The Sunday previous to this, seven different murders had occurred in

that many different parts of the town. Sidney had read the accounts, and

said nothing when he saw they were all black people. Only one exception,

and that was one who had shot another, and in attempting to escape, had

been shot by the police.

Thus was the condition of crime in Effingham. It was a rare Sunday that

didn't have five or six shootings, killings and cutting affrays. The

record for the previous year showed more than three hundred murders,

mostly by Negroes upon each other, and in part by the police. Eighty per

cent of all murder in the city was among two-fifths of the whole, or the

Negro population. But what surprised Wyeth was, that insofar as speaking

of it as an everyday occurrence, and something to be expected, the

colored people paid little attention to it.

By this time, Wyeth had become known as a severe critic. And, therefore,

against colored people in their effort for salvation, so the critics

complained. There was one, however, who saw beneath the surface, and who

said, in reply to the criticisms going the rounds, that Wyeth was

criticised, not for the criticisms, but for his method of bringing the

truth before the eyes which did not wish to see it.

"We've tried every way possible to obtain a library," said one.

"What are some of the ways?" he inquired pointedly.

"Well, for instance, we have asked the teachers to each give a book for

that purpose. We have almost two hundred teachers in this town, and if

each one gave a book, and the preachers likewise, that would make

considerable of a library."

"For sixty thousand people, yes." And under his breath he added, "You

fool!"

"Why do you not write an editorial and bring attention to the dreadful

amount of crime that seems to have submerged your population," he said

one day to Mathews, a very excellent writer.

"I'm writing of what people are doing that is uplifting," the other

returned.

"Do you not consider that all this murder the Negro is committing, to

the disgrace of the state, the city, the county, and the race to which

he belongs, is a thing that requires some effort, or some comment on our

part as citizens of this commonwealth?"

"Oh, but the best colored people don't care to read of that," he

explained.

"But it's a fact, is it not; and one that is going forth every day

through the columns of the big dailies, and a fact that the public is

making record of, and holds up to the gaze of the world, and gives this

town the name of being the most uncivilized community in the country?"

"There is, of course, Mr. Wyeth, no use in trying to argue these things

with you," complained the other. "About town, although you have been

here only a short time, you are regarded as a contentious person, always

forcing your way of seeing things upon people, and criticising our

teachers and preachers and best people for their lack of concern, in

regard to a lot of criminal Negroes, that find their way to this town,

from every convict camp in the state and other states. If you would

struggle to get into society and mingle with the best people, you would

forget what these brutes are doing. Instead of that, you can always be

seen standing at a distance, viewing all of us as one."

"Abraham Lincoln, our emancipator, said: 'This country cannot continue

with one part of the people free and the other in serfdom, and thrive.'

I am wholly at a loss to understand this attitude of what you term the

'best people' toward the masses." Wyeth persisted, thoroughly aroused.

"We complain of the injustice of prejudice, which is well worth the

complaint. But, while we see that the white people refuse to accept us

on an equal basis with themselves, we cry out about the 'best people.'

We cannot expect the world to accept us as a race on the reputation of a

precious few. And yet right here in this town, on all sides, among the

'best people' we hear that 'you' cannot be responsible for the condition

of the great herd. I do not think you are expected to by the public; but

what stirs me, fires me sometimes to denunciation, is this utter

disregard for the evil things in which our people indulge themselves, to

the disgrace of all."

"Have it your way, Mr. Wyeth," said the other, resignedly. "That is the

reputation you have, 'having your way.'"

This was the end of that, but not of murder. Everywhere it continued.

Wyeth went to the churches. He listened to the sermons; and at the drug

store, where the more logical members of the city could often be found,

he met the same condition. Nobody was worried. Nobody cared. Just as

long as their own affairs were going along in a satisfactory manner, no

complaint was forthcoming. And, as time went on, Wyeth took notice that

everybody carried a revolver. One evening, at the drug store, someone

displayed a revolver of a new type, which brought about some comment.

Forthwith, among the twelve present, ten additional revolvers were

produced and displayed, Wyeth being the only one not possessing one. He

was looked at in surprise, and made the object of much comment.

"Why, I wouldn't go from here home one night, without my cannon," said

the druggist. A prominent doctor smiled grimly, as he pocketed his,

while others laughed and patted their weapons fondly.

"You from out of the west and haven't a gun. Man, you are crazy,"

laughed one. "You better send out west there, and have them send on that

dungeon."

"I never owned a gun in my life."

"What! Been living out in that wild country these many years, and never

owned a cannon! What kind of people do you have out there?"

"Civilized people."

"Uh, well, I ain' never been without a smoker, believe muh."

"He'll be carrying one before he's here long," laughed a physician, as

they filed out into the night.

* * * * *

More conspicuously here than elsewhere he had been, Wyeth saw that the

undertaking business thrived better in this city than any other

conducted by colored people. A half dozen companies were incorporated,

with a paid-up capital stock, and declared handsome dividends every six

months. And each company owned one or more ambulance carriages, or "dead

wagons," as they were commonly called as they moved busily about the

streets, picking up wounded and dead Negroes. Almost daily they whirled

through the town at break-neck speed, to the tune of a dreadful alarm.

Then Wyeth began to see, without looking, why crime thrived. The mills,

coal mines and furnaces employed thousands of men, as we know, and paid

them at various times. And to a saloon they filed and drank their fill.

In his observations, Wyeth had never seen saloons do such an excessive

bottle business. Great cases, the length of the bar in many instances,

and piled everywhere, were half pints of liquor. A man said to him one

day, "You'll find, upon searching the ignorant Negro, three things

almost any time: A bottle of booze, which might be empty if you searched

him at his work--a cannon, if not, it is because he is not able to

possess one--a knife, with a blade long enough to go through

you--additionally, a pair of dice."

But it was not at the saloons that they bought all the whiskey,

regardless of the great number in sight. But barrel houses and

wholesale stores were operated in connection therewith. Here the tiger

conductors purchased their supplies, which consisted mostly of whiskey,

and the cheapest available, which was, to be exact, a dollar and a half

a gallon; but, if bought in smaller quantities, it came at forty cents a

quart; while the beer used by the tigers was so cheap that finally, no

label was used on the bottle. And it was this kind, he learned, the

tiger people used almost exclusively. It was likewise, this kind that

produced the most fighting drunks, and was sold after midnight--Saturday

night. So, on the outside of a good supply of drink and a crap game in

sight, crime ran high in this city, and was ever in continuance.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"_This Is Mr. Winslow, Madam!_"

After his conflict with Moore, Legs took a silent pledge; he would quit

gambling and drinking, and start a bank account. "I'm going to use some

sense and save my money," he declared, with much sincerity. "There is

nothing like a few dollars, in case of emergency."

"If you stick to that theory in practice, Legs," Wyeth corroborated,

"you'll never have cause to regret it."

He started the same at once, with one dollar. The next week he added

another, which made two, and was jubilant. The next week he added

another, and at the end of four weeks, had five dollars to his credit,

and was discussing investments. "I'm going to buy me a house and lot by

and by," he said, laughing over his prospects.

"I own the L. & N. R.R.," cried a dirty, black, fat Negro, coming up the

street. "Haf a the A.G.S. too!"

"That's Sam," said the Mis', coming to the door at that moment. "Ever

since a white man took his wife, they say he's been like that. He

imagines he owns railroads, and if you happen to be going by the

station, you can see him standing gazing at the trains, with a foreign

expression."

"Git that car back on the right switch there! Flag that engine, and make

them push that section to the left! All right. Now, pull her ahead.

That's all."

"How-do, Sam," she greeted him as he came abreast. He halted a moment,

and gazed at her remonstratingly.

"This is Mr. Winslow, madam. Always address me as such, and in that

manner hereafter. I am Mr. Winslow, understand, and I own the L. & N.

R.R."

"And the A.G.S.?"

"Own haf a that too."

"And the T.C.I. Company?"

"They wanted to sell it to me. I wouldn't buy it. Come on there with

that train, engineer. Drop that car on siding G. Now, switch that other

chain around on track E.

"Say, Books," laughed Legs. "If you want a get rich, quit the book

business, and run into a train with your head. That guy is certainly

rich."

"He carries on that way all the time," the Mis' explained. "But he is

sane otherwise, that is, he is harmless and lives with his mother down

the street a few doors. He goes errands, and you can give him as much as

twenty dollars to buy a nickel's worth, and he'll bring back nineteen

dollars and ninety five cents. No one can beat him, and he is as honest

as the most conservative."

"Let's go to a movie, Books," said Legs, when Sam had disappeared.

"All right," and together, they went down the street in the direction of

the business district. When they had arrived at one of the three shows,

the pictures did not appeal to them, and they strolled about the town.

The bank, conducted by Negroes, was near the center of the block, and

cornered on the alley, and on either side of this was business conducted

by or for Negro trade. Within a block of the bank, was located the three

shows; and while operated and owned by white men, were patronized

entirely by Negroes. It was a puzzle to Wyeth to see his people

operating banks with more success than they could picture shows,

clothing stores, and even hotels. This was the case not only in

Effingham, but in other cities as well. The bank and the neighborhood

immediately surrounding it, was the center for Negro gatherings, and

upon this street might be found a crowd at any time. Almost every other

door seemed to be a restaurant, and operated by Greeks. In fact, this

line of business was, apparently, monopolized by these people all over

the country. Wyeth saw that this was due to social reasons. A Greek or

an Italian, or even a poor Jew, operating a business like a grocery

store, or any kind of business, employing less than ten thousand dollars

capital stock, lived much within his means; whereas, a colored man in

the same business, invariably was, through the connections of his

family, a leader in society. These Greeks did not even pretend such a

thing, even in a small way among their own, which made a great

difference at the end of each year. None of this class referred to would

think of owning an automobile; whereas, such an asset is common among

these black people. Hence, a Negro in any business other than a

barbershop, bootblack stand, pressing shop, or business requiring a

considerable amount of practical ability, was a rare thing.

Being in business, he is looked to to spend more money, as well. This,

Wyeth had found, was not always his preference; but his wife and family

usually represented the better colored people, and, therefore, are

expected to entertain; are made the object of much flattery and

ostentation. There was one who ran a grocery near Miss Palmer's, whom,

Wyeth recalled, was the object of much scorn, when discussed. More than

once, when he suggested a purchase of a watermelon, or soda water, or

some refreshment that might be obtained at a grocery store, he was

advised against patronizing the "chinse" on the corner, meaning the

colored grocery keeper. And he came to learn, that the only excuse for

such a reference, was that he didn't "keep" his wife in society, but

made her "slave" in his little old store along with himself.

For this, he was given as little of their trade as possible; but, with

careful application and perseverance, he was succeeding to a creditable

degree. But the most extraordinary feature of this was, that the

druggist received no more of this class of trade, than did the grocery

keeper, notwithstanding the fact that he was high in society, and was

positively of their point of view. Wyeth passed much of his spare time

talking with the grocery man, and came to find him a most obliging man

in every way. When he was informed that Wyeth was selling a book by a

Negro, he instructed him to bring him one forthwith, and which he was

glad to own, and read it through at once.

So it came to pass, that in all he saw, Wyeth found many honest and

unassuming people, and whose interest in the race did not end with a few

sweet words and a shrug of the shoulders.

Many colored men were actually succeeding in the grocery business in

Effingham, and many of them were referred to as "chinse's," by those

purporting to be leaders in society.

Getting back to Sidney Wyeth and Legs, who were uptown for the purpose

of attending a picture show. Two of the three shows were operated by the

same company, and the playhouses were referred to as capital number one,

and capital number two. They were in separate blocks. Legs and Wyeth had

been to capital number one, and were turning in the direction of the

other, when some excitement was in evidence in that direction. They

joined in the crush, and were just in time to see an altercation between

a man and a woman, a nice looking woman, brown-skinned, with an

unusually heavy head of hair. The man appeared to have called the woman,

and was desirous of remonstrating with her about something to which she

took exception. She turned to go, and it was then that, like a flash, he

drew a long, keen-bladed knife from his pocket, and, without a word,

drove it to the hilt in her breast. She walked calmly, perhaps a half

dozen steps, and than, with a sudden clutching at the air, she cried:

"Oh, I'm so sick!" Wyeth saw her eyes for one moment, and the next, she

reeled about, and fell dead at the feet of the crowd.

The murderer saw her, and it was only when she fell, that he appeared to

take any notice of the fact that he had committed murder. He now turned

and fled up the alley, while the Negroes about him fell back.

"There goes the beast!" cried Legs, pointing him out to Wyeth, and the

next moment they followed in close pursuit. A cry from the crowd went up

as they disappeared. It warned them that they would be dealt with

likewise, but they heeded it not.

They ran up the alley that opened ahead into a wide street. The murderer

led them at considerable distance, and, as they hurried after him, they

saw his head turning from left to right, evidently looking for some

opening in which to escape. But their pursuit was too close. Arriving at

the end of the alley, he halted one brief moment, and then turned south.

This street fell rapidly a block, and reached a level in a railroad

yard, where long trains of cars stood silently in the pale moonlight. To

these he now ran, not looking back at his pursuers. A few minutes later,

he had, for a time, disappeared from view behind a car. But determined,

with their blood now boiling, the two flew on after him. When they got

inside the yards, they caught a glimpse of him crawling along to the

other side of a line of cars, to which was hitched an engine.

A moment later, this began to move, and, suddenly, while they were yet

some distance away, he swung aboard one of the cars and stood on the

bumpers. They hurried forward, and caught a car each, a few cars to the

rear; while the speed of the train increased. In a few minutes it was

flying, and they were hanging dangerously to the side. With quick

intuition, Wyeth climbed to the top of the train, and called to Legs

when he stood over him, to do likewise. Hurriedly, Legs clambered to the

top. As he settled panting on top of the moving train, in the rear and

hurrying forward, the light of a brakeman approached. They darted

forward, looking carefully between the cars, to ascertain which

contained the fugitive. The train now hurried around a bend toward the

outskirts of the town, and, as it did so, they saw the creature drop

suddenly from between the cars and roll over the embankment, and down

the grade which was, perhaps, at this point twenty odd feet.

The train was tearing along now at a speed that made it positively

dangerous to alight. Still, the light of the brakeman was only a few

cars away, and, inasmuch as they would most likely be severely dealt

with if found, they were, for the moment, at a loss what to do. The

fugitive had now arisen, and was running again to safety. All they had

seen before the electric show now came back to them, and, without regard

for the risk they were taking, they quickly clambered to the bottom and

fell off the train, just as a curse greeted their ears from the

brakeman above.

A moment later, the roar of the train was lost in the distance, and they

were alone, but, fortunately, uninjured. The fugitive had, apparently,

made good his escape. Disgusted and disgruntled, they started back down

the track in the direction from whence they had come. They had gone, it

seemed perhaps a half mile, when suddenly a groan came to their ears.

They stopped and listened.

From near where a few stray hedge and weeds had grown up and were

tangled and enmeshed, they caught the outline of a man, stretched

apparently helpless therein. They hurried forward, Legs in the lead. As

they did so, he sighed perceptibly. Legs had now reached the man, and

was in the act of bending over him, when Wyeth grabbed him from the rear

and jerked him quickly back; but he was in time to save him from the

other, who had, like a flash, sprung up and lunged forward with upraised

knife.

Having missed, the murderer tumbled forward on his face, and bit the

cinders, while Legs raised himself off Wyeth, who had been pushed

backward and down by the sudden collision. The other had gained his

feet, however, before they got their wits together, and with a mad curse

he tore down the tracks. As Wyeth raised himself, his fingers

encountered a piece of cinder, heavy with iron. Unconsciously, his

fingers encircled it, and when they again started in pursuit, he grasped

it.

"We'll kill that beast as he killed that woman," cried Legs, panting

dreadfully, but more determined now than ever. With a clear track, and

nothing to obstruct the speed, it was now evidently only a question of

minutes until they must surely overcome the other who was shorter, and

whose speed had become noticeably slower. Legs had got within a few feet

of him, when suddenly he stopped short and whirled about. Too late! Legs

seemed doomed to meet the point of the upraised knife that glistened in

the moonlight. Wyeth at that moment saw the danger of his companion,

and, with a cry, he hurled the cinder full at the crouching fugitive.

It went straight, and took the beast full in the face. With a cry, the

other fell backward across the track.

Legs tumbled over his prostrate form, while, at that moment, from down

the track came the sound of an approaching train. Both now looked up,

and it was only then they were aware that it was so near. They were

blinded by the light, but with a cry they sprang free, as the light fell

full upon the face of the fugitive, who at that moment came to his

senses. He staggered forward, and then with a cry that rang above the

roar of the train, he stumbled forward, but in rising, one of his feet

had caught in a frog and held him fast. A screwing of brakes could be

heard, but in a moment the heavy engine crushed over his writhing body,

and mangled him until, when he was taken from beneath it, he could not

be recognized.

* * * * *

Legs and Wyeth were present the next morning at the inquest. There was

no visible excitement over the death of either. A small paragraph at the

bottom of the back page of the morning paper reported the death, by

stabbing, of a Negro woman; while a still smaller one made notice of the

death, in an unusual manner, of the murderer.

And so it was in Effingham. If one desired notoriety he had to do other

than kill a Negro, or be killed by one. For such was soon forgotten

among other and more unusual sensations.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"_Thou Shalt Not Steal!_"

During Wyeth's canvass among his people, he had become accustomed to

regard men who indulged excessively in drinking, as a problematical

feature. And when that same man gambled, in addition, and failed to keep

his word or oath, he was not in the least surprised. And, moreover, when

he became acquainted with a person who loved liquor, gambled likewise,

and who did not struggle to secure a job, but was content to walk about

in perfect peace, without any effort in that direction, he was not

surprised if that person stole, in addition.

The people he stopped with were, in a measure, secretive. That is, they

did not always take the trouble to state where they purchased all they

had about the house. He took meals with them occasionally, and saw them

eating every day; and, although chicken was very high, exceedingly high

in Effingham, they had it every day.

The druggist, whose store was a block distant, had inquired of them, and

made known the fact that Moore was indebted to him two fifty, but Wyeth

paid little attention to this, since, during the warm afternoons, under

the cool of the electric fan, he indulged in such reminiscences, and

Wyeth knew almost everybody who owed the druggist anything, including

Miss Palmer.

Two robberies had occurred in less than two weeks at the place, and both

were shrouded in mystery. The first had been explained away very

reasonably. A window that was almost hid by vines had been left open,

and through this, a "nigga," as they put it, had made his entrance and

gotten away, carrying with him a suit of clothes belonging to one of the

roomers, who kept himself pretty well soaked with liquor; this roomer

happened to be employed at a wholesale liquor house, and was,

therefore, able to drink with economy. Sam was his name, but he was not,

however, the one who owned the L. & N. R.R. But Sam was an easy go-lucky

and didn't care whether school kept or not; and, likewise, didn't make a

big noise if something did crawl in through the window, and steal a new

thirty-five dollar suit.

As was stated, it was explained, John Moore lost an old derby the same

time--at least, this was how he reported it. The green stain upon the

window-sill, from the vines his knees crushed, was further evidence of

the ingress and the egress. Considerable indignation was shown by Moore,

and a great many words were employed over the affair; but, in due time

it had died away and was forgotten, when the second came to pass.

The victim this time happened to be a gloomy and forlorn creature, who

could well boast that no miscegenation had prostituted his ancestors,

and whose teeth, in the night, flashed like a diamond necklace. Griffin

was his name, and he did not shoot craps, or fight, or get drunk, and

Wyeth didn't think he drank, until he saw the Mis' go to make his bed

one day, and, in turning back the pillow, revealed a half pint of John.

Griffin reported that it was employed as a medicine, and Wyeth allowed

it to go at that, but indulged a smile upon Griffin that meant more.

Wyeth had a way of joking with the eyes that kept him out of

difficulties, but convicted and judged those near him, and they could

only laugh and look guilty.

One of the other good things we know of Griffin, is that he read the

Bible, and nothing else, and said so; moreover, he deplored the reading

of anything else, declaring it to be contrary to the laws of God.

Griffin rarely said Jesus, and never "Jaysus." And--yes, he was a Sunday

school teacher, and went to services to a church that was at the other

side of town; he shouted when the preacher delivered a soul-stirring

sermon, and expected to go to Heaven when he died. Only one thing did

Griffin indulge in, though he was careful to keep that to himself, and

that was woman--but we are a long way from our story. And still, we

cannot leave it, this part of it, until we make known that she was a

"high yellow" which is perhaps unnecessary to state, for when the color

is like Griffins', they scorn all other kind.

The robber this time employed a more machination method, and he was a

very congenial robber also. Out of consideration for Griffin's regular

attendance at church, he left an old greasy suit that, due to the great

amount of the foreign matter it contained, was likely to last him until

finances would enable him to restock for the benefit of the robber.

This robbery occurred one night when he was away, and did not return

until the following morning, which was in itself singular, for Griffin

was rarely away. It was, like the other, mysterious. Griffin was a

miner, and since he would not--so 'twas said--pay twenty-five cents a

week for warm water and a towel to clean himself at the mines, he

preferred to sleep in the kitchen, because he was unfit to occupy any

other portion of the house, unless it was the attic. And since there was

none to this house, we leave him in the kitchen, where he slept in a

dirty, but warm bed, and kept his clothes--he had some pride--in the

strongest trunk Wyeth thought he had ever seen. On the outside, he kept

it locked with the strongest Yale spring. With all the high-priced

advertising done in regard to the safety of such locks, this robber

didn't seem to give a hang, but, with a steel poker, he had twisted and

twisted, until Mr. Yale had resigned himself to the inevitable, and

permitted ingress. Within were four nice, clean suits, awaiting

Griffin's subtle occasions.

Legs, Wyeth and Glenview, who were very agreeable roomers, didn't hear

of it until the second morning. And they might not have known then, if

it had not happened that they were together in the adjoining room, and

overheard Griffin crying over the loss. That happened to be Friday. Legs

had become something of a hero, with his successful running down of the

murderer, and now played, very successfully, the part of a man. Legs did

not positively condone the light fingered method. When they had been

led, by their curiosity, to investigate, and had returned to the room,

he remarked:

"It beats Hell the way this place continues to be robbed!"

"It is indeed singular," commented Glenview, whose English was always

the most careful. And he never swore.

"Yes," said Legs again, "it _is_ strange. So strange that I'm getting

suspicious," and he closed an eye meaningly. "There's a man in the house

who has not worked this summer.... He cannot _seem_ to get the kind of

work he follows, true; but the fact to be considered, is that he _has_

not worked this summer. He likes to gamble, and is particularly fond of

liquah...."

There was a pause, and he closed that eye again, and looked across at

Glenview. Glenview closed an eye and looked at Wyeth. Wyeth held his

open, but did some rapid thinking. He now recalled that, upon entering,

the robber had cut the screen, it was shown to them; but now as he

remembered it, the ends of the wires where the screen had been cut

pointed outward.... Also, it was reported to have been cut with a

hatchet; and the hatchet was on the ground near the window, which was

logical.... It was very strange indeed, this robbery.... Legs was

speaking again:

"This man who has been out of work all summer, at least has not worked

all summer, and who loves liquah better than I do, and who could shoot

craps forever and be happy, sleeps within four feet of that trunk. The

only thing between him and the trunk is a door that has not been closed

this summer.... And who, moreover, if you will recall," he closed that

eye again and held it so a second, "awakens always when we enter late at

night, and inquires, 'who goes there.' _And this man slept through all

this with the trunk almost against his head, and didn't hear it being

opened._" He paused again and closed that eye, it was the right;

Glenview closed his left, Wyeth closed his too. From the other room came

sighs, and a restless turning on the bed where some one lay. On the

front porch, John Moore sat with the Bible open before him....

"Have you observed," said Glenview, in his Englishy way, "that the ones

who have been robbed, are those most likely to take _his_ story about

it, and are not capable of investigating on their own initiative?" Three

eyes closed simultaneously. "For instance," he resumed, "there's Sam,

always full you know; when I inquired what he had done about it, he

replied that he had inquired of one pawnbroker--and you know there are

perhaps a hundred in this town--if any one had offered a suit as

security for a loan that fit that description. Think of it! And now here

comes the instance of this old creature we hear sighing in the kitchen;

and who reads nothing but the Bible, and goes to church on Sunday. He

hasn't sense enough, and nerve, he doesn't know; he has perhaps called

on the Lord to restore those things. Why haven't some of our things been

stolen?" ... Again three eyes closed, while memories became the order;

the memory of Wyeth's conflict, and they didn't forget that of Legs. "We

leave them laying around, and none of us lock our trunks.... You," he

said, seeing Legs, "have more suits than any of us, and they hang on the

wall...."

John Moore had fallen asleep and the Bible had tumbled to the floor. A

street car line came past the door, and the cars, when passing, filled

the house with noise. One passed at this moment, and he was suddenly

awakened. Looking about hastily for the Bible he had held, he saw it on

the floor at his feet. He stooped to pick it up, and as he did so, saw

that it was open. As his hand touched it, his eyes lit upon a chapter,

whereupon he straightened up quickly. A moment later he picked it up,

and rising, entered the house.

The words of the chapter that had disconcerted him for the moment were:

"_Thou Shalt Not Steal!_"

CHAPTER NINETEEN

_They Turned Her Out of Church_

Saturday night of that week was a beautiful night, and everybody sought

the open air--no, almost everybody. There were a few that didn't, in

fact they sought the closed inside for a purpose.

Murphy had a good crowd, for it was pay day, and everything was

"sliding" along O.K. Glenview, who had purchased a new novel from Wyeth,

who bought them and sold the same at a discount when he had read them,

was there too. So was John Moore, _he_ was always there. Wyeth was

below, and so was Legs, for, strange as it may seem, he had kept his

pledge thus far. He was glad of it, too, which is ahead of our story.

Easy.

A game was on, a big game, and darkies were uncoated; perspiration

flowed freely. Wyeth retired about twelve, or it might have been

earlier--it makes little difference. The game was on, and so was

somebody else. Wyeth felt himself being shook, but could not seem to

awaken at once. Words came to his ears, and it was the voice of Legs

that spoke:

"Get up," it said, in subdued excitement. "Get up, you fool."

"Go to the devil! Are you crazy? Don't awaken me. I'm tired and want to

rest," he answered unconsciously.

"I said, arise--at once. Somethin' doin'."

"Will you go to the devil, or shall I hit you in the ear and dispatch

you forthwith! I want to rest, you pair of Legs."

"Listen! Listen! Hear them, Books!"

Books heard something, but he didn't know what it was; moreover, he

didn't care--in fact, he didn't want to hear. He wanted to sleep. It was

a fine night for sleeping, too. The soft air floated in through the

window at his head, and the vines and garden the Mis' raised, and which

grew within a few feet of him, perfumed it with nature's own. Why should

he be concerned about what went on up in Murphy's den. He kicked at

Legs, when he repeated.

Legs went into the other room, but the noise from above persisted.

"Look out there, nigger!" it said. "Don't start nothing, don't start

nothing! Get around there, you, beside that other nigger! Now, here,

you, ink, put these cuffs on the two niggers against the wall. Right

around the wrists, you fool. I've put them on you often enough for you

to know that they don't go on the shoulders. And don't be so damn

nervous. You shiver around there as though it was the first time you've

been arrested. Are you done? Well, stand over in that row beside them

other niggers! Don't think because I know you that you c'n ease out that

window. And don't figure I'm going to play any pets! Heah! Heah! You

little black rat! You, I say, with the pop peepers! If you try any

monkey foolishness, I'll put'm out, I'll put'm out! Hear that nigger,

hear that! I'll shoot you nigger, I'll shoot you!"

"Hear'm Books, hear'm! It's the police. They're upstairs. They're making

a raid. Hear'm Books!" came Leg's voice, as he came back to where Wyeth

lay. Sidney had awakened now. Sitting up in bed, he listened to the

voices that came down from upstairs. It was still a little vague, but

Legs spoke again:

"They are coming down now." And so they were. A noise of many feet

tramping about, began to file downward on the rickety steps.

"Wait, Frank," came a voice. "Let me out on the front, so I can hold a

gun on these niggers. Now come ahead. Now, niggers, the first one that

makes a break, remember, out goes his light, bingo!"

"Mary, oh, Mary, bring me my coat and hat." Wyeth was dressed now and

peeping out the window. Yes, it was John Moore, and he wanted his coat

and hat. He was going away, on a journey. The Mis', very much

frightened, hurried forward, and held them out to him. He placed the hat

on his head, and took the coat on his arm. He wore cuffs, so that made a

difference.

The Mis' fell into the room a moment later, and gave up to silent

anguish. It was not the first time she had witnessed a raid. Sometimes

Wyeth felt sorry for her. For, once upon a time she had been a good

woman, she was yet when she could be. At least she was always kind; but

when liquor was voted out of the state some years before, he, her

husband then, took up the sale of it, contrary to the law. He had been

caught once, and then twice. He had then been caught the third time. The

third time is when you go to the mines. You may never return from these

places, so 'tis said. "They kill you out there," is what John Moore had

told him once, grimly. "Yes, they _kill_ you out there. It's _Hell_!"

They killed the Mis's husband. And she had a son, and he sold liquor

too. He was a dissipated youth. The mines had him six months. They gave

him back to her. T.B. He died. And at this time she mourned his loss.

She was now alone in the world. She had, at first, made an honest

living, and was a member of the A.M.E. church. She became acquainted

with John Moore. Well, they turned her out of church some time

afterward. They would have done so sooner, but she was pitied, and black

people have sympathy--even for criminals. The Mis' had lost her husband,

and then her son and--but they turned her out of church. That's bad. Oh,

it's awful bad to be turned out of church. Black faces, crooked often,

regard one with dark suspicion when he is turned out of church,

especially if a woman.

And now they had _him_. The other, her consort, for such he was, because

you see, be merciful, she was a human being.... And all human beings cry

out for love, yes, _love_....

"Take along his Bible, Mis'," grinned Legs. And then he looked at

her.... Yes, Legs knew the story too.... He was sorry, terribly sorry.

They were all sorry for the Mis'.

Legs and Wyeth now stood on the outside. It was safe now. They watched

the arrangement.

Four abreast they now stood lined in four rows. They were all handcuffed

together. John Moore was there, bringing up the rear. Murphy was, too.

Being the man of the house, he was honored with a place at the front.

And behind these sixteen men, walked his honor, the police. And so very

insignificant they were, apparently. Yet, they were the _law_! And that

means more than our pen can describe here.

Black people claim to fear God and no other. They don't. The most of

them do not understand it in a larger sense. No. But, notwithstanding

the fact that, in Dixie they are forever breaking it, they _do_ fear the

law--and the white man.

They filed now, a row at a time, and a few feet apart, across the

street. Under the flaring electric street lamp they passed, some

bareheaded, but all downcast, discouraged and remorseful. Oh, this was

the law. The law of Effingham declared: "Thou must not game!" In the

middle of the street they walked, and a few minutes later, they passed

under the light of the lamp at the next intersection, and disappeared in

the direction of the station. And it was only then, Wyeth recalled, that

among them he had not observed Glenview. He was not there, he was

positive; and yet he was at the game. Where was he? Where did he go?

He turned his eyes in the direction of the rear, and at that moment

Glenview walked into view.

"You!" cried many voices, for a curious crowd of crooks had gathered.

Good people had long since retired.

"Well?" he smiled.

"Well...."

"I'm _here_. Not _there_!" And his eyes went in the direction of the

others, who were now passing under another light, into a bigger light.

"Well?"

"I saw they were nothing but a pair of snots."

"Well?"

"The window was open."

"The window?"

"And the _outside_ air was _very_ inviting. Much more than that

_other_."

"Oh...." It was becoming clear to all now. The Mis' looked disappointed.

Sometimes she had not liked Glenview.... He winked and went to the front

of the house.

"Well," sighed the Mis', resignedly. "They certainly got a bunch of

them," and then laughed, a laugh that Wyeth had heard before and knew.

Not a cheerful laugh, but a dry, hard laugh. One that was possible after

years of bitterness.

By this time, a score or more Negroes, denizens of the night, had

gathered and were exchanging opinions, offering theories, and executing

objections.

"Some low down nigga done turned'm up." This was what a large Negress,

with imposing hips, was saying. She sold liquor across the way, and

conducted a house for any kind of purpose.

"Some doity li'l' stool pigeon," added another, who was more doubtful

still. Wyeth regarded them a moment in disgust. They were dressed as

they were when they arose that morning or that afternoon, or whenever it

was, which was not in the last hour or two.

It was Glenview who detailed the raid now at some length. "A big Negro

was shooting for three dollars. A little guy, who appeared to be very

drunk, kept making a fuss, finally asking to be let out. He went, and

when Murphy opened the street door for that purpose, well, in walked the

bulls--no, the little snots."

"I'm going upstairs to see how it looks after the scramble," said he,

and a moment later his feet were heard in that direction. He had no

sooner hit the landing, than from above came a dreadful noise. A

crashing of window panes indicated that someone was trying to get out of

the window. A table turned over with considerable objections, judging

from the noise it made. The whatever-it-was appeared to be coming toward

the stair in post haste now. Chairs were cast aside, without care of how

they might land, and then it appeared on the landing. A moment later it

came down, much a tumble, and not in the usual way. Hands and legs and

feet seemed altogether, as they did many stunts on the way down. Eyes

were opened wide, while breaths were held, as the spectacle was observed

closely. And then it landed. One moment it lingered, and made a funny

picture for the many eyes. Then it became erect--and behold! It was a

man.

But he hadn't taken the time to dress entirely. He had, upon coming

down, or deciding to do so, donned only a coat; while his large, loose

knee lengths stood out conspicuously from the small legs, that reminded

one of pipe stems, smoked ones--coming out of huge corn cobs.

It came about when Glenview ascended the stair, and met it in the act of

looking about to ascertain whether the coast was clear.

For a time that may have been a second, possibly more, he stood

hesitant. Wild of eye and trembling in the legs, but conspicuous to a

humorous degree, he soon came to appreciate the spectacle he made, and

forthwith betook himself hurriedly back up the steps; but, alas! Not

many had he ascended when he made a miss, and, with a smothered,

embarrassed cry, he fell, and the next moment came back.

While all this performing was going on, he was not aware that the

officers had long since departed. And when he again landed at the feet

of his onlookers, who were now given over to a fit of snickers, he cried

in a subdued, but intensely excited voice: "Don't let them get me! Don't

let them get me!" He was wild, as he hesitated before attempting to

return. And in the meantime, he whined like a poor thing, which made the

Negroes who stood about, give up to loud laughing.

At last, he was calmed to a point where he took himself hurriedly up the

stairs, and disappeared. And then there was another commotion!

Apparently the house was coming down, from the scrambling, and the way

chairs, and beds, and tables--and everything seemed to be turning over.

"Say, say!" came the voice of Glenview. "The officers have disappeared a

half hour ago. Be quiet. Those are not officers below. They are

curiosities." But it was some time before he was able to communicate

this fact to a point that brought quiet. When he presently emerged, the

onlookers saw not two, Glenview and the other, but five. They slipped

down the steps like ghosts, looked wildly about for one brief second,

and then melted into the night like vampires.

As they floated away, some one recognized one and called him out by

name, and these words came back to those who listened:

"Hush calling my name, you fool!"

* * * * *

The plate at the head of the table was not turned that morning. The

Mis', notwithstanding the words she uttered when the raid had been made:

"I'm glad of it! It'll stop that gambling, and I hope, Murphy's whiskey

selling," she was, nevertheless, sad-eyed, and all upset. All that day

she so remained, grew worse, if anything.

"Don't worry, Mis'," comforted Glenview kindly. "As soon as some word

comes from them, I'll hustle about and secure bail." But it was late in

the morning before any word came, and then, alas! It was a surprise.

There is a law in regard to gaming in Effingham, which makes the penalty

heavier if caught gaming during the week; whereas, it is lighter for

Sunday. Therefore, being well aware of the fact, no serious anticipation

was held as to how the gamesters would be dealt with, since they had

been caught after midnight Saturday night. In fact, when the excitement

attendant with the raid had passed, those directly interested, looked

hourly for those who were caught, to be released.

"What'll it cost them under this law?" inquired Wyeth of Glenview, who

appeared to be fairly well informed regarding the matter.

"Oh, not much," he replied. "Perhaps five or six dollars. You see," he

explained, "the city considers gambling through the week as a business

indulged in by professionals; whereas Sunday, they construe that they

may be workmen engaged in a pastime."

Wyeth understood, of course, but it appeared singular at first.

"They will be taken to the city lock-up," Glenview resumed, "and if

collateral to the amount of twenty-five dollars be offered and

approved, they will be allowed to return, and when they appear tomorrow

morning, they will be fined five dollars and cost. If they were caught

during the week, it would be ten and cost, and possibly more,

depending."

It was at the end of this conversation that they got their surprise.

Murphy came in. He seemed tired and worn; he was a picture, in fact, of

the result of such a raid. He sat himself down with a sigh that was not

altogether one of relief. All waited, with drawn breath.

"That's the worst place I have seen the inside of," he said, and shook

his head in emphasis.

"Where did the wagon pick you fellows up?" inquired Glenview. "I don't

recall hearing any."

"No wagon picked us up. We walked all the way. They didn't carry us to

the city pen, but to the county jail."

"What!" cried the Mis', while Glenview appeared to regard it with

incredulity.

And then all were silent, with a cold feeling creeping through their

veins, as the grim reality came upon them. It would now be thirty-seven

fifty, and not five dollars, for the county made no exception for

Sunday.

* * * * *

All the day through, John Moore raised from his hard seat, and gazed out

through the heavy bars that penned him in. "Will they never come, will

they never come!" he cried to himself, but only the heat and multitudes

of Negroes greeted his gaze, as it eagerly sought the door to freedom.

And all day Glenview walked from one bondman to another.

"No," said the wealthiest Negro doctor, who had bailed out many. "I've

quit going anybody's bond. I don't think, from the experience I have

had, that I would be justified in going my brother's hereafter." He had

a few to jump them, and it cost him a pretty penny, he afterwards told

Wyeth, to get them back.

"He's worthless," said the druggist, apparently amused, at least

satisfied with his solution for the present. "He owes me two fifty for

medicine I sold him, and trusted to my sorrow. But I'll tell you what I

will do." He changed his tone to one of thought, then went on. "Now you

tell the Mis' if she will come down here and give me seven fifty, five

of this is going the bond that'll put the thief on the street, because

it is he who has been doing that stealing up there, and all of you don't

seem to know it, and the remainder, two fifty, is what he owes me. Tell

her to bring it to me in cash, understand, the long green, and out he

comes, to go back soon where he ought to be, for he has honestly no

right to be free."

Of course, Mis' never had such an amount, so Moore, insofar as this

source was concerned, was doomed to stay in the hot place for some time.

Glenview went to another.

"That nigga! Hell! Why I wouldn't go his bond to stay in Heaven, he is

so crooked and undependable."

That was the end of it for that day, and the night settled down.

It would cost ten dollars cash to secure release through professional

bondsmen; and, inasmuch as John had not the tenth part of that, he

reposed for several days in his new place of abode, and became very

dirty and bedraggled in the meantime. Always so clean and tidy--thus the

Mis' kept him, that he was hardly recognizable, when a few days

afterward, he returned. It was Murphy who secured bond, and Wyeth came

upon him in some surprise that evening. He sat quietly on the porch with

the Bible in his hand, so, greeting him, Wyeth asked how he "liked" it.

The other said:

"Whew! The worse place I was ever in." He had been in them before, but

not this one; but he did not, of course, deem it necessary to make this

mention. It had been made by others. "Two hundred nigga's in the room I

was in, and God knows how many more elsewhere. And they were one-armed

and one-legged, one-eyed and toothless, earless and one-eared; but the

whole bunch, every one of them, were filthy. And the place was rotten!"

Yet more than five hundred Negroes, most of them young men, preferred

the place to freedom.

CHAPTER TWENTY

_"I Love You!" She Said_

Miss Annie Palmer had about despaired of winning Sidney Wyeth, and by

this time was not nearly so considerate when he called, as she had been

some weeks before. And, besides, Wyeth had an insistent way of seeing

things, which was not the custom of her friends. When he called,

sometimes, instead of giving up to the easier things in life, and which

concerned the select few, he was liable to bring up a subject concerning

the future of the Negro of the south, as he is today, etc., etc., etc.

So it came to pass, that Miss Palmer was only good at times; and at

those times, she was liable to be good by fits and starts, and then she

"got cranky." Notwithstanding the fact, they were still friends, nothing

more, and, as Miss Palmer sometimes sighed to herself, "Will never be

anything more."

"You were, I thought," she declared one day, "the sweetest kind of a

boy. But of late you are so concerned about Y.M.C.A.'s, and libraries,

and schools, and the like, for our people, and how many are being killed

and all that, that I am sometimes serious in my belief that you are

losing your mind."

"I came to show you the article in _The Herald_, by the park

commissioner, with regard to the establishing of a park for Negroes. I

suppose you have read it? I am certainly glad to know that you have

white people in your city, who are showing some interest in the civic

welfare of our race; and from what he has suggested, with regard to this

park for our people, to be centrally located, there is conclusive

evidence, that the white people are coming to appreciate that the

evolution of these black people can be brought about otherwise than in

the chain gang."

"Please don't today, Mr. Wyeth, please don't," she begged. "Promise just

once that you will try to be, if it's only for a minute, as you were

when I became acquainted with you. Let's drop this matter about the park

and all that today. These Negroes here would do nothing with a park but

fight in it. And a library, they don't read; so what's the use." She

came to him, and before he could say a word in protest, she had gotten

on the davenport, and beside him very closely. In that moment, Miss

Palmer felt that she wanted to hear him say something about her.

"Listen," she said, in a voice that was full of feigned passion. "Do you

care for me?" It was so sudden that he did not know how to accept it,

whether as a joke or serious. He had, of late, been backing up on the

flirtation. However, she was evidently serious, so, with a jolly word,

he talked with her at some length about nothing. Presently she became

meditative. She spoke of her unhappy life with a sigh, and then fell to

accounts regarding her little boy.

"My entire hope is centered in him. I intend to make a doctor out of

him, and to do that, I will have to work hard and save money to put him

through school when he is grown up, and you see what that will call

for."

He was a lad of ten years, and the image of his mother. The future of

the American Negro was bright in his eyes; and he assisted commerce to a

degree, by consuming as much coca cola as he could buy, with as many

nickels as he could gather; likewise, peanuts, crackerjack and candies.

"He's _some_ boy," glowed Wyeth, enthusiastically. "I wish I possessed a

lad like him. I would feel proud."

"Wouldn't you like to have something to do with him?" she said, and he

replied jokingly:

"Sure."

She nestled close, very close. So close that he felt her hot breath upon

his cheek. "You do care for me a little, don't you?" she almost

implored. He was embarrassed, but replied:

"Of course, I _like_ you."

"I love you," she said. "I love you," she said again.

"Ooh, mamma!" cried her son, at that moment. "Come and see the funny man

coming down the street. Ooh, but he is so funny!" She moved away

guiltily. A moment later, he arose and took his leave.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"_Please Git d' Ole Man Outta Jail_"

"Ump-um-um! Man, you done bring dat book heah t'day 'n' I ain' got a

cent. Nary a cent!"

"Oh, but you're a good joker," he laughed, depreciatingly. "You drew

four or five great big dollars Saturday night, and I know you saved a

part of it for the book, as you said you would, didn't you?"

"Yesser, yesser, ah knows ah said I would; but sumpin' done happened

since then; sumpin' I wa'n't figurin' on. Sumpin' I sho wasn't lookin'

fo'."

"Oh...."

"Yes," embarrassed. "Y'see, it's lak dis: Ma ole man 'e went down town

Sat'dy night 'n'--well, 'e got'n a li'l trouble. Yes, lak a nigga, y'

know. Got in dis heah trouble, 'n it done took all I had t' get'm out;

'sides, I did'n' have 'nough 'n' had t' borra frum ma whi' people."

"That's too bad indeed," said Wyeth. Sometimes he said this freely, and

again, his voice carried a touch of disappointment and impatience,

because, sometimes he met a half dozen such instances, when he went to

deliver on Monday. As a rule, and since he was by now accustomed to it,

he offered sympathy to the unfortunate wife who had to pay so many

fines, and went his way.

"Yeh. 'Es allus gittin' in sumpin'. Las' yeah--ah maybe 'twas las'

month--'e got in jail, 'n' when I got 'im out dat time, I swo' I's gwine

let 'im stay du nex' time 'e went off'm heah and did'n' come back. 'N ah

did'n' get'im out right away dis time. Ah let'm stay tree days, but 'e

jes' keep sendin' up heah 'n' worrin' 'n' worrin' th' life outta me--'n'

I was worried anyhow--wi' 'Uh please ole 'oman, jes' please come'in git

du ole man outta jail.' So 'e jes' promis' so faithful, 'n' jes' begged

so 'a'd until I was at last p'vailed on wi' du 'elp a-Jaysus, t' git'im

out jes' this time--'n' you c'n jes' depen' on it, its the las' time I

gi'n git dat no 'count nigga a-mine outta dat place, so help me Jaysus,

du las' time!" And she bustled about her duties, with a determined set

of the head.

"How did he come to get locked up this time?"

"Ugh! Yes, yes. It's lak dis--so 'e said. 'E was down t' a s'loon 'n'

got t' argin' wid annuder nigga. 'N so den, dis udder nigga done 'posed

on 'im; 'n' den dey got t' squabblin' 'n' d' p'lice dey runs in on'm 'n'

line'm up. So d' wagin come 'long 'n' hurried 'm up t' jail. So, a'cose,

Jedge Douglass 'e 'poses a big fine on'm and dey is jes' waitin' fo'

somebody t' come 'n' pay 'is fine, 'cause, y' see, I done paid it a-fore

already. So dey is jes' waitin' fo' me t' come 'n' pay it agin, 'n' don'

send dis nigga t' du stockade, 'cause dey's done got so many triflin'

nigga's out dare, until dey hates t' feed so many, 'n' wou' ruther git

th' money 'f dey can."

And thus it went. Wyeth found the women, in a great measure, trying to

do right, as they so regarded it. But the men, from the saloon to a

tiger, thoroughly soaked themselves, regardless of the cost, so long as

they had it. And then, to a crap game, where they lost the remainder.

Evidently there must have been some winning; but Wyeth never happened to

find the winner. They were all losers. If he had their orders and

expected to deliver the book, he had to plan to deliver the same on

Saturday night, and before they found the enticing game. And for telling

the truth, they drew the line on that--refused to have anything to do

whatever with keeping their word. When he ran into a man who was as good

as his word, and which he did occasionally, he was so surprised that he

became nervous. Many of the white agents and collectors informed him,

that, with a few exceptions, they drew the line on any credit business

with the men, because they simply could not trust them. Of course this

was not among the so-called "best" people; but with them, he had a hard

time securing an order, since, to make appearance was their obvious

effort, in a large measure. When the cook advised him to see the

butler, he forthwith inquired whether he gambled or drank; for, if so,

he thanked her for her kindness, and made no effort to get the order,

for it was useless, in four cases out of five.

Hence it came to pass, that Sidney Wyeth learned that his people were

the victims of liquor and gaming, and this was the result of ill

training, ignorance, and lack of civic observation. If John Barleycorn

was at the bottom of most of the crime--which grew, in most instances,

out of discussions and differences of opinion regarding trifling

matters--ignorance was at the bottom of the indulgence.

On this day, when he had completed his work, he stopped at the library.

This was not open to colored people, which he knew; but, since what he

desired could not be obtained elsewhere, he decided to go to the desk

and make known the fact, and leave it to the civil regard of the

librarian. He was ushered into a room to one side, which was not always

used, and they brought anything to him that he wished. When he took his

leave, he was invited to call at any time, and he could expect the same

accommodations.

Some time later he did, and while looking through the matter which was

the occasion of his visit, the librarian approached him, and said:

"You will perhaps be interested in hearing that it is the desire of the

board, to take some steps toward a library for the colored people of the

city."

"Indeed!" he replied. "I am sure I am interested. Nothing, I assure you,

is much more needed."

"Yes," the other went on earnestly. "It has been the desire of the board

to do so for some time; but, owing to the fact, I regret to say,

that--well, those in your race whom we have waited for, and looked to,

to take some initiative with regard to the matter, have not appeared to

care much--well, not any, as yet." He paused a moment, while Wyeth

waited.

"I presume," said he presently, "that you are one of the professors."

"No, I am not. I am not connected with any school, in fact, I am not

connected with anything here, other than a book, of which I am the

author, and which is being circulated by myself here in the city. But I

am deeply interested in anything pertaining to what you mention."

"Oh, I see," said the other, and disappointment was evident in his tone.

"I had hoped, from the interest you show in literature, that you are

connected with one of the schools. But I will state what we have planned

on, and what would be necessary on the part of your people, in order to

stimulate such a movement.

"This city is, of course, unable to make such an investment; but it, the

board, is willing to cooperate with the leaders of your people, the

teachers and preachers, in bringing this to the attention of northern

philanthropists, and, with a little effort concentrated on the issue, it

is reasonable to suppose that, in view of libraries given to the

different colored schools in the south, the securing of one here is

quite possible."

"That is the way I have been compelled to see it, through knowledge

gained in observation," Wyeth agreed.

"Oh, it can be obtained, it should be obtained." He paused again

hesitantly, then went on, somewhat determinedly: "This city has a

dreadful record for crime; and, while I regret to make the mention, yet,

I think you will agree with me--"

"That the great amount of the crime is among the black population,"

Wyeth assisted, unembarrassed.

"Exactly. It is a dreadful affair, this daily murdering of human beings,

and this continual herding to the chain gang. These people go there and

get in so much trouble, because their minds are untrained--and this is

due to their environment, which is bad. It is a distressing condition

which the state is facing. A library will, in time, have a marked effect

upon existing conditions. There is no park either, in fact, there is

nothing but the open street, the schools and churches for the colored

youth; whereas, the white children have everything to help them become

the proper men and women. And yet, and here is where it becomes awkward

for the public to do anything. You are aware that the south is poor,

and, therefore, unable to give even their white population what the

north can in regard to uplift; but, as I remarked, the leaders appear to

show such little interest in betterment.

"Now, for instance, if the teachers and preachers would unite themselves

into a body, for the purpose of securing a library for the colored

people of Effingham, and persist in this matter, eventually they would

have a building, and not less than fifty thousand volumes. But, as it

now stands, rarely do any of them call in the manner you do. And, before

anything can be done by the board, it is expedient on the part of these

people, to get some public sentiment, in favor of the proposal. Now,

what is your opinion of it?"

"Of course, I cannot be otherwise than heartily in accordance with such

a proposition. And, I regret to agree with you, that the people we, or

you, look to as our leaders, show little interest in this matter.

Publicity is necessary. I could, for instance, write an article calling

attention to such a movement, and have it published in the colored

paper; but they would not read it with other than a passing interest in

such a sheet. I have had it in view for some time past of doing

something--or, I should say, saying something. I shall not yet, however,

state just what or how I will say it; but suffice that I am going to say

something, and say it at a time and in such words, that the Negro

public, as well as the whites, will, I hope, sit up and take notice."

"I am glad to hear that. Drop in at any time, and if we can help you in

any way, we will be only too glad to do so," said the librarian,

enthusiastically, and extended his hand.

When Wyeth got to his room, he thought long and deeply upon the subject.

And when he retired that evening, he had begun the formulation of a plan

that would wake up this sluggish resignation, which seemed to possess

the race to whom the white people looked to for initiative.

The following Sunday, when he received his paper, _The Herald_, an

article spread over the front page, double column, caught his attention,

and he read it through, as no doubt every one did, who was interested in

civic welfare. It was another by the park commissioner, and was in

regard to a park to be centrally located, and to be used exclusively for

the use of the colored population of the city.

In Effingham, there are perhaps a half dozen small and large parks, and

all for white use exclusively. During the hot days of the long summer,

black people must roast in their stuffy little homes, perhaps a fourth

of which face alleys. Black children have no place to play, no place to

exercise their little bodies, or give free vent to their desire for

child play. Crime, therefore, is their greatest environment.

Stealing is so bad in this city, that the druggist remarked to Wyeth one

day, that if he should awaken at two A.M. and see a Negro pushing a box

car up the street, not to become excited or even be surprised. Since he

had been in Effingham, a man who lived to the rear of his abode, and who

owned a horse and wagon, had, on three different occasions, and in less

than two months, found it in a remote part of the city. It was tied to a

tree or a fence, or maybe not tied at all. It was nothing uncommon. The

horse was used to haul stuff that had previously been spotted and later

stolen. It is this that the colored children see and become acquainted

with in their alley homes, and which makes criminals of so many long

before they are of age.

The article by the park commissioner dealt with these conditions, as

well as with the great amount of murder committed in the city. It was

the desire, to locate a park near the heart of the city, so that these

little children with the ebony faces, might find some relief from their

alley homes, and in that way, help a little toward the discouragement of

so much crime. The jail was overrun with both women and men prisoners;

the funds for the purpose of building a larger jail was not forthcoming,

so the city could do the least by giving these people some place of

recreation.

However, went on the commissioner's article, neither the city nor the

commissioner could be expected to make any move toward giving this to

the colored people, until the colored people themselves, through their

leaders, the preachers and teachers, of which there was estimated to be

in the neighborhood of three hundred, would show, in some manner, that

they desired it. To purchase the ground and remove the buildings

thereon, prepare and dress it down to a park, would, of course, require

a considerable outlay of capital. The commissioner, therefore, would be

glad to consult with this body of people with a view to that end. If it

was not convenient for all to come, he added, kindly write him their

views and desires with regard to the matter. But the commissioners would

consider it more demonstrative, if the teachers and preachers of the

city, colored, would call upon him in person; and, in conclusion, he set

a day, and requested that as many, if not all of them, would call at his

office on the afternoon of the following Wednesday.

Wyeth spoke of the matter to those he knew; few though, had concerned

themselves as much as to read it even; while others made idle remarks,

and so the day came.

Yes, it came, and to the office went, to be exact, five teachers and

three preachers out of a possible total number of three hundred. The

commissioner was too discouraged to keep these precious eight very long,

so, with a few words, announcement was made that a pasture, five miles

from town, could be leased for a small figure, and that a car line went

within a mile of it; so that it was moved and seconded, and the colored

people got a park.

The following day, the papers were considerate enough to make small

mention of it, and that was the end of the matter.

When Sidney Wyeth had learned the details, he decided upon a plan which

will be unfolded in a later chapter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"_This Man Is Losing His Mind_"

"Hello, stranger," said Miss Palmer one beautiful morning, when he came

strolling by. "I haven't seen you for a long time," she said, smiling

not overly pleasant. In fact, Miss Palmer looked worn, and acted

likewise. She did not present a hopeful example, as Wyeth saw her now.

She was sweeping the sidewalk in front of her place with a broom that

was worn to the last threads, and more. These had been cut, and only the

small wire held it to the handle.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, upon looking at it. "What do you call that?"

and pointed at it with a laugh. She looked sad and replied:

"That's my broom. Isn't it a shame? But it's all the broom I have. Won't

you buy me one, and give it to me as a present? You make plenty of

money, and I have five fifty in the house for you myself." She smiled up

into his face now wearily, and he was touched. He was, moreover, sorry

now for what he had said. But to make amends, he replied cheerfully:

"Sure, sis. Take any part of what is due me, and use it for that

purpose."

"That is so sweet of you," she smiled, gratefully. "I always believed

you were sweet, regardless of the fact that of late you have become so

awful."

"How's that?" he inquired, curiously.

"Oh, I have been constrained to believe you are losing your mind. You

have succeeded in criticising about everybody and everything, that

pertains to the good colored people of this city."

"Oh, Miss Palmer," he cried, looking hurt, "I have not criticised

everybody and everything. I have only shown that I think a lot of the

so-called good people are four-flushers and selfish creatures, with no

real love for the race, nor any regard for the civic improvement of

these black people. But I know lots of good, kind, sincere colored

people in this town, that I am proud of as members of the race."

"Come into the house," she invited, and presently they were seated in

the parlor. At once Miss Palmer took up the discussion of society, and

the buying of homes, which had reached a degree of impracticability

among the colored people, notwithstanding the sound idea.

All over the country, during this pilgrimage, Wyeth had witnessed this

purchase idea with a mark of encouragement. And, to say that they were

succeeding, was a fact that meant a great deal to their future welfare.

Miss Palmer delighted always to discuss the buying of a home, and

marrying. Another teacher was visiting her that day, and likewise shared

her views. Wyeth did too, but he always had questions to ask, that

sometimes made the discussion rather upset.

Now he read the Negro paper, and had fearfully observed that an unusual

and alarming amount of foreclosures was the order. In conversation with

the numerous real estate dealers, he learned, moreover, that many of the

attempts at purchasing, were foredoomed to failure when made; that to

own a home, in a great many cases had become a fetish, and was,

therefore, not based upon a practical consideration in the beginning.

A very successful dealer, colored, had told him confidentially, that he

sold many homes, and would have bet, if it had been expedient, that they

would not be able to keep the payments up for a year.

"How does so much of this come about?" he had inquired.

"Notoriety. Too many people do not study, although they may have a

liberal school training among our people. It's the great ambition of too

many, to get into a home with the first object of being seen therein, to

show to their friends and put on airs. They buy with no idea whatever

as to value, liability or anything. They have simply stinted themselves

until they have managed to save a few dollars, and desire to get into

the biggest home possible, to be where they can be seen by their

friends."

"The rate of interest appears to be very high, I have observed," said

he, by way of comment. The other looked at him meaningly, and then said:

"Interest eats these people alive here; just sucks their life's

blood--but it is not that alone. Not one in five knows how to arrange a

loan. They permit themselves to be governed by some dealer, who, in

almost every instant, is the worst grafter possible. They will make a

loan with a life of three years, at eight per cent interest, and five

per cent commission. Now you know that no loan running three years, on

property that poor people are trying to buy on the installment plan, is

practical. Yet that is the kind of loan that most of these cheap sharks

offer to the masses of our people, who have no judgment. A Negro is

unable, as a rule, to realize that three years is a very short time. He

is compelled to learn by bitter experience. The worst feature of this

is, that at the end of it, he is so discouraged, that often he does not

benefit by this experience, because the failure has gotten his heart,

and he is done for.

"At the end of three years, which seems like three days when they are

trying to buy a home, the shark is around for a renewal of the mortgage,

and must, therefore, collect another cash commission of five per cent.

Think of it! In two-thirds of such instances, it takes every dime they

have paid in those three years. Sometimes more. Now how can people pay

for a home under such conditions! But there is another side of it. And

it all comes from the inability of our people to see further than their

noses.

"Almost all these purchases are made beyond the extension of the

sewerage, often the water works, positively no street improvements, and

side walks are rare; but, in three years, in order to boom the property,

the promoter is active in bringing some of these improvements within

reach of this property. That adds about one-half to two-thirds more to

the cost of the property he is trying to buy. Moreover, when these

people know anything, they will not buy a house built by these

promoters, for it is nothing but the cheapest shell they can get to

stand, but attractive from the outside. In two years, the occupant is

fortunate if he doesn't have to build another.

"Then comes the great day. These people cannot pay that commission over

again, and the loan company doesn't care to increase the loan, maybe, by

including the commission in a new one. If they are unable to make

arrangements with a bank, and that means they are going to deed them the

property, seven cases in ten, foreclosure proceedings are instituted.

The property is finally deeded by the sheriff to the mortgagee. Now here

is another phase: This piece of property can then be sold quicker than

before, for this reason: It is very easy to frame up a tale, to the

effect that a party who was purchasing the place was a shiftless

drunkard, or anything, and imagination can supply the rest; but,

inasmuch as they had taken the property back, they are now offering it

at a greatly reduced price and better terms. There are so many subtle

ways of drawing people in, that it would take a volume to relate them

all; but they come to the same in the end. Installment property at two

thousand dollars can be bought for about twelve to not exceed fifteen

hundred. Instead of commission and everything else, buying by the

installment plan in this, and every overboomed southern town, costs from

twice to three times what the property would actually cost, if the

purchaser could pay half of the purchase price cash, for, in that way he

could secure terms, and could pay interest rate on the remainder. In

time he would get the same paid, and have his little home."

"And that, you feel, is the reason for all this foreclosure?" said

Wyeth.

"That is the _cause_ of it. Why, advertising property for foreclosure

has become a feature of competition, between the three Negro papers in

this town. They get more money out of that end, than they do from the

advertisements through straight business, for the purpose of selling it

originally."

"It would seem that the people would get on to such methods by and by,"

Wyeth commented.

"Some, of course, do, and avoid it; but you cannot imagine how many do

not. It all comes about through a lack of general intelligence. Too many

of our people do not read anything; are, therefore, without any vision

or judgment of their own. They don't know. And, of course, are made the

goats of those who do."

"So that explains why a portion of this town to the west, and which is

occupied almost exclusively by our people, has such dreadful streets and

no sidewalks whatever."

"That's it. They will, perhaps, have none for the next twenty-five

years. Too much property is being bought, and so little is being paid

for, that it is a continual change about."

"I find a great many of the people--intelligent people--who do not care

to see this side of it," Wyeth remarked.

"Half of the school teachers, for instance, seem to wish not to see it.

And they get stung! But they are so anxious to be seen, and to be

referred to in a position beyond their means, no wonder."

So Sidney Wyeth had to take this man's point of view for more than one

reason. Like Attalia--but worse, these people considered literature, as

a whole, dead stock. More than sixty thousand in number, the demand

among them for books and magazines, was insufficient to justify any

one's running a place for such a purpose. It was not large enough to

justify either of the Negro drug stores carrying periodicals in stock,

even those that were carried by all white drug stores, excepting those

in districts occupied and patronized by the colored people. And with all

this, there was not the least claim for that kind of knowledge. More

than a hundred churches never encouraged the people to read anything but

the Bible: apparently, the obtaining of a library had not worried any

but Sidney Wyeth; it has been seen how they worried over the securing

of a park. Is it a wonder, with all this under his observation, that

Sidney Wyeth, who came from a land where people read and thought, and

had some perspective, eventually came to be regarded as a chronic

critic? He had witnessed more murders than he had in all the days of his

life.

Having digressed to such a length, we will return now to Miss Annie

Palmer, who was possessed with the ambition to be established in a home

of her own, and to be seen by those who knew her.

* * * * *

"Just think of it, suga'," she said to the other teacher. "You can get

the nicest kind of a home in the west end for a moderate sum, and only

fifty or a hundred dollars down on the best of them. The rest is paid

just like you pay rent, and no more." It was this, Wyeth recalled, that

got them. "It cost no more than to pay rent after the first payment."

"Um-um," from the other.

"And the sewers, and sidewalks, and streets and lights are all there,"

said Wyeth kindly.

"Oh, there you go for an argument," Miss Palmer retorted, angrily. Wyeth

grinned.

"Well, these things have all been completed to include this

property...."

Miss Palmer said nothing to him in reply.

"And you can get it after the first payment like paying rent," commented

the other teacher.

"Um-m," let out Miss Palmer, sweetly.

"What sweet real estate dealer offers such bargains and _easy_ things?"

said Wyeth, humorously. The druggist, who knew everybody's business, had

told him that Miss Palmer, at one time, was the object of every real

estate shark in Effingham. And then some one lodged her in the suburbs,

and since, she had been left alone. So he wondered whether it was

because Miss Palmer, as a lady high in colored society, could not

conveniently get such an amount together.

"This man is losing his mind," she said, to the other teacher. The other

now regarded Wyeth dubiously. He grinned and then said:

"If you start buying, or biting on one of these _easy_ homes in the west

end that you refer to, you are going to lose your head."

"Oh, is that so," Miss Palmer essayed, with much spirit. "Do you

suppose, that with me teaching in the schools of this city for thirteen

years--" and she had begun at twenty-two, so she told him once--"I do

not know something! And if you infer that I haven't a hundred dollars,

then you haven't become acquainted with Annie Palmer! Don't you worry

about her, for she always has a roll convenient. And you never see any

collectors coming here, and leaving without what they came for." She was

very dignified now, as she went to the door to answer a knock.

The room in which they sat opened into a small hallway, which was

entered from the street by a glass door. It was at this open door, that

a man stood, who, however, could not be seen from where Miss Palmer's

company sat. He could be heard, though. And they, the company, couldn't

help hearing. They were not eavesdropping. It was then that Wyeth

learned Miss Palmer was vain. He could not help recalling, that if "no

collectors went away without what they came for," it was because they

expected nothing when they came. So, when Miss Palmer had completed her

trite sentence and sallied forth to answer the knock, they could not

help hearing her say very quickly, and with some embarrassment:

"Oh, you are too early. Come back tomorrow. I have my books to deliver

this afternoon, and will be ready for you tomorrow, so--"

That was as far as she got. And her company could not be censured for

overhearing the rest of it, that is, what the other made in reply. The

chances are the other was not aware of their presence, a few feet away,

but that is a matter for conjecture. Miss Palmer could be heard

attempting to finish with him, without his words that came in a flow.

She was nervous, but he would have his say, and so he said, cutting off

her discourse:

"I'm tired of this stalling, all this stalling you have been handing us

for months. This has got to come to an end."

"I'll bring it to the office, I--"

"You'll do nothing of the kind, and you know you won't!"

"I'll pay you tomorrow, sure, sure, sure!" Why didn't the man be a

gentleman and go, go, go! Plainly Miss Palmer was dreadfully nervous,

more, as she could be heard by those who were listening. She was plainly

in agony. The collector was on the warpath, and went on relentlessly:

"If you haven't made some disposition of it by Monday a week, get that

stuff ready for the wagon," and a moment later his steps died away in

the distance.

For one moment, Wyeth saw the face of her friend, but he couldn't

believe it! And still, when Miss Palmer returned and resumed her

discussion with regard to buying homes, he would have sworn that the

other had to smother very quickly a gleeful expression.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"_I'll Brand You as a Faker_"

"Eh, there! Get that car on switch A! Now, let her come back to the

left. All forward no-ow! Engineer, what's the matter with you today? Are

you drunk? Pull that train forward and back it up as I tell you, or I

shall report you to the superintendent! You're devilishly contrary

today."

"Oh, Sam," called some one.

"Aw, don't bother me today. I'm in a hurry. I am called by the board of

directors to talk over the purchase of the A.G.S. I am chairman of the

committee, and have no time to talk with you."

"Hello, Sam," greeted Wyeth, as this worthy came hurriedly by. Sam

halted a moment and gazed at him, then walked forward and extended his

hand, crying:

"Mr. Morgan. I'm glad to see you. I am called by the directors of the

Southern Railway, with regard to purchasing that line and merging it

with the L. & N."

"I see. Who owns the L. & N. now," he inquired, casually.

"Me."

"And the A.G.S.?"

"I only have a half interest in that now."

"I understand that you refused to buy out the controlling interest in

the Tennessee Coal and Iron Company."

"Yes, I refused. I don't like the line-up in the directorship. And,

besides, I cannot see my way clear to act as chairman of the board of

control, therefore, I considered it unwise to invest any millions in the

thing."

"Well, I won't detain you, since I know you are so busy. Good day."

"Good day, Mr. Morgan. Try to call at my office in the Empire building

before you leave town.

"Engineer, if you don't switch better, call at the office this evening

and get your time. I will fire you," and Sam hurried to his office, just

as John Moore came from another direction, sleepy-eyed, and looking like

the "last rose of summer". The Mis' was waiting for him, and as soon as

he was inside, she inquired with concealed suspicion:

"Well, where were you last night?"

"In jail."

"You seem fond of that place of late."

He shrugged his shoulders sleepily.

"Where did they get you this time?"

"Rosie's."

"You've been quite a frequenter about there of late...."

"That's mah business. Don't try t' hand me no argerment this morning.

Fix me something to eat. I'm hongry."

"Didn't you have breakfast up there; but then it seems you left before

breakfast? How came you back so early? I didn't look for you so soon."

"How did you know that I had been got? You are too smart nowaday's

anyhow."

"Who went your bond?"

He regarded her out of impatient eyes now. He glared at her, but said:

"I was eight dollars winner, and had two dollars besides."

"Um-m. So you give that to a professional bondsman."

"Hello," came a call from the outside.

"Hello," called back the Mis'. "Come in."

"Is John Moore here?" said a bad looking Negro, with a head like a

monkey and no chin at all. Moore looked uneasy.

"Oh, here you are," said the other, as he spied Moore. His tone was full

of contempt, and a touch of anger was mingled. "Where is my part for the

stuff you disposed of?"

"Ssh! Not so loud."

"Not so the devil! You can't shoo me away any longer. You ain't paid me

for the last bunch a chicken I brung heah; and now you want t' shoo me

away on this last stuff we done stole togedder."

"Will you hush. We'll talk this matter over outside."

"We's go'n talk it over heah, 'n' you go'n hand me ove fo' dollah's, ah

I'm go'in' t' take it outta yo' stinkin' hide!" He looked at Moore now

with an evil eye, and that worthy backed up and picked up a pair of

scissors, that he had brought in late one night from one of the

mysterious directions.

"Oh, you go'n push them things through me, eh! All right, ole nigga.

This is wha you 'n' me mixes it. I gi'n fix you ah you gi'n fix me," and

with that he started in the other's direction.

"Now, Sha'p Head. Ain' I done always treated you right?" Moore

whimpered.

"Naw, naw! 'n that's what I'm gi'n land on you cause!"

"Now just name a time when I ain'," Moore temporized, nervously.

"Naw, I say. Git out that winda 'f you don't wanta be killed. Git out

wi' out awgument, cause I g'in to make you run some. Don't you b'lieve

I'm go'n run yu?"

"'C'ose I b'lieve you. I b'lieve you go'n come in heah 'n' run me outta

ma house, outta ma house," cried Moore, piteously.

"Come pickin' up a pair a-scissors two feet long to push in me," roared

the other. "I got a notion t' run yu ontell yo' ankles gits hot. I'll

run yu six blocks, you lop eared bull dog!"

"You outta be 'shamed t' treat me that way, Sha'p head, 'n' you know you

outta!" went on Moore, soothingly.

"Come outside, John Moore, 'n' leave yo' coat inside. I'm go'n' run y'

six blocks, so help me Gawd!"

"All right, Sha'p Head. 'F you jes' gotta run me outta ma house, then go

on outside. I'm a-comin."

The other came through the room where Wyeth and Legs were trying to

play a game of checkers. He was puffing so hard, that he appeared to be

afraid of himself. "That low down skunk! I'm go'n run that nigga ontell

'is ankle's done be so hot that the streets go'n melt behind him!

Doggone 'im!"

"Are you outside, Sha'p Head?" called Moore, nervously.

"I'm out heah, you liver eater. Come out wi' yo ankle's greased, 'cause

you go'n run six blocks faster yu ebber did in yo' life; 'n' when you

gits to d' end of it, I' gi'n kill yu!"

"Bang!" went the door, and the key turned. To describe the indignation

of Moore for the next few minutes; what he would do; what he ought to

have done, would be beyond the possibilities of our pen. He was

positively so bad that he had much effort to keep from doing injury to

himself. Legs winked at Wyeth, and then, rising, unlocked the door and

slipped out quietly. A moment later, a terrible banging was instituted

upon the door. Wyeth held it closed, with a great feigned effort.

"Let me at him! Let me at him!" cried Legs from the outside, but John

Moore didn't wait to hear any more. A crash and a rattle as of falling

glass scattered about, showed that an exit was unconventionally made in

the rear. Wyeth and Legs came around in time to see him going over the

back fence. The next time they saw him, he was leading the other by

about two rods, as they went up the street.

"Jumped right into his jaws," laughed Glenview, as they watched the

chase from the porch.

Ten minutes later, some one tore into the house, and turned the key of

the door so quickly, that it seemed like an automatic spring lock.

It was John Moore.

"Let's go down to the drug store," suggested Wyeth. Legs didn't hang out

in that direction, so Glenview was the recipient of the suggestion. He

couldn't, so, presently, Wyeth went alone.

"They are going to fall down in both those towns, on the securing of a

Y.M.C.A. for Negroes, and I knew they would when they started," the

druggist was saying, when Wyeth entered.

"Negroes can secure nothing but churches down south," commented another.

"They have only a few weeks left, before the time limit on the

appropriations from the Jew expires. He offered twenty-five thousand to

any association where the people secured an additional seventy-five

thousand. Now six months after the campaign for the association in

Grantville," so said a mail clerk who ran to that city, "less than five

thousand in cash, out of a total of more than thirty-three thousand

dollars subscribed, has been collected to date. How can this--what is

the name of the secretary of the proposed association--yes, I have it,

Jacobs--Rev. Wilson Jacobs, figure they will be able to secure one in

that town?"

"It's all stuff. Nigga's down here would do nothing with an association

no way," said the druggist.

"I stopped at the Y.M.C.A. when I was in Chicago this summer," said the

bookkeeper in the Dime Savings Bank. "It appears to be conducted with

great success, and is surely a fine, clean, up-to-date place to stop,

regardless of the fact that almost everything is open to Negroes in that

city."

"Yes, but the Negroes in Chicago are civilized," said another. "These

Negroes down here would have to have a half dozen police standing around

to keep order, if they had one."

"But don't you feel such a thing in this town would act as a great moral

benefit?" suggested Wyeth, at this juncture.

"We now hear from Tempest," smiled the druggist. He had not been able,

as yet, to reconcile himself to the bet he lost some months before, and

had since a grudge against Wyeth.

"I see by today's paper, that Wilson Jacobs will address the people of

the city in regard to the Christian forward movement, and will be

assisted by several white men of high standing in the city."

"Well, speeches will be all right; but I'd bet a dollar to a dime that

they will never secure a Y.M.C.A. in the town he represents. As for

Effingham, no chance."

"You seem to be successful in getting the biggest kind of churches

here," said Wyeth.

"Yes," returned the druggist, "and they will be paying for them, as they

have been for the last--since I ever knew anything."

"But they have the churches, nevertheless."

"Oh, so far as that goes, yes."

"They must have had to pay as much as forty per cent of the cost, to

secure a loan for the remainder?"

"Yes, Tempest; but what has that to do with it?"

"Well, if the big church on the corner up the street could be secured at

a cost of seventy-five thousand dollars, half or more of which I

understand has been paid, then, a like amount should be available in a

town of this size, and which has an equal number of colored people,

shouldn't it?"

"Tempest is out for argument," said the druggist.

"No argument, when almost every large city in the north--and some not as

large as this town--have a Y.M.C.A. for its black population. And more

than half that have such, have not nearly the colored population that

this town has, and positively have not nearly the need."

"Tempest has been worrying about a library, a park, and everything else

for this town, in the months he has been here," the druggist said,

looking almost amused. Wyeth took exception.

"I _am_ interested in this town, and in another, where I see and read of

more crime and murder, than I ever dreamed was possible."

"Then, Tempest," said the druggist, naively, "you ought to get one. Or,

at least, you ought to awaken, by some initiative on your part, some

enthusiasm to that end. You see all we need, you do, a globe trotter,

and you have certainly criticised to that end, and now," his voice took

on a cold, hard tone, "I say: Do something to prove this criticism worth

the while, or I'll brand _you_ as a faker--a frost, with all your

premeditated ideas!"

Every one about was silent, while their eyes turned and regarded Sidney

Wyeth. About the corners of their mouths a smile that spelled of a

sneer, played subtly. If Sidney Wyeth didn't see it, he at least felt

it. And in that moment, he realized that he would not dare show his face

about this place, lest he be scorned henceforth, if he didn't take the

stand the druggist had taken.

"Very well, Dr. Randall," he said, rising. "_I shall do so._" He

regarded them all for a moment, with a firm sweep of his eyes, and,

next, he turned and left the store.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

_The Arraignment_

"I guess that will do," whispered Wyeth to himself, arising from his

typewriter at one-thirty the following morning. Carefully he placed the

typewritten pages in the drawer, and retired.

* * * * *

"A colored man to see you, Mr. Byron," said the clerk, to the managing

editor of the Effingham _Age-Herald_.

"Show him in," said the other shortly, and kept about his work. A moment

later, Sidney Wyeth stood before the editor.

"Well?"

"I should like twenty minutes talk with you, Mr. Byron," said the other

calmly.

The editor laid down his pen, and raising his eyes, he began at the

feet, which were somewhat large, ran the gaze up a pair of long legs,

and finally saw a chin, a nose and the eyes, and there they stopped. He

had been in the act of freezing, what he was confident was a crank, a

fool, or a knave. To walk calmly into the office of the managing editor,

and ask for twenty minutes of his time! It was incredulous. And yet,

when he saw the eyes of the other, something therein told him strangely,

that this man was no fool, nor a knave--nor any of the things he had

been feeling. He was--well, he was a colored man, which made it stranger

still, for colored men had not been in the habit of coming to his office

at all, much less asking for such an amount of time on his busy day. He

shifted his position, and finally, after swallowing guiltily, the words

he started to say, he added:

"Be seated."

"I realize that you are busy, very busy, Mr. Byron," Wyeth began

rapidly, not waiting for the other to say anything more. "But my

business is a matter of grave importance, of the very gravest

importance. And that is why I have called, and asked for the amount of

time which I am aware is not customary for you to grant."

The other said nothing. He knew of nothing to say; but, somehow, he

simply sat viewing Sidney Wyeth out of curious eyes--and waiting. The

other unfolded one of several papers; they were, the editor now saw,

previous issues of his paper. He wondered. He had been very careful to

kill stories that smelled of strife between the races.... He did not

conduct his paper with an appeal to race prejudice. Mr. Byron was proud

of the fact, too. Moreover, while he had doubts as to the hurried

evolution of the Negro race to a place in the least equal to the one of

which he was a member, he had always tried, when he could conveniently

do so, to say a word of kind encouragement with regard to the colored

people. Only that week, he had run a strong account on the front page,

with regard to the governor's visit to Tuscola, at the invitation of its

principal, who had extended it. The invitation came for the purpose of

allowing the state government to see, by a personal inspection, whether

the colored schools were entitled to a portion of certain funds, the

Federal government had appropriated for the purpose of farm

demonstration work. Following his return to the city, the governor had,

without reservation, announced that the appropriation would be so

divided, as to allow Tuscola Institute and another Negro school, a

liberal portion of said funds.

Steven Byron justly took some of the credit for this, and now is it a

wonder that he held his breath, while this young Negro, whom he had

never seen before, unfolded the paper and finally began.

Coming to the side of his desk, Wyeth reseated himself, and, pointing to

an article, said: "You recall this incident?"

"Yes," said the editor, still wondering.

"And this one also," said the other, with another paper unfolded and

spread before him.

"Of course."

And for the next few seconds he showed him others. The other was still

wondering, when Wyeth said:

"Do you recall following this particular Wednesday, when you published

this article in regard to the park for colored people, the number of

teachers and preachers who presented themselves as the commissioner had

suggested and requested?"

"Well, yes. There were--"

"Eight, to be exact. Three preachers and five teachers."

"Yes." The other was still curious.

"Have you any idea what number of preachers and teachers you have among

the colored people of this city?"

"Why, a great many, I am sure."

"Three hundred or more, according to the directory. I don't think they

got all that teach elsewhere, and make their homes here during vacation;

and I know they have not all the preachers, but that is neither here nor

there.

"In regard to this article about securing a library for the colored

people. How many visits, can you recall, were paid you by any of the

teachers and preachers following the publication of it? And can you

recall how many letters you received, or anything else connected with

the instant?"

"I can quite well, I regret to say," replied the editor; "for the simple

reason I received no letters nor any visits."

"You requested, in your paper of recent issue, and which is before you,

that the leading colored people--and of course this includes the

teachers--should call at your office to make arrangement for the coming

lecture in regard to the need of Y.M.C.A.'s for the colored people of

the south. I suppose you have been favored with many visits?"

The other shook his head sadly, as he replied: "No one has called among

your people."

"Very well. Has it ever occurred to you, Mr. Byron, that an unusual

amount of crime appears to be the order in this city?"

"Who couldn't realize it, that lived here or knew of the place through

the columns of the papers?"

"And, unfortunately, eighty per cent of the murders are committed by a

certain two-fifths of our population. That two-fifths represents my

race."

The editor nodded.

"Then, in view of what I have just called to your attention, does it

occur to you that the leaders--or the should-be-leaders of my people of

this city, are indicating, by their actions, that they care a hang what

becomes of the race?"

The elements were beginning to clear now. The editor said: "It certainly

doesn't appear so."

"And yet how many of these people, in conversation, are ever ready, when

there is a mob demonstration, to exploit--which in itself is much in

order--the 'best' people. And what consideration should be shown them,

regardless of the ignorance and crime of the masses? Does it not occur

to the casual observer, that a great deal of negligence is the order

when it comes to moral uplift, on the part of the leading Negroes

themselves?"

"I cannot help but agree with you."

"Then, Mr. Byron, I have prepared an article arraigning this element of

my race, that I have brought with me, and ask you to examine it, with a

view to publication. I beg you to read the same carefully, and if you

feel you would like to run it, I shall appreciate it. And if you do not,

I will call tomorrow and get the same." Forthwith, he handed the editor

the typewritten pages he had prepared the night before, and, with a bow,

left the office.

* * * * *

"The colored man that was here yesterday, Mr. Byron, has called again,

and waits outside."

"Show him in, show him in at once," cried the editor, turning about, and

preparing himself for a conversation.

"Well, sir," said Wyeth, after greetings had been exchanged, "you, of

course, realize what I am here for."

"And I am certainly glad you called," returned the editor, with a

serious face. "I have read the article, and reread parts of it." He

paused, and was thoughtful before he went on, "and must say that it is

certainly strong. Whew! The colored people are liable to lynch you for

such an arraignment, if I know them a little."

"I had considered all that before I submitted it," said the other,

resignedly.

"If a white man wrote such an article and brought it to the office, I

would not, under any consideration, publish it. But, since it has been

written by a colored man, well, that makes a difference." He was silent

again.

"Do you know," he said, regarding Wyeth keenly, "I thought over what you

wrote all last night. I have thought of it in that way before, but it

would never have done to give utterance to it, me, a white man. But,

take for instance" (he drew out the manuscript, and turned to a certain

page): "You say here, that multitudes of these so-called leaders have

accepted the work and the teaching of the wizard of Tuscola, merely

because the white people have; and that, in accepting him and his views

for the welfare of the race, it has been merely to be on the popular

side, because the wizard is so much so; but that they have no sincerity

whatever in the words they say about him." He laid the sheets down, and,

raising his finger, said: "How true that is! Why I know personally,

scores that would kick him for the statements he has made, if they could

do so. But, as you say further, they seek to get into the band wagon, at

any cost. Now you refer, at some length, to the proposal to secure a

park.

"It is a positive fact, that the good white people of the south, are

made the object of bitterness by the northern people, on account of

something for which they cannot always be blamed. Now, who would believe

at the north, that the white people were willing and ready to give the

colored people a park, a place for an outing for the children; and the

colored people didn't want it?" Wyeth shook his head.

"Nobody!" declared the editor. "Nobody in the world, and yet here is an

example in this very town, which has more murder and crime among its

black population than any city in the world, regardless of the size! And

your race; that body of people, the teachers and preachers, to whom we

have naturally looked and asked for cooperation in securing a park, have

simply ignored our invitation!

"Now, in regard to the library. Here is the article, and which I, with

care, prepared myself. What good has it done? I have asked their

cooperation, not their money; but I have been ignored, the same as the

commissioner was in regard to the park. And before and since then, crime

continues.

"We know the law-abiding colored people cannot be altogether

responsible, for the crime of the polluted and the criminal; but, Lord!

One would not suppose that they would so utterly disregard an effort on

our part for their civic welfare.

"In the end, you call attention to the churches and the condition of the

pastors. It is certainly time someone is calling to time ignorance in

the ministry. Frankly, I have long been of the opinion you advance in

the article, that an educational requirement should become a law with

regard to preachers, as well as to men in other professions. Think of

it! A profession, calling for the highest general intelligence, having

the lowest rate of intelligence!

"And, again, this church building bee has submerged the Baptist church,

among the colored people. How can any of them be of any practical

service, when there is one for every one who can say 'Jesus!'

"You draw attention to the inability of the southern cities to secure

Y.M.C.A's, where the great masses of black people, of course, live. Not

a one is in operation, as they are conducted by the whites, or by the

colored people of the north. It is easy to excuse the matter by pleading

poverty. But, while that is a plausible excuse, it seems quite feasible

to build great big churches for a certain few. They have two churches in

this town that would cost more than a Y.M.C.A. building, complete. And

yet, in Grantville, and the other town, and Attalia, they are required

to raise only about one-third of the amount necessary.

"What, then, is the cause of this failure? You have answered it in the

pages of this manuscript.

"I am going to publish it. And in doing so, I am forewarned that it is

going to arouse a world of indignation among your people, or I miss my

guess. But it needs to be done. Something should come before them, to

awaken this sluggishness with regard to uplift among their own. So you

may look for it--the entire article, on the front page of next Sunday's

issue. Good day!"

* * * * *

"That was sure a dirty deal Dr. Randall and Dr. Bard handed Tempest,

wasn't it?" remarked L. Jones, editor and owner of the Effingham

_Reporter_, colored, to his assistant.

"I don't fully understand. What was it? I hear that Wyeth bet, or

rather, made a bet with Dr. Bard about something," said the other,

attentively.

"Made a bet with Bard and beat him a mile and Bard, through his

friendship with Randall, who has had it in for Wyeth since he came here,

over a bet that Wyeth won from him, hedged on it the dirtiest you can

imagine."

"Tell me in detail about it," requested the other. At that moment, a

private detective entered the office, and, upon overhearing the

conversation, said:

"I can tell you all about it, because I was there when the bet was made.

"It was like this, or came about in this way: Down at the drug store,

Wyeth has had the nerve--I guess that is how you can place it, since the

bunch, including Bard and Randall--especially Randall, don't appear to

appreciate that any one knows anything but themselves. At least, they

have been this way in regard to that fellow Wyeth. So an argument came

about that Wyeth got into. He quoted an editorial in regard to the

prosperity of California, and mentioned that California had more

automobiles, in proportion to population, than any state in the union.

Randall had no reason to take exception to this, further than he was so

anxious to put this Wyeth in the wrong. He started an argument, but, of

course, he had his dose last summer and knew--if he would have admitted

it--that Wyeth was not arguing on something he didn't know. But Bard,

who accepts Randall as the man who knows everything, and who has argued

so much that he would try to down anybody for the sake of it, was

regardless as to the merit. Bard took exception. Those fellows cannot

appreciate anybody's knowing anything, unless he is a doctor. So, in the

course of the argument, Bard offered to bet Wyeth five dollars, that the

state of Iowa had more automobiles than California, in proportion to its

population. Wyeth called him, and they put up the money.

"I heard Bard explaining to one of their friends, that Iowa had so many

automobiles; but was away down when it came to population. Wyeth

overheard him, and agreed that Iowa _did_ have lots of machines, but

that he was wrong in regard to its being away down in population. That,

in fact, Iowa had almost as many people as California. The crowd

ridiculed such an idea, and cited the big cities of California, as an

evidence of the fact. 'There is no call for argument when the same is

down in black and white. Look it up in the census,' Wyeth declared. Bard

colored, while Randall fished around in his belongings, and found a book

containing the last government census report. Now, what do you think of

a bunch that are always arguing, and not one of them knew the population

of either of those great states. Not a one, and most of them graduated

from college. Which showed that they have not studied what is around

them, while Wyeth had.

"The report they found, had Iowa's population for fifteen years before.

'Wrong,' said Wyeth calmly. 'Well, here it is in black and white,' they

all cried at once. 'But it's wrong, I say,' declared Wyeth. 'You can't

convince Tempest on anything,' declared Randall disgustedly. 'You cannot

convince me that Iowa has not increased in population in fifteen years.

The census you are poring over there, is fifteen years old.' They were

taken aback. They looked at the top of the page and saw they were all

wrong again. Not a word did they say. No, they wouldn't admit in words

to him, that they were wrong when it was before them. Wyeth called the

population, and when they looked just to the side, there it was. It was

the same with California. And still, not one of that bunch said: 'By

jove! He's right.' No, but they all knew then that he had won that bet.

And Dr. Bard was sick. Just sick, while Randall was sore with himself.

"Now here is how they hedged and kept from paying it: Wyeth wrote to two

of the biggest motor magazines, and to the department of commerce. The

department of commerce wrote back that the information he required,

could be gotten by consulting the magazine he had written to, and stated

what issues gave it. Wyeth brought the issues and the letters. They then

claimed that they would accept the information from the secretaries of

the states only. He wrote to these people, and, strange to say, they did

not answer. And that was how they hedged. There was only one of the

bunch that frequents the place regularly, who was man enough to tell

them how cheap it was, and that was Dr. Landrum. He purchased Wyeth's

book and read it, and told Wyeth that he had done finely for a beginner;

Randall has had more criticism to offer upon it than any one else, but

would not, of course, honor Wyeth by buying one."

"I guess he more than paid for one, from what I have heard," laughed

Jones, and related the incident of the bet, which had become known about

town.

"Well," said the detective, "they are giving him the laugh down there

now, about how Randall called him on his criticisms."

"I heard about that, too," said Jones. "But you take it from me. That

fellow is going to make a fool of those fellows yet. The man has

something up his sleeve behind all this criticism he is accused of, and

I am looking for him to do something. I don't know what it will be; but

I feel in my bones, that it will be something that we will all know

about."

"I agree with you," said the detective. "That fellow has no college

education like Randall and Bard, and others, that feel they are the only

fish in the pond; but he is a walking encyclopedia when it comes to

every day facts about our country and the people, and some day we are

going to hear from him otherwise than through the pages of his book. He

didn't know all about writing when he wrote that; but it's some book at

any rate," and with that, he rose and went his way.

* * * * *

Sunday was a beautiful day. The air was calm and soft. A crowd was on

hand early at Randall's pharmacy, as was the usual custom on Sunday.

"Well," said Randall cheerfully, "today is fine. Wonder where Tempest

is." And he looked about at the others, amusedly. A tittering went the

rounds.

"He appears to be somewhat scarce about these premises, since you called

him some days ago," said Bard, whereupon there was some more tittering.

"Well, guess I'll look over the paper, since our wise friend isn't

around to teach us something," and, smothering his glee, he uncovered

the _Age-Herald_. Laying the funny pages aside, he allowed his gaze to

fall upon the front page of the general news section.

"What in Hell!" he exclaimed, in the next breath.

"What is it, Ran?" cried the crowd.

"NEGRO SAYS RACE FACES DREADFUL CONDITIONS, DUE TO LACK OF INTEREST

BY THEIR LEADERS. SAYS SELFISHNESS IS SO MUCH THE ORDER THAT THERE

IS NO INTEREST WHATEVER TOWARD UPLIFT. PROFESSIONAL NEGRO THE

WORST."

"Have you read this?" cried Professor Dawes, bursting in a few minutes

later. "What do you think of it?" He was very much excited. So were many

others.

"That Negro's crazy!" cried Professor Ewes, of the Mater School.

Professor Ewes had read Wyeth's book, which was loaned to him by one of

his teachers, who had purchased it from one of Wyeth's agents, in two

payments. She had loaned it to Professor Ewes, and Professor Ewes had,

in turn, loaned it to Professor Dawes, and Professor Dawes had, in

turn, loaned it to another professor, and after all three had read it,

it was returned to the original purchaser, who had seen the

advertisement, that it was on sale at the biggest white store in the

south, and had been inspired to subscribe for it, on that account. When

the book was returned to her, she had read fifty odd pages and liked it,

so she told Miss Palmer. She further said, she hoped some day to know

the young man, who had written such a great story. And then Miss Palmer

told her. Forthwith, all interest became an argument.

"Do you mean to say, that fellow is the author of the book?" she

inquired of her professor.

"Oh, yes," he said.

When the agent called for the remainder due, he was handed the book,

with a statement that it was positively N.G. When the agent opened it,

as he was leaving the rear of the house of the wealthy white people, a

book mark dropped from between pages fifty and fifty-one.

"Did you read what he said about the teachers?" exclaimed a

supernumerary, stopping in at the drug store, and seeing everybody

excited over the article. Jones came in behind her.

"This is where you come in for a big article in your next week's issue,"

said Randall, who didn't take any Negro paper, shoving the article under

the eyes of the Negro editor.

"I'm afraid Mr. Wyeth has said all I would liked to have said," he

replied calmly.

"What!" several cried, in consternation. "Do you mean to say that you

would have talked about the best people as this man has!"

"I mean that I would have tried to. I do not consider that I possess the

ability to arrange it as he has. You see, his range and vision is beyond

mine, which has been confined to the southland. While he has studied

every section of the country we call the United States, and he has, as

you will observe, written this article in appreciation of that point of

view."

"But, great goodness, Jones," cried Randall, very much excited, and

likewise forgetting that he did not subscribe for nor advertise in

Jones' paper, which was the best Negro paper in the state. Because, he

said to everybody but Jones himself, it was N.G., and didn't pay to

advertise in it. "See what he has said about our teachers!"

"I have seen it. What of it?"

"It's dreadful--terrible!"

"About the park and library, you mean?"

"Sure!"

"How can you say that--or anything to the contrary, when you know all he

has related there is true?"

Randall hesitated embarrassed for a moment, then said: "But he needn't

have made such an issue of it!"

"But it's true?"

"Well--yes--of course it's true. But--"

"And about this crime, etc.?"

"Yes--but--"

"He shouldn't have told it where the white people can read it," assisted

Jones, grimly. Those about became quiet very quickly, and looked at each

other. Jones saw the lay of the land, and took his leave.

"At last, at last!" he cried to himself, as he went up the street, "the

turning point has been reached. When I write again of civic conditions

in my paper, and show up the fallacies among our own, it'll be read and

notice taken of it."

All that day, indignation meetings denouncing the article by Sidney

Wyeth, was the order among Effingham's black people. All the week

following, it was further denounced. And thus we come to the end of this

part of our story.

As for Sidney Wyeth, he left Effingham. He left shortly after writing

the article, and went to another city. In that other city, he came back

to where he started--that is, something had come back to him which was

his dream, when we met him in the beginning of our story.