he! Damn him! Wha' is he!"

"I'm heah, you beast!" roared Smith, in a terrible voice. The other had

just time to see him, but too late to do further murder. John Smith was

on him in an instant, and all the strength of his powerful frame seemed

to come to him in that moment. He snatched the smoking weapon from the

hand of the brute, and, raising it to the length of his large arm, while

the other, at last sensitive to the moment, saw it as it lingered one

brief instant, with eyes, the sight of which Sidney Wyeth did not soon

forget, it fell, crushing the skull. A mad herd now, the crowd rushed

upon the fallen creature and did the rest.

Just then the heavens opened up with a mighty crash of thunder, and

there came a flash of lightning that made trees tremble, while the rain

came down in torrents.

* * * * *

Sidney returned to the city by the first car. The incident rose before

him again and again, as the car crept along in the downpour. He had seen

the first murder of his life, which, however, was an almost daily

occurrence in Effingham. When he reached his room and related the

incident, it caused less excitement than when he once witnessed a

gambling raid and related it. No one took murder seriously in Effingham.

"They kill a nigga every day on an average in this town," grinned Moore.

When he read the papers the following morning, he had about given up

finding it at all, when his eyes came across a small paragraph in the

corner, reporting that a drunken Negro had killed his wife and

sister-in-law, which added to the list of casualties, making eleven for

the day in Effingham. All were homicides. No deaths from other sources

were reported.

As Sidney Wyeth now saw it, the people might have prosperity, and they

might have happiness; likewise, they might suffer reverses and be in

hard straights for a time; but of one thing there seemed a certainty,

that as long as whiskey was available, crime would be prevalent in

Effingham.

Sidney Wyeth had never voted for prohibition. As he saw it now in

Attalia, where it was not sold legally, and in Effingham, where it had

this permit, there seemed but one conclusion. Only when they stopped

making it, would these ignorant, semi-barbarous creatures quit drinking

it.

And thus we find conditions in one of our great American cities, where

there is forty per cent of illiteracy among two-fifths of the populace.

* * * * *

Having sent for a considerable consignment of books, and, due to the

inability to collect from a number who spent their money on the fourth,

Sidney found his finances depleted. Room rent, by paying in advance was

due the following Monday, so, taking himself to one of his subscribers

among the servants, he was able to collect only a dollar that day. Half

of this he divided with his landlady, promising to pay her the remainder

on the morrow. He did so, but John Moore desired to question in regard

to the same. The truth of it was that John Moore wanted the dollar, and

had figured on it, in order to shoot craps on Saturday night, as was his

usual custom. So John came into the room where Sidney sat reading. It

happened that Wyeth was in no pleasant frame of mind, and, calling was

thus not in order that evening. Perhaps John Moore did not know this,

but he did a few minutes later. He wished to know what Wyeth was going

to do about the rent.

Wyeth looked at him. It wasn't a very pleasant look, to say the least.

And Wyeth was one of these creatures who could not stand to be dunned.

Since he had already made arrangement with the real person, he regarded

Moore out of eyes now that narrowed with anger. He said something, sharp

and quick, and stinging. Thereupon, a storm ensued.

"I aised you a civil question," complained Moore.

"And I tell you that I have already arranged with the landlady regarding

the rent, and don't want any argument with you!"

"Then I ais you to git yo' things and get out!" cried Moore, with an air

of finality.

"And I tell you that I will do no such thing; moreover, you, insofar as

I'm concerned," cried Wyeth heatedly, "can go to Hell!"

"Look out, look out!" cried Moore. "I'm a-comin', I'm a-comin'."

"Not very fast as I can see, standing there in the doorway," said Wyeth,

now composed, and reseating himself from where he had risen. And yet he

felt, as he had never felt before, like fighting--with his fists.

"Hole me Mary, hole me!" cried Moore, moving many ways--in the doorway.

The other waited--in vain.

"Come ova' he' from Attalia, a bad nigga, 'n' tellin' me what I ain'

go'n do 'n' mah house!" he cried, now derisively. "Stay! Yes, stay, 'n'

be killed, 'cause 'f you sleep in this house t'night, you go'n sleep

ova' mah dead body."

"Oh, but you're an awful liar," smiled Sidney grimly. He arose from his

chair and moved in the direction of Moore, whereupon that worthy moved

in the opposite direction. "A Negro like you ain't going to fight

anyone, and talk about your dead body! Hump! If you had any idea I was

going to kill you, you'd be a mile away by this time and still running.

As it is, I am going to stay in this house until I get ready to leave,

or at least until I am ordered out by the landlady." With this, he

jumped forward quickly and caught Moore by the nose, which was, to say

the least, a difficult task. He pinched it hard, and then, with well

directed licks, he slapped his face with his open palm. Then, giving his

nose another pinch that made the creature scream with pain, he pushed

him with such force that he fell backward into the other room. A moment

later, Sidney slammed the door, and, resuming his seat, picked up the

book and began reading.

They were good friends ever after.

CHAPTER TEN

"_When You Have Been Grass-Widowed, It's Different_"

"Oh, is it Mr. Wyeth? How-do, Mr. Wyeth. Come right in and be seated. I

shall be in presently." Whereupon, for the fraction of a second, Miss

Palmer gave him a smile that was bewitching.

It was Sunday, and a beautiful cool day in July. A rain had fallen the

night before, which made the air cool and radiant. Just a day for an

outing. To go forth into the forest on a day like this, in company with

the lady of his choice, was a pleasure all men could wish. And to go

forth today, to the forest about Effingham, which could be seen from

almost any part of the city, was, to say the least, a treat. From the

summit of any of the many points, the observer could gaze down full upon

all that makes Effingham.

And it was for such a purpose that Sidney Wyeth called upon Miss Annie

Palmer that day.

Miss Palmer had been good to him. And he, a man of experience and

adversities, was not the kind of man to be indifferent to her courtesy.

And, besides, Miss Palmer was fairly well endowed with the art of making

it pleasant. Especially was this so when it happened to be a young man

who had captivated her, and, apparently, without any effort on his part.

It is said that curiosity is the inspiration of invention, and that

women, although with no great record as inventors, cannot stand to be

held in doubt. Sidney Wyeth had aroused Miss Palmer. It was whispered

that other men had done so before, but no one spoke ill of Miss Palmer.

It was so told here and there that she desired to marry. Miss Palmer

found it difficult to keep Sidney out of her thoughts; daily, hourly

and, sometimes she sighed, it seemed minutely. So, when he had

suggested an outing, she had accepted with all the grace of which she

was capable. It had been arranged for this day. She had worked hard

every day preceding it, and had sold a number of books. As we now know,

Miss Palmer was the mother of a very young son, and she had always had

to work to care for him, herself, and her mother, who was somewhat of an

invalid. Perhaps this was the best excuse Miss Palmer had for not having

remarried. It was a plausible one, no one could deny. It sufficed to

arouse sympathy for her, and she had many friends who unhesitatingly

spoke of her in such terms.

"Miss Palmer has a hard time," said one.

"What kind of a deal--that is, what kind of a husband was the man she

married?"

"A half white nigga from Ohio, whose parents made him mistreat her,

because she was not brighter in color. They never forgave him for

marrying anything but a 'high yellow.' So they, through their treatment

of her, snubbing her whenever they could, simply broke them up. She was

a good girl," so everybody said about Miss Palmer, "and she worked night

and day to help him, but he drank. His parents kept up the game of

spoiling him, even after he was the father of her child. So, in the end,

when there was nothing else for her to do, she had asked for, and was

duly granted a divorce. That ended it. The school board, although they

were overrun with applications from multitudes of colored girls, to

teach in the city schools (because teaching is about the only thing they

can get to do to make some money and a living for themselves), had

reinstated her, and she went back to teaching, after four years of

unhappy married life."

It was thus Sidney Wyeth had found her. Miss Palmer was a human being

with a heart that cried silently for the love of a man, as all other

women's hearts do, who happen not to be so fortunate as to have one. She

had been to school, and graduated from a normal academy, that taught

English as far as it goes, and, likewise, compelled the girls to learn

how to cook, sew and save. Miss Palmer was mistress in all these arts,

and some more. It was her delight to show them by a demonstration,

whenever she could. She had proven all this to Sidney Wyeth, and he had

thought it practical in her. He had said as much, but he would have said

as much to any other, no doubt. And of the many good things we now know

of Miss Palmer, let us not forget that she was selfish to a degree.

Unfortunately, many of us are. But when Miss Palmer became the recipient

of such kind words from the lips of this man of mystery, for as such she

regarded him, and believed it, she was subtly delighted. So she had done

all she could as a saleswoman of the book she was positive he had

written, to prove further her ability to help him. (?) Today they would

be all alone, together. She had looked forward to the same with all the

anxiety of the anxious, and the day had come at last. And such a day!

She dressed in her best for the occasion. We shall not attempt to

describe her; but when she appeared at the end of an hour, she was a

delight to observe. "Indeed!" exclaimed Wyeth frankly, "I didn't know

you could look so well!"

"Why are you flat?" she complained, with a frown; and then she added

softly: "You could be otherwise."

"We will catch the Tidewater and get off at Jewell Junction, and take

the Relay. That will take us to the summit of Baldin Knob. From there

you can see everything this state possesses for fifteen miles," she

said, as they walked cheerfully in the direction of the car line.

Never had either experienced such a delightful ride, as the heavy

tidewater cars gave them that morning. The Relay unloaded them forty

minutes later at the highest peak of which the Red Mountains boast.

Below lay Effingham, the iron city, a medley of smoke and many little

points. Only the blast of the furnaces, and the heavy smoke they belched

forth, met their gaze, as they saw it now. It seemed hardly possible

that it was a city of so many thousands, it seemed so small at this

distance. A mass of uneven timber appeared all about and below them, and

far away were a thousand peaks. Broken by hundreds of ravines and

draws, that split and tore the mighty range, they saw the city beyond. A

dull haze as of Indian summer hung in the distance, as their gaze sought

the horizon.

Then they walked down a slope to a spot they had seen. She stepped on a

rock that lay buried beneath many leaves, and turned her ankle so

severely, that he feared it had been sprained. It hadn't; but, as a

precaution, he took her arm, and that, perforce, brought them closer

together. Thus they walked, until, at the foot of a pine, lay a fallen

tree conveniently. They sat themselves thereon, and, leaning their backs

against the tree, for a minute, possibly more, they heard their own

breathing.

After saying many things that meant nothing, she said:

"Now, you are going to tell me all about yourself today, aren't you?"

She ended this beautifully, and waited likewise. His reply was not

gallant, if such it could be; but he merely added:

"There is little to tell, Miss Palmer--so little, I'm sure telling it

would be dull for you to listen to."

"You have beautiful ways of saying anything," she said, and gave him her

best smile. He looked at her now, but without any apparent enthusiasm.

His smile was a little tired and weary and sad. Very often he was this

way.

"Do you know," Miss Palmer now said, "you have impressed me

wonderfully."

"I didn't, I'm sure; but you are complimentary." He was now a mite more

cheerful. "In what way, I beg, have I impressed you? In that I can sell

books?"

"I don't mean that, and you know I do not," she pouted. "And you can be

so innocent, when you want to be. Oh, you are artful. But I mean, if I

must say it and then explain why, there is something about you that is

unusual. You are in disguise, going through the country studying people,

yes, people and what they are, have been and are likely to be." She was

thoughtful now, as she sat in serious mood for some time. Presently, she

said:

"I've been reading that book, and, of course, I understand you better.

Is all that you say in it true?" She was serious now, and anxious too.

She waited eagerly for him to speak.

He laughed. Then he said nothing in the affirmative, but indulged in

words concerning other topics.

"You are more than a book agent. You have, at least, been a man of

means. Really, I would be pleased to know from your own lips," she now

sighed.

"I wish we could talk of something else, that would be more interesting.

Cannot you suggest something?" he turned to her now appealingly.

"I cannot. Yourself is the most interesting thing I care to talk about.

I have been thinking of the terrible secret you disclose in the book.

Won't you please tell me if it is all true?"

"I suppose if _the_ book is published as a true story, then it must be

so," he said evasively.

"And she was a weak woman. No strength and conviction; nothing to

protect a home. You and she will not remain as you are, will you?"

Silence. "There is nothing the matter with you--and her. I sympathize

with _this fellow_." Miss Palmer was more serious now. "Because,

apparently, he wanted, tried to do the right thing, and was not

allowed.... I know somebody else that wished to do likewise, and was not

allowed.... Life is a strange thing, isn't it?"

"Indeed so," he agreed.

"And on this pilgrimage you study the lives of others, many others, and

it reveals so much to you that would, could not be possible, otherwise?"

He agreed with her again.

"And on this pilgrimage you have met _women_, and you have studied them

and their way of seeing things?"

"Possibly. They are all in the same category."

"Yes; but somebody said: 'I bet that fellow has _so_ many girls!' I

didn't agree with them. I don't think you have any; you are too

preoccupied to give them serious thought. Perhaps that is why the girl

allowed herself to be taken away...."

He now looked at her. His lips, for one moment, had started to speak,

and then he seemed to think better of it, and said nothing.

"Everyone I sell the book to cries when they have read it: 'If I had

been that fellow, I'd have kicked that old preacher into Hades.' It's

what you tell in the last part of the book that arouses the people. But

they all think _he_ acted with poor judgment in the end; but if _he_

hadn't allowed that to come to pass, I would never have known you." Miss

Palmer was tantalizing.

"Out in this _Rosebud Country_, of which the story is told, are there no

colored people?"

"None."

"I should think it would be dreadfully lonesome."

"Why so? The white people are kind and sociable."

"Yes, but I would prefer my kind. Still, I suppose if one lived there

and had their all there, it would be different."

"Yes," he agreed, "it would be different."

"You will, no doubt, marry one of the many girls you meet before you

return, and then live happily ever afterwards."

"That is nice to listen to. Nice girls, that is, girls who are willing

to sacrifice to an end that would help both, are, to say the least, hard

to find."

"Yes, in a sense; but there are plenty. And all want husbands. Of

course, when you have been widowed, grass-widowed, it's different...."

"Well, yes; but I see no reason, if she is the right kind of girl, why

she cannot re-marry and be happy in the end."

"Oh, you don't," she essayed. "Well, there is. A woman is never regarded

as the same. The looks she gets are not like the ones bestowed upon her

when she, or before she married. They are looks--looks that are not

honest," she sighed. He was silent.

"And the men are the cause of it. All of it. Sometimes I hate men."

He saw her now, calmly. She was uneasy under the look he gave her. And

then he was silent again. She went on:

"Of course, there are some that are different. Yourself, for instance."

"In what way?"

"So many I hardly like to say. So unassuming, for one. And then you--oh

I won't say it."

"Please do."

"Not until you have told me more about yourself. Has it occurred to you

that you have told me nothing, absolutely nothing about yourself?" She

was looking at him now. He winced.

"Of course, if a woman is--is--well, easy enough to go into the

mountains and on an outing with the man--a man who has told her nothing

of himself, then, it--he cannot be censured." She watched a pine

squirrel now that played near, and who regarded them out of eyes that

made Miss Palmer feel guilty.

"You are like a stone wall when it comes to secrets. Did you ever really

love anyone?"

"Yes."

"Oh, you don't mean it!" she cried in feigned surprise. "Who was it?"

"You would be no wiser if I told you."

At this moment, a blast in a mine near, which they did not see, went

off. It broke the silence so sharply, that both sat quickly upright. In

doing so, their hands met. His clasped hers. In a moment the tension was

released, but the hands were not. Slowly their hands clasped each others

tighter. He was in some way conscious of the fact, while she was dreamy.

He looked by chance into her eyes, and they were more dreamy still.

Their shoulders touched. She sat at his left, and it happened singularly

to be his right hand that held hers. In that moment they seemed to feel

lonely, very lonely. Both had suffered--and, to a degree, their

suffering had been similar. To give up and to be human, unconventionally

so for just a little while, seemed a mad desire. She swayed perceptibly.

Suddenly his left arm stole about her waist and encircled her body.

Mechanically he looked down, and into her eyes, that were upturned. They

seemed to tell the secret behind. To be loved for one minute was what

they asked. He lingered a moment, and then his head went down. When it

had retained its former position and was erect, he had kissed Miss

Palmer.

He was standing now, and was looking down upon Effingham. It lay silent

and gray from where he saw it. In that moment he wanted to be back

there. He felt guilty. He turned and beheld Miss Palmer. He felt more

guilty than before. She lay against the tree with her face turned the

other way. He felt very sorry for her then. Yes, Miss Palmer would, he

believed, do the right thing. _She would be glad_ to do the right thing.

Oh, she had had her troubles. And Sidney Wyeth knew that when people had

suffered, especially when it had been their great ambition to do the

right thing and be happy, they would go through eternity to make

happiness possible. He spoke now.

"Don't you think we had better be going, Miss Palmer?" She heard him,

and his voice was kind, she thought. She rose, and together they went

back over the hill and caught the Relay.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"_I'm Worried About Mildred_"

"Wilson, I'm worried. I'm worried about Mildred. Something is haunting

that girl. Something has been haunting her for days. She says nothing,

of course; but I can see, I can't help but see. She is worried almost to

insanity." So Constance said to her brother, some days after Mildred met

the man who saw her in Cincinnati.

"I wonder what it can be," said he, thoughtfully.

"I'd give anything to know," she sighed. "The only thing I know is that

she is worried. I dare not ask her. She is not inviting in her demeanor,

when it comes to confidences. She seems to be looking for something,

simply uneasy always, and hesitant. Some days, she seems to dislike to

go canvassing; in fact, for some time now, she has been nervous every

time she ventures out."

"I wonder whether it would not be advisable to ask her to lay off a few

days."

"I have thought of that," said she; "but she has so many deliveries to

make that she is almost compelled to go out every day. And then, if what

she fears is to happen, I'm sure she would be more worried if she stayed

in."

"I'm willing to do anything to help Mildred." She looked at him, but

they were both too preoccupied to take notice of the fact that he had

called her by her first name.

"The only time I can seem to get her away from that worried, tired

expression, is when I play. She listens and becomes, at least for a

time, oblivious to her troubles."

* * * * *

By day, Mildred, when she was canvassing, hourly expected to meet again

the man whose recognition had frightened her. But the days went by

without further encounter, and when she failed to meet him, she began to

relax. She was worried constantly, but she was relieved after two weeks.

The fright had passed, and she was cheerful again, much to the relief of

her two friends. It had pained her to see that both were obviously

worried on her account. And she respected them, because they were

considerate enough not to ask her questions that would have annoyed her.

"You sang that beautifully, Miss Latham," said Wilson, one afternoon,

when she left the piano, after singing a song that had been introduced

lately into church services; and which, while sentimental, nevertheless

possessed more thrill than the average.

"Do you think I can satisfy the congregation now?" she asked sweetly.

She had been practicing it for several afternoons.

"I should say you could," he cried, enthusiastically. "You could satisfy

any congregation, much less our little crowd." He looked sorrowful, as

he said this. She understood. The great majority did not attend his

services. They went to the big Baptist church two blocks away. Many of

them even smiled, when they passed his little church and observed the

few people sitting therein. Mildred sympathised with him, because she

realized that he was a courageous young man, willing to go to any

extent, so far as effort was concerned, in order to help those about

him. They needed it too, these black people.

"Oh," she cried, so kind that he choked, "you will have a larger church

some day. I am confident you will--I _know you will_." And she meant all

she said. "In time the people will come to appreciate your efforts. As

it is now, they don't think deep enough to do so. They want sermons, as

yet, that make them feel by merely listening; whereas, it is necessary

to study what you say.... That makes it difficult now. When the people

become more intelligent, more practical, and more thoughtful, they will

appreciate religion in a practical sense." He was overwhelmed with

gratitude, as he heard these words. For a moment he couldn't speak. He

felt the tears come.

"You are so kind, Miss Latham. You seem to understand, and see below the

surface. And what you have said is timely. I am one, you may be sure,

who appreciates it." He stopped here.

A choking, which he didn't wish her to notice, made it necessary. She

was aware of the gratitude, the sincere gratitude in his tone, and her

sympathy went out to him more than ever. As she saw him sitting there,

with head bowed and face hid, he seemed his mother's boy. She felt

strangely that other part. Impulsively, she advanced to where he sat by

the window, with the sunlight streaming in upon him. In the bright, soft

light, his curly hair shone, and seemed more beautiful than she had

noticed it before. She laid her hand upon it. An hour ago, she would

not, could not have dreamed she would do this. And then she spoke in

words, the kindest, he felt, he had ever heard.

"There, now. It will be all right. Just give yourself time. Oh, it's a

great struggle, this human problem. All these black ones of ours. But

you are pursuing the right course, and some day they will see it. Then

will come your success. It's going to come. It will come. It _must_

come. These people can't keep on going along as they are; this

crime--murder. It's terrible. Someone will help to stem the tide of it,

someone will lead them. They need leaders. They are not bad people, with

all we see and now know of them. They simply need some one to lead them

into the light. I feel you will be that person. Yes. I am sure you are

the person." She paused a moment, and it was only then, she became aware

that her hand still rested upon his head. She removed it now, and

silently left the room.

* * * * *

"I love her! I love her!" cried Wilson Jacobs. "Oh, God lead me, for I

know not whither I go!"

It was the first time in his thirty-one years that Wilson Jacobs had

felt so. But he was a man. And the fact made him respect Mildred Latham

the more. Not for anything would he have her know his secret after

this. She had thought of him in no other way but to help him. That was

all. He would have to go forth now with a secret from Constance even.

He studied his text for the coming Sunday, and prepared himself to

preach as he had never preached before.

"Here is an example of how much our people down here desire a Y.M.C.A.,

Miss Latham," said Reverend Jacobs later. "You may recall that, last

spring the colored people of Grantville (which had a population, in the

last census, of one hundred ten thousand people, almost forty thousand

being colored), made a great campaign to secure a Y.M.C.A." He laid

before her a Negro journal, published weekly at Grantville. She picked

it up and read the whole article.

It went into detail concerning the campaign that was made to secure a

Y.M.C.A. for the colored youth of Grantville. She had been interested in

the campaign and knew that in a few days, thirty-three thousand dollars

and more had been subscribed. The publishing house that printed this

paper, had issued a daily of sixteen pages during the campaign, and had

heralded the spirit of the colored people in their liberality. They had

been liberal indeed, but it was only in subscribing. The paying was

different, quite different.

After six months, only something over four thousand dollars of that

amount had been paid in. The building, equipped, would cost one hundred

thousand dollars. A millionaire Jew, the head of one of the greatest

mail order houses in the country, would give twenty-five thousand

dollars. The white Y.M.C.A. gave an equal amount. From other sources,

seventeen thousand dollars were forthcoming. The colored people were

expected to raise the remainder. It had been oversubscribed, but only

four thousand had been paid in. Six months had passed, and she knew

(although the paper was optimistic and had no other thought, apparently,

than that the colored people would raise the amount) subscriptions would

be paid slower now than before. She did not know what to say when she

had read the article.

"Do you realize what they are up against?"

"Yes," she said resignedly.

"And they do not seem to know it."

"No."

"It's discouraging."

She nodded.

"It would be no trick at all for any of a dozen churches in the town to

raise four thousand dollars in sixty days in a rally." She remained

silent but listened, and knew that he spoke the truth.

"They have hundreds of churches all over the south, that have cost, in

actual money, one hundred thousand dollars, and they have paid the

amount without assistance from other sources; whereas, the white people

are offering sixty thousand dollars of this amount."

"And, I gather," said she, in a voice that was listless, "that

Grantville, with its many schools and much more intelligent colored

people, is far more likely to succeed in such an effort than this town."

He nodded.

"But this place needs it, it needs it badly. It needs a Y.M.C.A. worse

than any town in the south--"

"In the world," he insisted.

"And you do not think it would be worth while to inaugurate a campaign

for that purpose here, before long?"

He sighed sadly, and then grew thoughtful.

"Last week, the number of murders exceeded any previous week for two

years...."

"And over one hundred Negro churches have preaching in them every

Sunday."

"And from what I can learn, these murders are rarely mentioned, in any."

"I have been thinking for a long time--before you came--of a Y.M.C.A.

for our people in this town, but I have never spoken of it. But since I

have known and talked with you, Miss Latham, and have seen the way our

people are conducting themselves, I have been constrained to take up the

effort of securing one." He said this very calmly, with no undue

excitement.

"Have you, Mr. Jacobs?" She made no attempt to use the clerical term.

Her tone was eager, anxious.

"Yes," he repeated. "I have decided to begin at once, regardless of the

discouraging spectacle of Grantville."

"Oh, I'm so glad," she sighed, relieved.

He looked at her, but said nothing. He knew that she would be glad to

hear it. He was glad, though, that she had spoken.

"Yes," he resumed. "I have discussed the matter with the heads of three

of the big trunk lines operating in and out of this town, and all of

whom have shops here that hire black men, and, as you might, of course,

expect, they are all in favor of it. They have, moreover, advised me

that they will bring such a movement to the attention of the board of

directors. They have further advised me, however, that I must not expect

to exceed five thousand dollars from either, and not to be disappointed

if the board failed to give anything at all. That, they explained, and I

understood without explanation, was due to the financial conditions of

the railroads. I have met the same response from other local interests.

But by them all, I have been encouraged. Of course, the white Y.M.C.A.

are agreeable to giving assistance as in other towns, and have given me

to understand that they will put in twenty-five thousand dollars. And

then the Chicago philanthropist, of course, has a like amount awaiting.

But the time limit expires in six months."

"From these, I have gone to our people."

"You went?" She held her breath now.

"To those others, the preachers."

"And they were----"

"Against it, almost to a man."

"God be merciful!"

"Of course, all of them did not say so in so many words--in fact, as you

might expect, 'Yes, brother, this town sure needs a Y.M.C.A,' But when

cooperation was suggested to that end, quibbling began. Most of them,

not a bit original, put forward the same excuse, _too_ busy. All were

preachers, yet too busy to save souls. Then, of course, the next excuse

was their church was loaded up with debt; they were now preparing a

rally to raise such and such an amount. And still others had just closed

a rally, which meant their flock was strapped and would be until another

rally. And there are three churches in this very town that cost equally

as much as this thing, all told.

"Next, I tried the teachers. The professors, of course, were full of the

idea. I found only two, however, who had paid enough attention to the

effort in Grantville, to know that the people were likely not to

succeed. These, I was glad to hear, spoke of this fact, and we then

discussed the matter from a serious point of view."

"Have you not found ignorance a great stumbling block?" she inquired.

"The greatest, in a measure, I think. To be ignorant means, that they

will be easily discouraged, when they discover the obstacles."

"When do you intend beginning the campaign?"

"Sunday. I have prepared a speech to that end for that day, but, of

course, I would have to concentrate a greater effort before it can be

started with any effect. I have, however, prepared an article, rather,

several articles, and which the newspapers, the white dailies, have

agreed to publish conspicuously. But before we can expect much from the

white people, we will ourselves have to show greater activity. That is

where the hard part comes. It is hard to arouse the local leaders to any

appreciation of such a thing. There is so much surface interest, and so

little heart enthusiasm. So many will say a lot of sweet things that

mean nothing, not even an effort to be serious. But I shall open the

campaign Sunday, and I was thinking of asking your assistance in singing

and playing."

"Oh, I'd be only too glad to help in any way I know how, but that is so

little," she said bashfully.

"We will start only in a small way. I have thought it best to begin with

my congregation. I have been to them all, and have already secured

liberal subscriptions, all of whom paid a part of it in cash. This I

will employ as a means of stimulating others. So Sunday, at three P.M.,

I will lecture on it and ask subscriptions, detailing first those who

have already subscribed."

* * * * *

"What is my balance, please," inquired Mildred the next afternoon, at

the window of the paying teller.

"One hundred fifty," said the cashier, who looked surprised.

"I wish to withdraw it. And you may make it into a draft, payable to the

colored Y.M.C.A."

His mouth opened slightly. He regarded her with a different look, and

then did as she instructed.

* * * * *

A fairly good crowd greeted Wilson Jacobs, when he got up to speak on

the proposed campaign for a colored Y.M.C.A. To cheer the listeners, he

asked Miss Latham to play and sing the song she had practiced, and which

was new to the congregation. She did so, with all the art of which she

was capable, and was pleased, when she turned to face the audience, that

she had given both pleasure and satisfaction. Her eyes wandered over

them for a moment, and then rested upon someone she had seen before.

"Where was it," she mused, in a half whisper. Wilson Jacobs was

speaking. For two hours he spoke in behalf of the Christian forward

movement. He made plain in so many ways, the urgent need of such, and

did this eloquently. He arraigned the high murder record, which made all

of those before him feel alarmed. The time for some united effort was

necessary. Eventually something had to be done. Plenty of churches, it

was true, were open; but churches were arranged for worship, and not for

clean sport, pool, billiard, gymnasiums and other amusements in which

young men might indulge, would indulge, and did indulge; but in so many

ways and places, that were not conducted in a Christian manner.

"And now," he said, at the close, "we have decided to start this

movement today at home. We will be pleased to make an example we hope

the other churches will follow." With that, he read the names of the

donors and subscribers. Among them, one hundred fifty dollars by

Mildred Latham, the organist, led in cash. They were surprised. Very few

had even become acquainted with her. Now all desired to. When the

meeting had closed, many gathered about her and were introduced. Then,

as she was turning to go, the person she had observed when she finished

playing, approached. His hand was extended, while his eyes looked into

hers with something that frightened her when she saw him--and recognized

him as the man she had seen back in Cincinnati, and who now recognized

her.

When she went home that day, she had reached a decision.

CHAPTER TWELVE

_And Then She Began to Grow Otherwise_

The week following Miss Palmer's and Sidney's outing, was a week of

conflictions for her. She was torn by them considerably. She hardly knew

how to feel; whether to be happy or angry with herself for having acted

as she did. He was kind to her, he was considerate; but that was all.

She had exercised all her wits to make him see her seriously, but beyond

that incident, he had given her no encouragement whatever. She felt

guilty at her conduct. She accused herself of having acted unbecoming in

her attitude toward him. Although he would not admit having written the

book, which had aroused her curiosity, she, of course, knew that he had.

She had finished it now, and knew all he had suffered. And, as she

thought it over, time and again, she almost concluded that his life, as

he had suffered, made him hard and unsympathetic. And almost in the same

thought, she rebuked herself for feeling that way; because, above all

else, he was certainly not selfish.

He called almost every evening when he had finished his work, and they

sat on the porch in the swing if there was no one, and when there

happened to be, they sat in the parlor on the davenport. And when they

did so, it so happened they began to flirt. And this continued to

develop until it reached a point she declared to be outrageous. And yet

it persisted. At such times, moreover, she became bold. There came a

time when she was almost disgusted with herself for being so weak.

After a few weeks had passed, she came to realize that her quest was in

vain. Sidney Wyeth had no affection, beyond flirting, with her. And then

she began to grow otherwise. He observed the change, and was sorry,

perhaps. Still, Miss Palmer did not give up entirely. She was not that

kind of person. After all, to kiss him and to be kissed in return, was

some pastime. It was better than not being kissed or loved at all. So

she flirted.

After this became the usual thing in their acquaintance, she began to

assert other dispositions that had not before been evident. She inquired

boldly where he went when he didn't call in the evening, as usual. She

dictated where he should go as well. In desperation she continued her

tactics--even to a point where our pen is constrained to relate.

"Do you know," said she one evening, when they had flirted shamefully.

"I'm beginning to care for you." She said this from his knee.

"I did not," he sighed. He was not the least excited by her

acknowledgement.

"I am," she affirmed. "More and more as the days go by." She smiled into

his face, while he looked tired. "Have you anyone back where you came

from, who loves you and calls you her all?" she asked now, as though she

could think of nothing else to say.

"No, no, no!" He looked distressed. "I wish I had," he added.

"I know you tell what is not true--feel you do," she corrected. After a

pause she said: "Do you happen to have just a little, only a little

regard for me?" He made light of it by blowing her a kiss, and tried to

change the conversation, but she had more to say.

"Of course you wouldn't love an old grass-widow like me anyhow," she

pouted. He was at a loss what to say, so said nothing.

"Why don't you say something?" she said, put out.

"You should not make such remarks," he said, with a frown.

"But it's true, it's true, and you can't deny it." She seemed angry now,

and didn't appear to care what she said. She left his knee with a last

retort. "And you men are the cause of it all."

He leaned his head against the back of the davenport and closed his

eyes, which angered her, and she cried:

"Go to sleep, go to sleep. You are the worst person I ever knew," and

forthwith she left the room.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

_Enter--Mr. Tom Toddy!_

When Legs had pawned and lost about all he possessed, he happened upon a

job at one of the hotels, and went to work. To do so, however, he had to

secure a white jacket, and a pair of black trousers. This was somewhat

difficult on account of his long legs, but he managed to secure an old

pair, and, too glad of the chance to work where he could fill his

stomach regularly, he gave good service, and was soon on the good side

of the head waiter.

"Say, Books," he cried one day, soon after he had commenced work. "You

should have seen me eat today. Nice hot bisquits with butter, and

dripping out around the edges, um-um. Man, the way I did eat! I got all

them nigga's t' laffin' over somethin' funny I said, and then I'd slip

back into the kitchen, open the oven and get me a half dozen hot rolls

and butter'm good, and eat, and eat, and eat!

"There is but one thing I can't seem to get over, and that is that

dollar this nigga Moore got me out of bed to lose. Say, that hurt me

worse than anything in this world. I've drawn the line on him now

though. He ain't nothing but an old always broke coon, a-moochin' around

for somebody to stake him in a game. I could have made it all right when

I came over here, if it hadn't been for him. And he never won anything,

and kept me broke as long as I would speak to him."

In a very short time Legs was "on his feet," as the saying goes. He was

making some money and spending it all. His good resolution with regard

to gambling had been laid on the shelf until further declarations, and

he shot craps whenever off duty, and when he could find a game. Moore he

ignored; but that worthy was as fond of the game as a pig was of corn,

so they occasionally ran into each other, nevertheless. In fact, as

Sidney observed them, almost every Negro shot craps, with few

exceptions. Whiskey and craps were so much in evidence everywhere he

looked, that he drew this conclusion soon.

Now a man lived overhead, and rented from the landlady, whose name was

Murphy. Wyeth called him "Smoked Irish." He was a creature with a dark

record, so Wyeth was told, and he hailed from a little town in the state

adjoining. Some years before, he had been a man of considerable

importance, but with women and other pastimes, he had fallen into bad

ways, was sent to the penitentiary for fraud, and had sought other parts

after the expiration of his term.

As Wyeth knew him, he was a "bahba," and shaved chins and sheared wool

in one of Effingham's fancy Negro shops.

Murphy had seen almost fifty summers, was about five feet eleven, and a

mulatto with coarse, stiff, black hair, tinged with gray. His features

were set, like a man with experience, and he could tell some wonderful

stories. The Mis' called them lies. They might have been, but it is to

Murphy's credit that they were good ones, and interesting to listen to.

On Sunday, and week days also, when he was home from the shop, and in

his loft, Murphy sold whiskey on the side--or as a side line, and

operated a crap game in addition. The law, of course, did not permit of

this, as we shall see presently; but--well, it didn't matter--as long as

the law didn't know it. And Murphy made money, Wyeth was told. It was up

there Legs invested most of his earnings, winning once in a while, but

losing more frequently. The fact that Murphy was so convenient with his

diversion, was, in a sense, helpful to Legs, because he didn't have to

journey far to his bed. And always as soon as he was "cleaned," he would

retire and sleep as peacefully as a babe, until his work called him the

following morning.

John Moore was a frequent visitor also. Legs put Wyeth wise, when he

inquired why Moore was up there so often, since he appeared to have no

money. "He's a piker, a cheap piker that touts for Murphy, for the

privilege of gambling and gettin' a drink a liquah, that he loves so

well."

Much to the surprise of them all, one Saturday night about this time,

Moore did make a winning. Legs informed Wyeth to this effect, when he

retired from the battle "clean."

"Seven dollars and a half, the dirty devil. And he'll be as scarce as

hen's teeth as long as he has a dime of it too." He was mistaken. That

was on Saturday night. Sunday morning after he had risen and had some

good whiskey, Moore dressed himself like a gentleman, and made some of

the losers envy him for a few hours. Then he went back upstairs to

Murphy's. When Wyeth saw him again, he was sitting under a shade tree,

reading the Bible. This was a self-evident fact that he had made an

investment. As further evidence of the fact, that night at supper he

offered a beautiful prayer. He had failed to do so that morning, which

was further proof of Legs' contention.

Legs came up while Moore was reposing sanctimoniously, and said: "M-m!

Cleaned, eh! Glad of it, the cheap sucker. He's dead broke, too. Because

if he had even a nickel, he'd be upstairs. You can bet a nickel up

there. The only thing against it is Murphy's cut. He cuts a nickel a

pass. And sometimes he cuts both ways, going and coming. So, with men

betting a nickel against a nickel, Murphy is liable to take it all."

Moore retired early that evening, and slept peacefully. He had worked

hard the night before, and that morning.

The following Saturday night, Legs came to the room, caught Wyeth half

asleep, and borrowed a dollar. With this, he went for a joy ride, and

got drunk into the bargain. Wyeth didn't realize that he had loaned him

a dollar, until the other was whizzing down the street in the car. And

then he was angry with himself. This disturbed him until sleep was

impossible, so, rising, he betook himself to the porch. As he thought it

over, he became more angry with himself than ever, because he knew Legs

had borrowed it for the sole purpose of getting drunk and joy riding.

While he was getting over it in the soft night air, the Mis' told him

Legs had got paid that day, and, with the exception of what he paid her,

he had lost the remainder of his two weeks' wage in a game. That made

him more angry, and, in seeking a diversion, he rose, and out of

curiosity, he decided to pay Murphy's den a visit.

Murphy had a good crowd that night--he usually did on Saturday. In a

room that was near the middle of the apartment, surrounded by a crowd of

Negroes, stood a table over which was spread a green cloth. At one side

of the table sat Moore, and he called the points and fished the cuts;

while in another room to the rear of this, with doors open, stood a

large refrigerator. This, Wyeth surmised, was where the liquor was kept.

It was, for, as he was looking, Murphy approached it, opened it, took

therefrom several bottles of beer, and served it to the many gamesters

who were working hard, and perspiring freely.

The green cloth, which at one time had decorated a pool table, was, as

he now observed, employed to deaden the sound of the rolling dice, that

slid over it from some perspiring palm. Not any large amount was upon

the table; but many one dollar bills could be seen in the palms of the

gamesters. Another roomer downstairs, and who read a great deal, was on

hand and shot craps too. This was something of a surprise, since he was

apparently very intelligent; but, as Wyeth learned later, literary

training did not make them ignore the game by any means. As he stood

watching, the dice passed to Glenview, the intelligent roomer. He made a

point, and then threw seven before he came back to it. The winners

picked up the money. Wyeth was relieved to see the dice pass to another

Negro, who had been fidgeting about impatiently. He caught them up, and

blew his breath on them, as they were held in his palm, before throwing

them before him across the table. Wyeth advanced closer as the game

became more excited. Glenview had thrown the dice, much as Wyeth had

observed the white people did back in the _Rosebud Country_--for they

shot craps there as well. But now, with a "clea' dy way, I'm a comin',"

he let them roll.

"Throwed eight!" cried Moore.

"Eight I throwed! Now dice, do it again!"

"T' click-i-lick-lick-lick, 'ah eight!"

"Throw-e-d ten!"

"Haf 'e cain' hit!"

"Ah got yu!"

"Qua'ta' mo' I'n make it!" exclaimed the shooter, hesitating with

upraised hand, but shaking the dice in them the while, and throwing a

quarter across the table.

"Ah'll take yu'!" cried a burley on the other side.

"Shoot the dice, nigga, shoot the dice," commanded Moore.

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick 'ah-ha-eight!"

"Throwed five!"

"Ain' no eight on 'nem dice!"

"T-click-i-click-i-click 'ah, eaighter from Decatur!'"

"Throwed seben!"

"Ke-hu!"

"Tole yu he coul'n't make it!" cried a big dinge. "Now gimme dem dice!"

"Bet a quata!"

"Make it a haf!"

"Ah take yu!"

"Shoot the dice, nigga, shoot the dice!"

"Yeh. Cut out d' awgument 'n' let'm roll, let'm roll!"

"Gimme room heah 'cause ah kicks!" He did too. Raising his left foot he

stamped the floor with it, kicking backward viciously at the same time

with the other. He caught a Negro on the shins, which made that worthy

angry with pain, whereupon he turned, and let the other have a good one

in the usual place. For a time the game was threatened with a fight; but

Murphy, who appeared to understand them quite well, interfered with

success.

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick, 'ah, seben ah 'leben!'"

"Throwed craps!"

"Ya-ha! Makin' all da fuss 'n' lose d' fus' shot!"

"Dem dice 's crooket," he muttered.

"Yuz a liah," cried one of the winners, as if afraid they were, and he

would not get his bet.

"Yuse a cheap nigga," said Moore. "Stand aside."

Next came a little Negro, with a nose that began at the ears, and peepy

eyes which observed the dice suspiciously. He was displeased with the

looks of them, evidently. They were a large white pair, and which, so

'tis said, can be loaded. He threw them across the table without making

his bet, saying: "Ah gotta paih mah own," and produced from his pocket,

a pair of huge celluloid ones, that were beautiful in the electric

light.

"Haf t' use the house's dice, cain't substitute," advised Moore,

judiciously.

"Why caint ah, I'd lak t' know. Why caint ah!" he exclaimed, beginning

to perspire.

Moore started to say more, but Murphy came forward now, with "Let me see

them." He took them carefully in his hand, held them between his eyes

and the light, tossed them about, and then threw them on the table.

"They're all right," and walked away. The little dinge grabbed them

eagerly, rubbed them together fondly, blew his breath on them, and then,

raising his hand above his head, he made a peculiar rattle and threw

them bouncing and jumping across the table. The Negroes about had been

observing him with ill omen, and now, as the dice jumped before them

like little red devils, they sparkled in the light, and made their eyes

blink.

"Throwed seven!" cried Moore.

"Dogone nigga's 's lucky 's 'e 's ugly," grumbled a loser.

"Shoot it all!" he cried, hesitating with the dice in his hand.

"Ah'll take it!"

"Haf 'e cain' hit!"

"Ah fate yu!"

"Let'm roll, let'm roll!"

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick, ah baby dolls!"

"Throwed five!"

"Raise ut t' a dollah!"

"Make ut sebenty-five!"

"Let'm roll!"

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick, ah, phoebe!"

"Throwed five!"

"Um-m-m-m-m!"

"T-click-i-lick-lick! a-ha dice!"

"Throwed seben!"

"Jes' look ut dat fool nigga, good Gawd!"

"Sech luck, sech luck, sech luck!"

"Shoot it all!"

"Fate dis nickel," begged a loser, with a whimper.

"Trow it out d' windu' shine!"

"Now watch dis 'leben!" cried the guy with the luck.

"Aw, Lawdy, Lawdy, Lawdy, jes' look ut dat nigga agin!"

"Nigga, dem dice yu' shootin' uz sho God crooket!"

"Shoot it all!" Five dollars was the size of the pot now. It was like

five hundred to the eyes that now saw it.

"Whu, whu, whu!" He blew on them; while with murder in their eyes, the

losers watched.

"I'll take it," said Glenview calmly. He placed a five dollar bill over

the amount that lay upon the table. Several had now gone broke, while

others declared silently, that he was a hoo-doo, and feared to risk him.

Several little bets were made on the side, but no one was willing to

risk much against such luck as he had displayed.

"Now, Anne Jane, bring home du' bacin!" he cried, as he let them bounce

on the table. It seemed an age to the lookers before they stopped

somewhat to the far side. A six and a five. Eleven. He had won again.

There was no comment now. Every one was silent, and surveyed him, as if

he were the clouds.

"Shoot it all," he cried again. A bit of muttering went the rounds

before any one ventured to cover it.

"'E cain' keep ut up, 'e cain' keep ut up," declared one who held only

three dollars out of a ten dollar bill a few minutes before. He threw a

dollar viciously toward him. After much parley, others joined; John

Moore saw Murphy's back, eased a dollar from the cuts, and added it to

the pool. Twenty dollars was now the stake, and it was like a million to

those that saw it.

The winner now uncoated himself. He had on nothing beneath the coat but

an undershirt. He flung his hat in the corner, revealing a little sharp

head, shaven clean and upon which the light dazzled like a smoked opal.

As Wyeth observed him, he was reminded of an ape, if he had ever seen

one. He took plenty of time, as though anticipating something. Rolling

up his sleeve, he exposed a pair of sinewy arms that made the crowd

exchange glances. Sidney was standing near the window. At this moment he

happened to look out. From up the street came a sound of merry

rollicking. No other appeared to hear.

The dice were now tumbling over the table in their fateful quest. More

than a dozen pairs of brown eyes blinked dryly at them, as the red

material flickered beautifully. Wyeth now looked carefully in the

direction of the sound, and finally caught the outline of Legs. From the

distance, he saw that he was loaded. He was covering considerable

space--so much so that it would have been extremely difficult to have

passed him on the walk, which was narrow. And behind him came another.

He was about half the height of Legs, as they now appeared. Wyeth

recognized him as the runt, and his name was Tom Toddy, at least, that

is what they called him about a hotel that was patronized by Negroes,

and where he acted as a sort of goat and flunky. Wyeth had had his life

threatened on one occasion by him. It was because he had called him

"Graveyard." He was old, bald-headed and measly. So this epithet seemed

quite appropriate. And, thereupon, Toddy had threatened to send him into

eternity, if he addressed him again in such terms. He had a load also.

On they came, and for the time Wyeth forgot the game. Toddy was now

beside Legs, and they embraced like man and wife. As Wyeth smiled at the

spectacle, they began to sing.

"It's a long, long way to Temporary,"

and as they came on, they changed it to:

"We're a long, long way from home."

Wyeth laughed now almost outright; but those behind him never heard.

They heard only, and saw with all eyes, that the apish creature had won

again, and had strapped the crowd to cover the next bet he was now

shooting for.

Legs and Toddy had reached the curbing, and, not seeing it, they tumbled

over into the sand-covered street. As they picked themselves up, they

sang lowly:

"You made me what I am today,

So I guess you're satisfied."

On toward the house they now came, singing at intervals. Presently they

stepped upon the porch, and rattled the knob. The door was always kept

locked during such proceedings. From the lower end of town, a rooster

crowed long and loud; while, at the same moment, a clock from some

remote tower struck two. The dice tumbled onward to their fatal end, and

Legs kicked the door a bang.

In the still night, it sounded like the discharge of a cannon.

Then here came a lull. All became so quiet that the ticking of a clock

upon the mantel sounded like the pounding of a hammer. Faces turned

about and eyes looked into each other. They were all colors and a sight

to see. The little Negro, coolest all the while, eased the money into

his jeans, as the others cried all at once:

"The bulls!"

And now began the scramble, and it was a mighty one.

Under the table went many, whereupon it turned over, and revealed them

all wiggling like so many eels. To the room containing the refrigerator,

went a half dozen others and closed the door. John Moore stood in the

center of the room where he had been deserted by the others, his knees

hitting together with a sound like rocks. Cold fear, for he was an awful

coward, held him like a vise. Into the closets; into Murphy's bedroom

went some more, and piled in a hurry into the bed, whereupon it gave way

with a loud crash, mixing many in a nasty, smothered mass, where they

tried to extricate themselves with much difficulty.

And, in the meantime, the kicking continued. "Let me in! Let me in! What

in Hell!" cried Legs, and it was punctuated with a piping from Tom

Toddy.

"Yes,"--he was very proper--"open up! Open up! This is a He-ll uv a way

to treat two gentlemen!"

John Moore was still doing the dazzle; but, now upon hearing the voices,

he gathered enough courage to stand erect, and then he turned hurriedly

and running to a rear window, put his feet out, jumped out full upon the

soft dirt below, and landed without injury, apparently, for, a moment

later, Wyeth heard him running around the house in the direction of the

kicking. He didn't permit the miscreants to see him, until he had made

out fully that they were not officers. When he had made sure they were

not blue-coats, he advanced on them from the rear, and took them by

surprise. He appeared unable to frame words of denunciation strong

enough, but at last he made it. His voice was subdued when he did speak,

he was so angry.

"Yeu! Yeu! Y-e-u long-legged nigga! Yeu liver eatin' bunch a-meat! And

you! You little dried shrimp! Git ready t' die, 'cause 's sho 's I'm a

nigga, I'm going t' part you from this earth t'night!"

They turned now, for a moment sober, and looked at him. He went on with

his tirade.

"Makin' all this noise down heh, 'n' scarrin' everybody t' death, 'n'

a-breakin' up the game! This is wha' you all 'n' me meets our Jehovah!"

Legs was now too near the edge, and, suddenly with a catching to save

himself, which Moore construed as an advance upon him, he went overboard

with a mighty tumble.

To this day, however, John Moore didn't know it was an accident. He

didn't wait to investigate. A long pair of legs, with a long body on top

of them was all he cared to see, and when they landed, he was going

around the corner of the house and into the kitchen.

His hurry up ingress awakened the Mis', who bolted out of bed, and

demanded to know what was up.

"The devil's up--on the front porch, a-raisin' cain."

"What are you talkin' 'bout!"

"That long-legged nigga from Attalia a-comin in heh a-kickin' on the

door, and a-scarrin everybody outta the' senses!" he told her, much

excited, and with his back against the door, not failing to listen in

the meantime.

Wyeth descended the stair now, opened the street door, admitting Legs

and Toddy. Legs entered first, while Toddy, blinking blindly, followed

suit with a grip on his coat tail.

"Where is he," cried Legs. "I mean John Moore! I want to kill him! Death

for him is the campaign for tonight! From this earth he's got to part!

Where is he! Show him to me now, and in a minute I'll show you his

heart, the skunk."

In some way, Moore did not hear this; but stood at the rear looking for

Legs from that direction; and, in the meantime, declaring to the Mis'

what he was going to do.

"I'm go'n throw that nigga out tonight! To-night, or I'll die tomorra,

so help me Jaysus!"

Legs, who had entered his bedroom which opened into the kitchen,

overheard this last. He now tore off his coat and hat, which Tom Toddy

held, and forthwith sought Moore with a mighty oath. Glenview put in his

appearance now from the rear, and kept Legs out of the kitchen, which

fact sufficed for John Moore to make words. Our pen fails to describe

this in detail.

"Git yo things 'n' go!" cried Moore near the door, and positive that

Glenview was between them. "Leave mah house at once!"

"Oh, hush! Hush! Hush!" interposed the Mis'.

"Leave, leave, to-night!"

"Just let me get to him, just let me get to him! I want to eat'm,"

begged Legs.

"Yeh; let us have him. We're going t' skin him," squeaked Tom Toddy.

"This is terrible," cried the Mis'.

"Just let me get my fingers on the tramp, and it'll be all over in a

minute," Legs begged.

"All but the funeral," assisted Toddy.

"Orderin' somebody out of _his_ house. You ain' nothin' but the flunky

anywhere. If I was in charge here, I'd make you sleep under the bed!"

"I'd make him sleep under the house, the lousy rat," cried Toddy.

"Ah said you leave this house now," cried Moore. "These ah the orders

from me. From me-e!"

"The Mis' ain' said nothin'," Legs cried again.

"Leave, leave, before I tear yu' t' pieces," Moore raved, stamping his

foot.

At that moment, Legs gave Glenview a push that sent him reeling, and

with a lunge, he cornered Moore. That worthy was frightened into Hades.

He was speechless. Legs smiled on him as he reached out and got him by

the ears. Grasping them tight, he essayed a bumping process against the

wall with his head.

"Have you got him, boy?" inquired Toddy, making sure before he ventured

forth with a small knife. "What shall I do to the sucker now? Just tell

me, and I'll proceed to take off his nose or his lips; either one of

them will make good dog meat."

"You shouldn't have come home disturbing everybody like this," said the

Mis', and seemed hurt. This had effect on Legs, who was always

considerate of the ladies.

"I'm sorry for you, Mis'; but I've had it in for this hunk a meat, ever

since he got me out of bed to lose my last dollar." He emphasized the

remark by another bumping.

"I'm a poor widow woman without protection, and you are ruining the only

way I have of making a living." That was enough. He forgot John Moore

for a second, and the next moment that worthy was locked in an adjoining

room. Here he went into a tirade. Legs forgot the Mis' now and sought

him, but the door was locked and bolted.

"Git yo things 'n' go nigga!" he cried boldly now, from his safe

retreat.

"If you had called, or knocked, I would have come and opened the door,

as I always do. There was no call for all this!" remonstrated the Mis'.

"Don't lock me out, don't lock me out!" Legs raged.

"Git yo things and go, dy'e hear," from the retreat. Legs now became

angry with the Mis'.

"Gimme a dollar Mis' and I'll go. If that thing in the other woom there

is running this place, I don't want to stay."

"Git yo things 'n' go!"

"Gimme a dollar!"

"You ought to have known better than to create such a disturbance," the

Mis' said.

"Gimme a dollar!" from Legs again.

"Let's get another drink!" from Toddy.

"I've always treated you like a gentleman."

"Gimme a dollar!" "Gimme a dollar 'n' a haf!"

"What we go'n give you a dollar 'n' a haf fo'?"

"I paid room rent in advance last Wednesday."

"Now! Here!" cried the Mis', "all of you go to bed and forget this

noise."

"Ah'm go'n git 'n' officer, and have that long-legged nigga 'rested!"

from within.

"Go to bed!" from the Mis'.

"Go'n have who arrested?" exclaimed Legs, mad all over again.

"'F you do'n git out at once, I'm go'n throw you out!"

"If I ever get my hands on you again, you old cheap nigga; you old

broken nigga; you moochin' piker; you pot a-neck-bone stew!"

"Say," cried one of the roomers, just then, "a pair of bulls are coming

down the street!"

That was the end of it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

_The Disappearing Chin_

Some years before, back in the west, and at the drug store in a little

town near which Wyeth owned land, and where, during the cold wint'ry

days, the more intelligent and pretentious, as well as argumentative

were wont to collect and discuss science, politics and economics, a

subject came up one day, that thereafter, became the topic on more than

one afternoon's discussion.

It concerned chins, and grew out of the presence of an insurance writer,

who was booziogically inclined. And, being so, and a man of no great

means, if any, it was a puzzle to many how he could get the means to

fill up on liquor daily, and pay for it.

The occurrence had remained in Wyeth's memory, and, afterwards, he had a

new viewpoint in observing people.

Fitzpatrick was his name, and he was, of course, Irish. His ability to

get the wherewith to get drunk daily, and have money for other purposes

as well, came up one day for discussion. The more logical and nature

study debaters, laid it to the fact that he was possessed of an

indefatigable will, and that, in addition, was conspicuously evident in

his chin. Fitzpatrick had a wonderful chin; one was inclined to take

notice of it the first time he met the man. It extended some distance

beyond his teeth, and was square and firm. A chin that was set in such a

fashion and did not recede, was, they argued, an evidence of will. So be

it.

Chins were carefully observed at once, and lo, the druggist was the only

one with a chin that was inclined to disappear. It was plain at first

glance, that not one of more than a dozen, possessed a chin the equal of

Fitzpatrick.

It was then that Sidney began to see everybody's chin, apart from every

other, the moment he met a person. When he had come back again among his

own, after eleven years, his observation began to reveal chins, which

according to the argument related, were, to say the least, discouraging.

Almost two-thirds of his people possessed the disappearing chin. A bad

sign, he was positive, but they had it, and he now studied this race to

which he belonged, very carefully, and from an every day and practical

point of view. He did not attempt a scientific study, for, in the first

place, he knew little of science, and in the second place, to understand

life from a practical point of view, and to apply one's thoughts and

efforts to that end, seemed to him a more profitable occupation. In this

research, he met many of his people who had gone through college, knew

everything from the dark ages to Caesar, but many of them couldn't have

bounded the state which they called home, for they paid little attention

to their surroundings. As he became better acquainted with them, he was

disappointed upon finding them ignorant. At the same time, they had

little appreciation for another's viewpoint, unless he had _been to

school and graduated from college_.

Having digressed, we will attempt to return to the story.

The druggist was not an assuming person, and admitted, very gracefully,

to the fact that he possessed neither will nor determination; but, as

Sidney Wyeth knew his people, he did not expect many to be so frank.

So, it came about that when he met Miss Palmer, almost the first thing

he took notice of when she came out of the darkness to the porch, was

that she possessed a chin, the point of which was far beyond the lips.

It was that fact more than any other, that caused him to try in every

way possible, to secure her services. As we have stated, he had little

confidence in chinless persons, a fact, which was so much in evidence

among his people.

So, when he had known Miss Palmer a few weeks, and had been convinced,

from a practical point of view, that she did possess will in keeping

with the set of her chin, he confided the fact to her. She smiled very

modestly, and, of course, deplored it; but, nevertheless, he caught her

studying the reflection of it more than once, when a mirror was

convenient.

That Miss Palmer was determined, vigorous, possessed courage and had

strength of her convictions, was a positive fact. When she made up her

mind to do a thing, if she failed, it was because it was beyond the

range of reasonable effort to accomplish it. And it was shortly after

this, that Wyeth discovered that such a fortune could be superabundant.

That is, a person could be endowed with so many of these helpful

qualities that it passed beyond the range of judgment to assert them.

This happened to be what he discovered in Miss Palmer. He regretted it

too, because he had begun to admire her.

The presence of these aggressive facts, began later to result in a

change in their regard for each other. They disagreed in their point of

view, and, still later, they came to a crash, literally.

For Miss Palmer was, in addition to the agreeable and admirable things

he had discovered, pretentious to an alarming degree. And it was this,

which caused the trouble.

* * * * *

Our pen has not before had occasion to relate that the change in the

life of Sidney Wyeth, from the prairies to the present, was due, in a

great measure, to the evil genius of an overly busy person. And yet,

such was the fact. Therefore, being an observing character, and

realizing these qualities, but not appreciating them in the creature

whom he would always despise, he did, above all else, wish to avoid a

person thus richly endowed. He had declared many a time, that he trusted

the diamond back rattlers that infested the prairies, more than he did

an unduly pretentious, ostentatious person.

Therefore, when he came to notice these qualities in Miss Palmer, it led

to frequent disagreements. And yet, withal, no one could altogether

dislike Miss Palmer. There came a time when he felt, that if she did not

try to argue on everything that came up, without first attempting to

equip herself with a few facts bearing on the subject, and which would

serve to substantiate her argument, he could have overlooked much of her

pretense. But, as he came to know her better, she argued on everything,

and sought to force her conclusions upon the other, when her knowledge

was quite foreign to the question on hand. She literally murdered facts.

And, as time went on, he saw that her aim was, very often, merely to

dominate, with no apparent regard for what might be learned by careful

listening.

In Effingham, as in every other town, Wyeth had discovered, among his

people, a set who claimed to be the more elite; they were the more

intelligent, and called themselves society. On his pilgrimage, he had

never sought to become a part of this society.

In Effingham, Sidney came to see this phase a little clearer than

before, due to his acquaintance with Miss Palmer--that is, that side of

it, the woman's side. As for the men, he met that at the drug store,

where he had relieved the druggist of two dollars, and where the more

elite gathered and indulged. Arguments were usually in process there, he

soon saw; and when not so engaged, they gambled and drank to an alarming

degree, in the back room, and secluded, where he was not invited. Cards

were the custom; but soon craps, he heard, became more conspicuous. The

druggist was "a" shooter, and won quite frequently, so 'twas said.

Miss Palmer took pride--as well she might--in informing Wyeth of the

fact that she was a member of the colored society of Effingham, and

proved it by entertaining until she was ever bankrupt; she was always up

against it for money; and this fact, no doubt, brought her to selling

books, as a means to make ends meet during vacation. But Miss Palmer did

not, could not, of course, be expected to admit such a thing. She could

have said nothing about it, which would have been as dignified; but she

made it a point to appraise Wyeth of the fact, that she only did it to

help him, at which times she would smile, and show her little teeth. "I

like you so much," and she would smile again, "that it is my great and

ardent desire to help you."

Sidney had never appreciated it in this way.

At Miss Palmer's could often be found a gathering of teachers, of which

Effingham, with its sixty thousand black people, had many. And these, to

whom the masses looked to for tutor, he studied very carefully. He had,

as before stated, never shown them the book; but the surprise of it was,

that Miss Palmer had not done so either.

In one of the little suburbs, where they had canvassed, he recalled a

row of very attractive homes occupied by the more respectable colored

people. Miss Palmer had canvassed there very carefully, and had sold the

book to nearly every one, but she had as carefully avoided showing it to

a professor, who occupied the most imposing of the row. He had not said

anything, but, of course, he could scarcely help noticing this careful

avoidance of all houses where teachers lived. In some manner, the matter

came up one day, and Miss Palmer merely remarked that the teachers were

all broke, would be so, until school opened again.

Sidney had surpressed his criticism. But one day he called on Miss

Palmer. He was just in time to meet a white woman coming out. The latter

turned and thanked Miss Palmer for her kindness in giving her the list

of thirty teachers, with the suggestion that they would be interested in

the set of books for which she was agent. The lady had sold to

twenty-five of that number, not counting Miss Palmer, who had cheerfully

started the list. And the books were in twenty volumes, at one dollar

each.

Of course, Miss Palmer showed them to her friend with much ado, stating

that the same would be so helpful to her in her school work. He said it

was very nice; but he wondered just what particular help the books could

be to these teachers, for the set were a collected list of fiction, with

no care as to whether it was a work of specific interest. The set

included many volumes, by authors who issued a book every sixty days,

all of which were on sale at any bookseller, or by mail at that time,

and for some time past, at fifty cents a volume, or twenty copies from

the publishers at forty-five cents each.

Of course, Miss Palmer did not know this, or any of the other

twenty-five teachers out of the thirty who had purchased--and lest we

forget, it was this lack of knowledge that had cost the druggist two

dollars, because he had been shown a work by one of his race, with a

suggestion to buy. The fact uppermost in the mind of Sidney was, that

the teachers with few exceptions, scarcely needed any such work to teach

black children. Many of them would be unlikely to read as many as half a

dozen of the books in their lifetime. And yet, by borrowing the book,

they were reading _The Tempest_. Some were even contemptible in their

criticism; but all of them borrowed it and read it, including Miss

Palmer; and she admitted it was the only book she had read that season,

other than what she was compelled to read by the board of education.

But all of these people felt they were sacrificing everything for their

race, and would deplore it, were they told that such was not true.

But the teachers were nice; much more interesting to talk to than the

common herd. They could, almost all, smile beautifully; and they could

pronounce their English more correctly, employing their "r's," and

interspersing their discourse with a clever toss of the head or twinkle

of the eye; and when one of the race, who had been successful, married,

he invariably picked a teacher. They were sensible enough to realize

that a husband who could keep the wolf from the door, was a treasure to

be appreciated. It was thus Sidney Wyeth found teachers. But he could

not understand why they seldom appreciated Negro literature to the point

of purchasing, since they were engaged in the teaching.

Miss Palmer was buying a small home in one of the suburbs, and which was

all she could boast of owning. As we know her, she secured her living by

teaching nine months in the year, at forty dollars a month. And as we

now know, she must perforce earn something during vacation, which was

the real reason for selling Wyeth's book. So, from what we know of her,

there is no reason why she should not have been conspicuous in colored

society, since the masses, unfortunately, are all poor. Hence, wealth

cannot be the dividing line, else there would be no society whatever.

Miss Palmer showed more ostentation as their acquaintance lengthened.

Sidney was now thirty; and since nineteen, he had lived on the western

ranges. And, as is usually the case, western people are great readers.

But here, his people did not read. Not that they could not do so, but

because it was apparently not a preference; considering the fact that

few seemed to care for much reading beyond a newspaper sensation. And,

as he met the more elite, he was surprised that they paid so little

attention to the condition of the masses. Murder, as we have seen, was

an established habit. Of all those he had met, the teachers impressed

Wyeth as having the least regard for conditions. In other words, "they

never worried." They dressed the best their means would afford, and aped

the rest, which was easy. And this he found so prevalent, that he was,

at times, dreadfully bored by it all. But he was relieved when he looked

deeper, to find that the people who were actually succeeding in doing

something, paid little attention to this set, which dominated society.

But the set claimed them, nevertheless.

As he had known society from reading of it only, he had judged that

literature was one of its chief features--but not so with this. Gossip

and hearsay were more in keeping, and obviously more appreciated.

Wyeth was a literary man now for the sake of gaining a livelihood; but

he had studied it, as we know, from a modern point of view. He had

never, however, any difference of opinion with them, for so few knew of

the late books, purchased few, and most of them not any magazines of

interest. Not one in a dozen even read the race's only periodical, _The

Climax_: though the editor had once been one of them, and had written a

book, a novel. It was a failure, from a financial point of view.

The fiction they knew and talked of was in the order of Rip Van Winkle,

Ben Hur and St. Elmo.

One day, when arguments were abundant, it came to a point where Wyeth

made mention of the fact that so few teachers showed any interest in

current events; did not read the magazines, and Negro literature they

almost held in contempt.

"Is it because they feel that no Negro knows enough to write anything

they would care to read?"

"The idea," cried Miss Palmer, indignant. "All the teachers take the

magazines, and as for Negro literature, it has been the teachers who

have robbed themselves to make the same possible."

"And yet other than 'Up From Bondage' and the works of the dead poet,

you can seldom find a volume by a Negro author in any of their

houses.... And, if I have investigated correctly, ninety per cent of

this was placed there, after the white people had bought it and

proclaimed the authors great. In the many houses I have been in with

you, I have not yet seen any of Derwin's. Though one of them he wrote,

and which is named after our souls, had a great sale among the white

people even."

"I cannot see, nor appreciate either, your point of view with regard to

the teachers' lack of literary interest, when not two weeks ago,

twenty-six teachers among a list of thirty, purchased a set of twenty

volumes each, and which cost them all that many dollars."

"And every volume by an author few know of, further than that he was

white, and, therefore, knew something," he retorted.

It ended there and they were both relieved that it did; but neither

forgot it.

Effingham, with its sixty thousand black people, had scores of drug

stores which sold literature. Many newsstands also did such a business

exclusively. There were four drug stores operated by colored people,

and, like Attalia, not one sold magazines and newspapers as a side line;

nor did any sell literature, which were operated by whites that depended

upon Negro trade. Granting, of course, that many colored people bought

such at white places, when they desired to read, it may reasonably be

imagined how much literature was in demand among the colored people.

Wyeth usually purchased a work of fiction weekly, and sometimes more;

while some weeks, of course, he omitted this custom. One day, he was

asked by the clerk of the leading book store in Effingham, what he did

with so many books when he had read them. "We have sold," he said,

"seven copies of the book you sold us; but I guess you'll be surprised

to know that we have not, as yet, sold one to a Negro." Wyeth was not

surprised, but didn't say so. "That ad we placed in the colored paper,

and have had standing a month, would bring dozens of curious white

people in to see what it was. And, of course, some would purchase it to

see what was said. Then, if the contents did not thrill or please,

indifference would follow. But when nobody buys, not even inquires, we

can only feel that your people don't have much interest in books, and we

have had the same experience before." He smiled when he had finished, a

smile that was embarrassed. He disliked to say it, apparently, but when

Wyeth was so pleasant, he added: "We have bought what few books your

race has written, for the purpose of sale, and have naturally expected

some evidence of interest from them, by a call and an occasional

purchase. And I am telling you the truth, if we depended on them to

unload this stuff from our shelves, it would be there yet, as some of it

is. You have personally bought more literature, in the way of current

books, since you came in here, than all the rest of your people in this

town together."

Wyeth went his way then, but he was no longer surprised, as he once was,

for he had heard that many times before.

One day shortly after, Wyeth happened in at the druggist's place, the

hot bed of argument. He inquired why a few magazines were not carried in

stock.

"Hell!" cried that one, throwing his hands up in a gesture of despair

and mingled disgust, "nigga's don't read."

The following Sunday morning, when the drug store was full, he happened

to mention a new book he had, and which many of the idlers were

inspecting, one by one, asking to borrow it when he was through. He

suggested that it was on sale uptown, then quoted the words of the

clerk, who had remarked that he, Wyeth, bought more books than did the

rest of the colored people put together.

He was hooted down, so there was no argument. Each was positive that his

friend had bought one; while that friend was likewise of the same

opinion. And of the many, almost every one had read the book he wrote,

having borrowed it from someone who had bought it. The druggist then

offered an excuse for the absence of literature at his store, by

declaring that almost all the people subscribed, and the same came

through mail.

Miss Palmer and he were certainly very forgetful.

Literature was a dead issue, that could not be denied; but whiskey was

not.

Effingham had no library for its black people, and they were not allowed

the privilege of the white. Yet a part of their tax was paid to support

the same. Still, no one gave that much thought, insofar as Wyeth could

ascertain. When he mentioned it to the teachers, almost without

exception they replied: "No use. Negroes don't read." And it was so

everywhere. Yet every class but the doctors and teachers purchased _The

Tempest_, when it was brought to their attention, and Wyeth even sold to

three of these (two doctors and one teacher) in Effingham that summer.

No, no one he met had any worry about a library; but thousands of black

children ran wild day by day upon their streets, went to jail in great

numbers before they were of age, and filled convict camps as members of

chain gangs long before they could be called even young men. There was

no library, nor was there a park; but there were plenty of other places

conducive to crime. And still Effingham had more than a hundred Negro

churches.

"Can you not realize, that in your absence of such necessities for the

training of these little black children, that you are growing children

for the chain gang every day?" But this never aroused any visible

concern. And sometimes they did say, emphatically:

"Aw, we don't need no library; and if we had a park for colored people,

they would do nothing but fight in it." And still others would cry: "Git

religion! 'n' read d' Bible; pr'pare y'self fo' Heaben." And still

others were in disgust, as they replied: "A nigga ain' going to 'mount

to nothin' nohow, so what's the use?"

"A library could be obtained, if the conditions here were brought to the

attention of the northern philanthropists," he suggested to Miss Palmer,

whereupon she cried:

"Oh, Mr. Wyeth, you bore me with your contention about libraries and

parks and Y.M.C.A.'s and the like. These nigga's in Effingham are not

worrying about such things; so why should you, a stranger, a mere

observer, be so concerned!"

"Because, Miss Palmer, I cannot help but see all this murder and crime

going on, which is undermining the foundation of colored society. Every

day, when my paper comes, it's murder, murder, murder, and fully ninety

per cent is among our people, although only two-fifths of the population

is Negro."

"Haven't I told you all along, that the crime is among the low down,

whiskey drinking, depraved element, and not among the best people?"

"Yes, but this country cannot exist in peace and prosperity and

happiness; nor can this race, with the greater part ignorant, criminal

and depraved. The more intelligent have, for their duty, the task of

helping in any way possible, and by so doing, lift these unfortunates

into a state of intelligence and self-respect."

"Well," she contended, resignedly, "that is for the churches to do,

there's enough of them."

"And the teachers, because they are looked to, should help as much as

they can with their higher intelligence, for the mothers are too

ignorant and too depraved to do so. But of the many churches, of which

seventy are Baptist, not one has any connection or interest in a school

here, directly or indirectly."

"I begin to think you are going to lose your mind, if you don't quit

seeing the many iniquities of our people. If you would only see what the

good people are doing, and try to interest yourself more in them, you

would be happier," she said. He sighed now, and then said to himself:

"What's the use."

"Quit it all, Sidney," she said softly, calling him for the first time

by his first name. "Quit all this worry about these nigga's and be

yourself; be sweet." And she kissed him.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"_Wilson, Wilson! Mildred Is Gone!_"

"Wilson, Wilson! Mildred is gone, Mildred is gone!" cried Constance,

ringing her hands despairingly.

"Gone," he breathed, uncomprehendingly.

"Yes, gone." His sister sank into a chair, and gave up to a flood of

tears.

"But why?" he cried, only now seeming to understand that she had

actually left them.

"I don't know, I don't know," she moaned.

"This is certainly a mystery. Surely dear, you are mistaken," he

insisted, greatly disturbed. "Mildred would surely not have left us so

unceremoniously. And, besides--why, she--she, Constance, why she gave

one hundred and fifty dollars to the Christian association movement only

today. And you cannot mean that she has gone! It is hardly possible!"

"I only wish it were not so; but come," and, taking his hand, she led

him to the room Mildred had occupied. It was deserted, save for the

furniture that belonged there. Only once had he seen the inside of it

while she occupied it. And now it did not appear the same; because then,

it was decorated with much lace and woman's needle work and picture

postals. But, strange as he had thought, when he happened to glance into

it before, there were no pictures of girls and men, young or old, nobody

excepting the picture of the author of the book which she sold, and

which had been taken from the frontispiece.

"This is the way I found it when I came home a few minutes ago," she

said, resigned. "I cannot make it out; I cannot make anything out,

except that the sweetest friend, the dearest girl I ever knew, has

disappeared strangely."

"She sang at the meeting only a few hours ago, and sang as I never heard

her sing before. She was, moreover, in the best of spirits all day, and

was so enthusiastic over the meeting. Dear me," he sighed wearily.

"If she had only left some word; given some hint that she was going to

leave, but, of course she knew, and couldn't tell us, so there is no use

at all. She's gone and I cannot imagine how much I am going to miss

her."

Her brother sank into a chair, and gazed silently at nothing. He could

not think clearly of the departure. For days he had slaved for this day

of inauguration, and in his work, he had looked forward to her for much

help. Her encouragement, to be near her and to hear her voice daily, was

more to him than our pen can describe. He had felt that he could face

the mighty struggle (which he knew was now before him) with all the

strength of the strong; but now only, he fully estimated what she had

been to him, and what he had dreamed that she would be some day. And all

that, was now cast aside; in this one moment, his hope, his greatest

hope had been shattered.

His sister looked at him, and for a moment, almost fell on her knees in

sympathy. For she had not been blind. She had seen the change coming

over him, with no thought but to encourage him. Constance had faith and

patience and perseverance, and she had felt that everything would result

favorably in the end.

And then she had watched this girl during that spell of a short time

ago. She had seen her appearance change, as the result of some mystery.

Her eyes became dazed from loss of sleep, due to the worry and subtle

fear. It was then, with great cheer, that she saw it disappear later,

until she was the same again. Constance was happy then, because the

other was happy. She had been happier still, because she saw that,

without effort, the other was making her brother happy. He had fairly

thrived under it.

Constance felt that his lot was a hard one. She was confident that he

would be a leader of men, in a greater measure than he was at the

present. And when she had carefully observed the practical ability, as

well as the intuition and foresight of Mildred Latham, she had longed,

with all the craving of her heart, for a union between these two.

And, as she saw her brother now, with eyes dry and listless, her heart

went out to him with all of a sister's love. It pained her more, when

she realized that she could not help him. She would have to stand by and

say nothing, at the very time he needed her more than ever before. He

was too strong a man by disposition; he possessed too much will power,

and was too proud to ask or accept sympathy. It would all have to be

given in silence.

There was a knock at the door. She heard steps on the porch, and guessed

it was the people calling in regard to the Y.M.C.A. And it was only then

she recalled, that they had been invited to a supper. She called to him:

"Wilson, some one has called." She went to the door and admitted a dozen

persons, members of the church, and foremost enthusiasts in the

Christian forward movement.

"Well, well!" Martin Girsh, principal of the local high school cried,

coming in ahead of the others. "You are both sitting here at home, when

we have been looking all around for you. And you both show the effect of

the strain you have been laboring under, in this affair." He said this

after he had seen the look upon their faces, their efforts at

self-possession, which they could not hide. They were glad he saw it

that way.

"Where is the young lady, the dear young lady who showed such an

interest in the movement by giving such a liberal sum?" inquired one,

and it was immediately taken up by the others. It required an effort on

the part of both, to explain that she was out and would not be back

again that evening....

"Isn't that too bad! And all of us were simply wild to meet her, to hear

her sing, and to know more of this courageous young person," said the

professor, with much regret.

"She is positively a jewel, to say the least. Upon my honor," cried

another, who was a letter carrier, "I didn't know she was such a

treasure until she sang, and when she led them all in a cash

subscription, I declared I would have to become better acquainted with

her."

"I had heard her play and sing, but, indeed, I didn't know she possessed

such a voice before."

"Suppose we arrange a banquet for this young lady, have her cut in the

paper, and let the people know what a race-spirited young woman we have

in this town," suggested one. The others took it up by acclamation.

Wilson's eyes found his sister's, with a sickly green expression. And

then he heard them again.

"When can we arrange this, Wilson? It is left to you and Miss Jacobs to

set a date. The incident of this young woman's contribution to the

colored Y.M.C.A., can be employed to a great advantage in the

inauguration of this movement."

"Fire, fire, fire!" came an alarm from the street at that moment. All

eyes sought the front, where, directly across the street and one door

down, a large frame house suddenly burst into flames. Forthwith the

visitors rushed, in a body. A wind was blowing strongly from the west at

that moment, and the conflagration seemed to draw the flames. It had not

rained for some time, and in an incredibly short time, the beautiful

structure of a few minutes before, was beyond saving. From the way the

flames were fanned by the wind, they threatened to endanger other

buildings.

In a few minutes, the place was surrounded by spectators; while a number

of fire departments were rushed to the scene from different directions.

It was hours later before the flames were subdued. Only a mass of

charred ruins marked the place where the handsome structure had stood.

Services at the churches were well under way before many of the watchers

left the scene, and the number included many of Jacob's callers who had,

of course, forgotten their suggestion to entertain Mildred Latham, in

honor of the beginning of the effort to secure aid for the colored youth

of the city.

As they sat alone that evening, neither Wilson Jacobs nor his sister

offered any comment upon how they were saved an embarrassing ordeal.

They were both thinking, thinking, and seeing, with their eyes full of

tears, a chair where one had sat and talked and laughed with them the

Sunday night before.

Their hearts were heavy, very heavy, for, strangely enough, they felt

that Mildred Latham would never sit in that chair again.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

_The Beast and The Jungle_

"REMEMBER THE SABBATH DAY AND KEEP IT HOLY"

This was the inscription under a cartoon in the Effingham Herald, one

Sunday, following a Sunday when crime seemed to have run riot. The

cartoon pictured a huge knife stuck into a human heart, and the moral

was, that on the Sabbath day, when its population was supposed to be at

pious worship, murder was un-Godly.