THE TRUSTFULNESS OF POLLY

Polly Jackson was a model woman. She was practical and hard-working.

She knew the value of a dollar, could make one and keep one,

sometimes--fate permitting. Fate was usually Sam and Sam was Polly's

husband. Any morning at six o'clock she might be seen, basket on arm,

wending her way to the homes of her wealthy patrons for the purpose of

bringing in their washing, for by this means did she gain her

livelihood. She had been a person of hard common sense, which suffered

its greatest lapse when she allied herself with the man whose name she

bore. After that the lapses were more frequent.

How she could ever have done so no one on earth could tell. Sam was

her exact opposite. He was an easy-going, happy-go-lucky individual,

who worked only when occasion demanded and inclination and the weather

permitted. The weather was usually more acquiescent than inclination.

He was sanguine of temperament, highly imaginative and a dreamer of

dreams. Indeed, he just missed being a poet. A man who dreams takes

either to poetry or policy. Not being able quite to reach the former,

Sam had declined upon the latter, and, instead of meter, feet and

rhyme, his mind was taken up with "hosses," "gigs" and "straddles."

He was always "jes' behin' dem policy sha'ks, an' I'll be boun',

Polly, but I gwine to ketch 'em dis time."

Polly heard this and saw the same result so often that even her

stalwart faith began to turn into doubt. But Sam continued to reassure

her and promise that some day luck would change. "An' when hit do

change," he would add, impressively, "it's gwine change fu' sho', an'

we'll have one wakenin' up time. Den I bet you'll git dat silk dress

you been wantin' so long."

Polly did have ambitions in the direction of some such finery, and

this plea always melted her. Trust was restored again, and Hope

resumed her accustomed place.

It was, however, not through the successful culmination of any of

Sam's policy manipulations that the opportunity at last came to Polly

to realize her ambitions. A lady for whom she worked had a

second-hand silk dress, which she was willing to sell cheap. Another

woman had spoken for it, but if Polly could get the money in three

weeks she would let her have it for seven dollars.

To say that the companion of Sam Jackson jumped at the offer hardly

indicates the attitude of eagerness with which she received the

proposition.

"Yas'm, I kin sholy git dat much money together in th'ee weeks de way

I's a-wo'kin'."

"Well, now, Polly, be sure; for if you are not prompt I shall have to

dispose of it where it was first promised," was the admonition.

"Oh, you kin 'pend on me, Mis' Mo'ton; fu' when I sets out to save

money I kin save, I tell you." Polly was not usually so sanguine, but

what changes will not the notion of the possession of a brown silk

dress trimmed with passementrie make in the disposition of a woman?

Polly let Sam into the secret, and, be it said to his credit, he

entered into the plan with an enthusiasm no less intense than her own.

He had always wanted to see her in a silk dress, he told her, and then

in a quizzically injured tone of voice, "but you ought to waited tell

I ketched dem policy sha'ks an' I'd 'a' got you a new one." He even

went so far as to go to work for a week and bring Polly his earnings,

of course, after certain "little debts" which he mentioned but did not

specify, had been deducted.

But in spite of all this, when washing isn't bringing an especially

good price; when one must eat and food is high; when a grasping

landlord comes around once every week and exacts tribute for the

privilege of breathing foul air from an alley in a room up four

flights; when, I say, all this is true, and it generally is true in

the New York tenderloin, seven whole dollars are not easily saved.

There was much raking and scraping and pinching during each day that

at night Polly might add a few nickels or pennies to the store that

jingled in a blue jug in one corner of her closet. She called it her

bank, and Sam had laughed at the conceit, telling her that that was

one bank anyhow that couldn't "bust."

As the days went on how she counted her savings and exulted in their

growth! She already saw herself decked out in her new gown, the envy

and admiration of every woman in the neighborhood. She even began to

wish that she had a full-length glass in order that she might get the

complete effect of her own magnificence. So saving, hoping, dreaming,

the time went on until a few days before the limit, and there was only

about a dollar to be added to make the required amount. This she could

do easily in the remaining time. So Polly was jubilant.

Now everything would have been all right and matters would have ended

happily if Sam had only kept on at work. But, no. He must needs stop,

and give his mind the chance to be employed with other things. And

that is just what happened. For about this time, having nothing else

to do, like that old king of Bible renown, he dreamed a dream. But

unlike the royal dreamer, he asked no seer or prophet to interpret his

dream to him. He merely drove his hand down into his inside pocket,

and fished up an ancient dream-book, greasy and tattered with use.

Over this he pored until his eyes bulged and his hands shook with

excitement.

"Got 'em at last!" he exclaimed. "Dey ain't no way fu' dem to git away

f'om me. I's behind 'em. I's behind 'em I tell you," and then his face

fell and he sat for a long time with his chin in his hand thinking,

thinking.

"Polly," said he when his wife came in, "d'you know what I dremp 'bout

las' night?"

"La! Sam Jackson, you ain't gone to dreamin' agin. I thought you done

quit all dat foolishness."

"Now jes' listen at you runnin' on. You ain't never axed me what I

dremp 'bout yit."

"Hit don' make much diffunce to me, less 'n you kin dream 'bout a

dollah mo' into my pocket."

"Dey has been sich things did," said Sam sententiously. He got up and

went out. If there is one thing above another that your professional

dreamer does demand, it is appreciation. Sam had failed to get it from

Polly, but he found a balm for all his hurts when he met Bob Davis.

"What!" exclaimed Bob. "Dreamed of a nakid black man. Fu' de Lawd

sake, Sam, don' let de chance pass. You got 'em dis time sho'. I'll

put somep'n' on it myse'f. Wha'd you think ef we'd win de 'capital'?"

That was enough. The two parted and Sam hurried home. He crept into

the house. Polly was busy hanging clothes on the roof. Where now are

the guardian spirits that look after the welfare of trusting women?

Where now are the enchanted belongings that even in the hands of the

thief cry out to their unsuspecting owners? Gone. All gone with the

ages of faith that gave them birth. Without an outcry, without even so

much as a warning jingle, the contents of the blue jug and the

embodied hope of a woman's heart were transferred to the gaping pocket

of Sam Jackson. Polly went on hanging up clothes on the roof.

Sam chuckled to himself: "She won't never have a chanst to scol' me.

I'll git de drawin's early dis evenin', an' go ma'chin' home wif a new

silk fu' huh, an' money besides. I do' want my wife waihin' no white

folks' secon'-han' clothes nohow. My, but won't she be su'prised an'

tickled. I kin jes' see huh now. Oh, mistah policy-sha'k, I got you

now. I been layin' fu' you fu' a long time, but you's my meat at

las'."

He marched into the policy shop like a conqueror. To the amazement of

the clerk, he turned out a pocketful of small coin on the table and

played it all in "gigs," "straddles and combinations."

"I'll call on you about ha' pas' fou', Mr. McFadden," he announced

exultantly as he went out.

"Faith, sor," said McFadden to his colleague, "if that nagur does

ketch it he'll break us, sure."

Sam could hardly wait for half-past four. A minute before the time he

burst in upon McFadden and demanded the drawings. They were handed to

him. He held his breath as his eye went down the column of figures.

Then he gasped and staggered weakly out of the room. The policy sharks

had triumphed again.

Sam walked the streets until nine o'clock that night. He was afraid to

go home to Polly. He knew that she had been to the jug and found--. He

groaned, but at last his very helplessness drove him in. Polly, with

swollen eyes, was sitting by the table, the empty jug lying on its

side before her.

"Sam," she exclaimed, "whaih's my money? Whaih's my money I been

wo'kin' fu' all dis time?"

"Why--Why, Polly--"

"Don' go beatin' 'roun' de bush. I want 'o know whaih my money is; you

tuck it."

"Polly, I dremp--"

"I do' keer what you dremp, I want my money fu' my dress."

His face was miserable.

"I thought sho' dem numbers 'u'd come out, an'--"

The woman flung herself upon the floor and burst into a storm of

tears. Sam bent over her. "Nemmine, Polly," he said. "Nemmine. I

thought I'd su'prise you. Dey beat me dis time." His teeth clenched.

"But when I ketch dem policy sha'ks--"

THE TRAGEDY AT THREE FORKS

It was a drizzly, disagreeable April night. The wind was howling in a

particularly dismal and malignant way along the valleys and hollows of

that part of Central Kentucky in which the rural settlement of Three

Forks is situated. It had been "trying to rain" all day in a

half-hearted sort of manner, and now the drops were flying about in a

cold spray. The night was one of dense, inky blackness, occasionally

relieved by flashes of lightning. It was hardly a night on which a

girl should be out. And yet one was out, scudding before the storm,

with clenched teeth and wild eyes, wrapped head and shoulders in a

great blanket shawl, and looking, as she sped along like a restless,

dark ghost. For her, the night and the storm had no terrors; passion

had driven out fear. There was determination in her every movement,

and purpose was apparent in the concentration of energy with which she

set her foot down. She drew the shawl closer about her head with a

convulsive grip, and muttered with a half sob, "'Tain't the first

time, 'tain't the first time she's tried to take me down in comp'ny,

but--" and the sob gave way to the dry, sharp note in her voice, "I'll

fix her, if it kills me. She thinks I ain't her ekals, does she?

'Cause her pap's got money, an' has good crops on his lan', an' my pap

ain't never had no luck, but I'll show 'er, I'll show 'er that good

luck can't allus last. Pleg-take 'er, she's jealous, 'cause I'm better

lookin' than she is, an' pearter in every way, so she tries to make me

little in the eyes of people. Well, you'll find out what it is to be

pore--to have nothin', Seliny Williams, if you live."

The black night hid a gleam in the girl's eyes, and her shawl hid a

bundle of something light, which she clutched very tightly, and which

smelled of kerosene.

The dark outline of a house and its outbuildings loomed into view

through the dense gloom; and the increased caution with which the girl

proceeded, together with the sudden breathless intentness of her

conduct, indicated that it was with this house and its occupants she

was concerned.

The house was cellarless, but it was raised at the four corners on

heavy blocks, leaving a space between the ground and the floor, the

sides of which were partly closed by banks of ashes and earth which

were thrown up against the weather-boarding. It was but a few minutes'

work to scrape away a portion of this earth, and push under the pack

of shavings into which the mysterious bundle resolved itself. A match

was lighted, sheltered, until it blazed, and then dropped among them.

It took only a short walk and a shorter time to drop a handful of

burning shavings into the hay at the barn. Then the girl turned and

sped away, muttering: "I reckon I've fixed you, Seliny Williams,

mebbe, next time you meet me out at a dance, you won't snub me; mebbe

next time, you'll be ez pore ez I am, an'll be willin' to dance crost

from even ole 'Lias Hunster's gal."

The constantly falling drizzle might have dampened the shavings and

put out the fire, had not the wind fanned the sparks into too rapid a

flame, which caught eagerly at shingle, board and joist until house

and barn were wrapped in flames. The whinnying of the horses first

woke Isaac Williams, and he sprang from bed at sight of the furious

light which surrounded his house. He got his family up and out of the

house, each seizing what he could of wearing apparel as he fled before

the flames. Nothing else could be saved, for the fire had gained

terrible headway, and its fierceness precluded all possibility of

fighting it. The neighbors attracted by the lurid glare came from far

and near, but the fire had done its work, and their efforts availed

nothing. House, barn, stock, all, were a mass of ashes and charred

cinders. Isaac Williams, who had a day before, been accounted one of

the solidest farmers in the region, went out that night with his

family--homeless.

Kindly neighbors took them in, and by morning the news had spread

throughout all the country-side. Incendiarism was the only cause that

could be assigned, and many were the speculations as to who the guilty

party could be. Of course, Isaac Williams had enemies. But who among

them was mean, ay, daring enough to perpetrate such a deed as this?

Conjecture was rife, but futile, until old 'Lias Hunster, who though

he hated Williams, was shocked at the deed, voiced the popular

sentiment by saying, "Look a here, folks, I tell you that's the work

o' niggers, I kin see their hand in it."

"Niggers, o' course," exclaimed every one else. "Why didn't we think

of it before? It's jest like 'em."

Public opinion ran high and fermented until Saturday afternoon when

the county paper brought the whole matter to a climax by coming out in

a sulphurous account of the affair, under the scarehead:

A TERRIBLE OUTRAGE!

MOST DASTARDLY DEED EVER COMMITTED IN THE HISTORY OF

BARLOW COUNTY. A HIGHLY RESPECTED, UNOFFENDING

AND WELL-BELOVED FAMILY BURNED OUT OF HOUSE

AND HOME. NEGROES! UNDOUBTEDLY THE

PERPETRATORS OF THE DEED!

The article went on to give the facts of the case, and many more

supposed facts, which had originated entirely in the mind of the

correspondent. Among these facts was the intelligence that some

strange negroes had been seen lurking in the vicinity the day before

the catastrophe and that a party of citizens and farmers were scouring

the surrounding country in search of them. "They would, if caught,"

concluded the correspondent, "be summarily dealt with."

Notwithstanding the utter falsity of these statements, it did not take

long for the latter part of the article to become a prophecy

fulfilled, and soon, excited, inflamed and misguided parties of men

and boys were scouring the woods and roads in search of strange

"niggers." Nor was it long, before one of the parties raised the cry

that they had found the culprits. They had come upon two strange

negroes going through the woods, who seeing a band of mounted and

armed men, had instantly taken to their heels. This one act had

accused, tried and convicted them.

The different divisions of the searching party came together, and led

the negroes with ropes around their necks into the centre of the

village. Excited crowds on the one or two streets which the hamlet

boasted, cried "Lynch 'em, lynch 'em! Hang the niggers up to the first

tree!"

Jane Hunster was in one of the groups, as the shivering negroes

passed, and she turned very pale even under the sunburn that browned

her face.

The law-abiding citizens of Barlow County, who composed the capturing

party, were deaf to the admonitions of the crowd. They filed solemnly

up the street, and delivered their prisoners to the keeper of the

jail, sheriff, by courtesy, and scamp by the seal of Satan; and then

quietly dispersed. There was something ominous in their very

orderliness.

Late that afternoon, the man who did duty as prosecuting attorney for

that county, visited the prisoners at the jail, and drew from them the

story that they were farm-laborers from an adjoining county. They had

come over only the day before, and were passing through on the quest

for work; the bad weather and the lateness of the season having thrown

them out at home.

"Uh, huh," said the prosecuting attorney at the conclusion of the

tale, "your story's all right, but the only trouble is that it won't

do here. They won't believe you. Now, I'm a friend to niggers as much

as any white man can be, if they'll only be friends to themselves, an'

I want to help you two all I can. There's only one way out of this

trouble. You must confess that you did this."

"But Mistah," said the bolder of the two negroes, "how kin we 'fess,

when we wasn' nowhahs nigh de place?"

"Now there you go with regular nigger stubbornness; didn't I tell you

that that was the only way out of this? If you persist in saying you

didn't do it, they'll hang you; whereas, if you own, you'll only get a

couple of years in the 'pen.' Which 'ud you rather have, a couple o'

years to work out, or your necks stretched?"

"Oh, we'll 'fess, Mistah, we'll 'fess we done it; please, please don't

let 'em hang us!" cried the thoroughly frightened blacks.

"Well, that's something like it," said the prosecuting attorney as he

rose to go. "I'll see what can be done for you."

With marvelous and mysterious rapidity, considering the reticence

which a prosecuting attorney who was friendly to the negroes should

display, the report got abroad that the negroes had confessed their

crime, and soon after dark, ominous looking crowds began to gather in

the streets. They passed and repassed the place, where stationed on

the little wooden shelf that did duty as a doorstep, Jane Hunster sat

with her head buried in her hands. She did not raise up to look at any

of them, until a hand was laid on her shoulder, and a voice called

her, "Jane!"

"Oh, hit's you, is it, Bud," she said, raising her head slowly,

"howdy?"

"Howdy yoreself," said the young man, looking down at her tenderly.

"Bresh off yore pants an' set down," said the girl making room for him

on the step. The young man did so, at the same time taking hold of her

hand with awkward tenderness.

"Jane," he said, "I jest can't wait fur my answer no longer! you got

to tell me to-night, either one way or the other. Dock Heaters has

been a-blowin' hit aroun' that he has beat my time with you. I don't

believe it Jane, fur after keepin' me waitin' all these years, I don't

believe you'd go back on me. You know I've allus loved you, ever sence

we was little children together."

The girl was silent until he leaned over and said in pleading tones,

"What do you say, Jane?"

"I hain't fitten fur you, Bud."

"Don't talk that-a-way, Jane, you know ef you jest say 'yes,' I'll be

the happiest man in the state."

"Well, yes, then, Bud, for you're my choice, even ef I have fooled

with you fur a long time; an' I'm glad now that I kin make somebody

happy." The girl was shivering, and her hands were cold, but she made

no movement to rise or enter the house.

Bud put his arms around her and kissed her shyly. And just then a

shout arose from the crowd down the street.

"What's that?" she asked.

"It's the boys gittin' worked up, I reckon. They're going to lynch

them niggers to-night that burned ole man Williams out."

The girl leaped to her feet, "They mustn't do it," she cried. "They

ain't never been tried!"

"Set down, Janey," said her lover, "they've owned up to it."

"I don't believe it," she exclaimed, "somebody's jest a lyin' on 'em

to git 'em hung because they're niggers."

"Sh--Jane, you're excited, you ain't well; I noticed that when I first

come to-night. Somebody's got to suffer fur that house-burnin', an' it

might ez well be them ez anybody else. You mustn't talk so. Ef people

knowed you wuz a standin' up fur niggers so, it 'ud ruin you."

He had hardly finished speaking, when the gate opened, and another man

joined them.

"Hello, there, Dock Heaters, that you?" said Bud Mason.

"Yes, it's me. How are you, Jane?" said the newcomer.

"Oh, jest middlin', Dock, I ain't right well."

"Well, you might be in better business than settin' out here talkin'

to Bud Mason."

"Don't know how as to that," said his rival, "seein' as we're

engaged."

"You're a liar!" flashed Dock Heaters.

Bud Mason half rose, then sat down again; his triumph was sufficient

without a fight. To him "liar" was a hard name to swallow without

resort to blows, but he only said, his flashing eyes belying his calm

tone, "Mebbe I am a liar, jest ast Jane."

"Is that the truth, Jane?" asked Heaters, angrily.

"Yes, hit is, Dock Heaters, an' I don't see what you've got to say

about it; I hain't never promised you nothin' shore."

Heaters turned toward the gate without a word. Bud sent after him a

mocking laugh, and the bantering words, "You'd better go down, an'

he'p hang them niggers, that's all you're good fur." And the rival

really did bend his steps in that direction.

Another shout arose from the throng down the street, and rising

hastily, Bud Mason exclaimed, "I must be goin', that yell means

business."

"Don't go down there, Bud!" cried Jane. "Don't go, fur my sake, don't

go." She stretched out her arms, and clasped them about his neck.

"You don't want me to miss nothin' like that," he said as he unclasped

her arms; "don't you be worried, I'll be back past here." And in a

moment he was gone, leaving her cry of "Bud, Bud, come back," to smite

the empty silence.

When Bud Mason reached the scene of action, the mob had already broken

into the jail and taken out the trembling prisoners. The ropes were

round their necks and they had been led to a tree.

"See ef they'll do anymore house-burnin'!" cried one as the ends of

the ropes were thrown over the limbs of the tree.

"Reckon they'll like dancin' hemp a heap better," mocked a second.

"Justice an' pertection!" yelled a third.

"The mills of the gods grind swift enough in Barlow County," said the

schoolmaster.

The scene, the crowd, the flaring lights and harsh voices intoxicated

Mason, and he was soon the most enthusiastic man in the mob. At the

word, his was one of the willing hands that seized the rope, and

jerked the negroes off their feet into eternity. He joined the others

with savage glee as they emptied their revolvers into the bodies. Then

came the struggle for pieces of the rope as "keepsakes." The scramble

was awful. Bud Mason had just laid hold of a piece and cut it off,

when some one laid hold of the other end. It was not at the rope's

end, and the other man also used his knife in getting a hold. Mason

looked up to see who his antagonist was, and his face grew white with

anger. It was Dock Heaters.

"Let go this rope," he cried.

"Let go yoreself, I cut it first, an' I'm a goin' to have it."

They tugged and wrestled and panted, but they were evenly matched and

neither gained the advantage.

"Let go, I say," screamed Heaters, wild with rage.

"I'll die first, you dirty dog!"

The words were hardly out of his mouth before a knife flashed in the

light of the lanterns, and with a sharp cry, Bud Mason fell to the

ground. Heaters turned to fly, but strong hands seized and disarmed

him.

"He's killed him! Murder, murder!" arose the cry, as the crowd with

terror-stricken faces gathered about the murderer and his victim.

"Lynch him!" suggested some one whose thirst for blood was not yet

appeased.

"No," cried an imperious voice, "who knows what may have put him up to

it? Give a white man a chance for his life."

The crowd parted to let in the town marshal and the sheriff who took

charge of the prisoner, and led him to the little rickety jail, whence

he escaped later that night; while others improvised a litter, and

bore the dead man to his home.

The news had preceded them up the street, and reached Jane's ears. As

they passed her home, she gazed at them with a stony, vacant stare,

muttering all the while as she rocked herself to and fro, "I knowed

it, I knowed it!"

The press was full of the double lynching and the murder. Conservative

editors wrote leaders about it in which they deplored the rashness of

the hanging but warned the negroes that the only way to stop lynching

was to quit the crimes of which they so often stood accused. But only

in one little obscure sheet did an editor think to say, "There was

Salem and its witchcraft; there is the south and its lynching. When

the blind frenzy of a people condemn a man as soon as he is accused,

his enemies need not look far for a pretext!"

THE FINDING OF ZACH

The rooms of the "Banner" Club--an organization of social intent, but

with political streaks--were a blaze of light that Christmas Eve

night. On the lower floor some one was strumming on the piano, and

upstairs, where the "ladies" sat, and where the Sunday smokers were

held, a man was singing one of the latest coon songs. The "Banner"

always got them first, mainly because the composers went there, and

often the air of the piece itself had been picked out or patched

together, with the help of the "Banner's" piano, before the song was

taken out for somebody to set the "'companiment" to it.

The proprietor himself had just gone into the parlor to see that the

Christmas decorations were all that he intended them to be when a door

opened and an old man entered the room. In one hand he carried an

ancient carpetbag, which he deposited on the floor, while he stared

around at the grandeur of the place. He was a typical old uncle of the

South, from the soles of his heavy brogans to the shiny top of his

bald pate, with its fringe of white wool. It was plain to be seen that

he was not a denizen of the town, or of that particular quarter. They

do not grow old in the Tenderloin. He paused long enough to take in

the appointments of the place, then, suddenly remembering his manners,

he doffed his hat and bowed with old-fashioned courtesy to the

splendid proprietor.

"Why, how'do, uncle!" said the genial Mr. Turner, extending his hand.

"Where did you stray from?"

"Howdy, son, howdy," returned the old man gravely. "I hails f'om

Miss'ippi myse'f, a mighty long ways f'om hyeah."

His voice and old-time intonation were good to listen to, and Mr.

Turner's thoughts went back to an earlier day in his own life. He was

from Maryland himself. He drew up a chair for the old man and took one

himself. A few other men passed into the room and stopped to look with

respectful amusement at the visitor. He was such a perfect bit of old

plantation life and so obviously out of place in a Tenderloin club

room.

"Well, uncle, are you looking for a place to stay?" pursued Turner.

"Not 'zackly, honey; not 'zackly. I come up hyeah a-lookin' fu' a son

o' mine dat been away f'om home nigh on to five years. He live hyeah

in Noo Yo'k, an' dey tell me whaih I 'quiahed dat I li'ble to fin'

somebody hyeah dat know him. So I jes' drapped in."

"I know a good many young men from the South. What's your son's name?"

"Well, he named aftah my ol' mastah, Zachariah Priestley Shackelford."

"Zach Shackelford!" exclaimed some of the men, and there was a general

movement among them, but a glance from Turner quieted the commotion.

"Why, yes, I know your son," he said. "He's in here almost every

night, and he's pretty sure to drop in a little later on. He has been

singing with one of the colored companies here until a couple of weeks

ago."

"Heish up; you don't say so. Well! well! well! but den Zachariah allus

did have a mighty sweet voice. He tu'k hit aftah his mammy. Well, I

sholy is hopin' to see dat boy. He was allus my favorite, aldough I

reckon a body ain' got no livin' right to have favorites among dey

chilluns. But Zach was allus sich a good boy."

The men turned away. They could not remember a time since they had

known Zach Shackelford when by any stretch of imagination he could

possibly have been considered good. He was known as one of the wildest

young bucks that frequented the club, with a deft hand at cards and

dice and a smooth throat for whisky. But Turner gave them such a

defiant glance that they were almost ready to subscribe to anything

the old man might say.

"Dis is a mighty fine place you got hyeah. Hit mus' be a kind of a

hotel or boa'din' house, ain't hit?"

"Yes, something like."

"We don' have nuffin' lak dis down ouah way. Co'se, we's jes' common

folks. We wo'ks out in de fiel', and dat's about all we knows--fiel',

chu'ch an' cabin. But I's mighty glad my Zach 's gittin' up in de

worl'. He nevah were no great han' fu' wo'k. Hit kin' o' seemed to go

agin his natur'. You know dey is folks lak dat."

"Lots of 'em, lots of 'em," said Mr. Turner.

The crowd of men had been augmented by a party from out of the card

room, and they were listening intently to the old fellow's chatter.

They felt now that they ought to laugh, but somehow they could not,

and the twitching of their careless faces was not from suppressed

merriment.

The visitor looked around at them, and then remarked: "My, what a lot

of boa'dahs you got."

"They don't all stay here," answered Turner seriously; "some of them

have just dropped in to see their friends."

"Den I 'low Zach'll be drappin' in presently. You mus' 'scuse me fu'

talkin' 'bout him, but I's mighty anxious to clap my eyes on him. I's

been gittin' on right sma't dese las' two yeahs, an' my ol' ooman she

daid an' gone, an' I kin' o' lonesome, so I jes' p'omised mysef dis

Crismus de gif' of a sight o' Zach. Hit do look foolish fu' a man ez

ol' ez me to be a runnin' 'roun' de worl' a spen'in' money dis away,

but hit do seem so ha'd to git Zach home."

"How long are you going to be with us?"

"Well, I 'specs to stay all o' Crismus week."

"Maybe--" began one of the men. But Turner interrupted him. "This

gentleman is my guest. Uncle," turning to the old man, "do you

ever--would you--er. I've got some pretty good liquor here, ah--"

Zach's father smiled a sly smile. "I do' know, suh," he said,

crossing his leg high. "I's Baptis' mys'f, but 'long o' dese Crismus

holidays I's right fond of a little toddy."

A half dozen eager men made a break for the bar, but Turner's uplifted

hand held them. He was an autocrat in his way.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, "but I think I remarked some time ago

that Mr. Shackelford was my guest." And he called the waiter.

All the men had something and tapped rims with the visitor.

"'Pears to me you people is mighty clevah up hyeah; 'tain' no wondah

Zachariah don' wan' to come home."

Just then they heard a loud whoop outside the door, and a voice broke

in upon them singing thickly, "Oh, this spo'tin' life is surely

killin' me." The men exchanged startled glances. Turner looked at

them, and there was a command in his eye. Several of them hurried out,

and he himself arose, saying: "I've got to go out for a little while,

but you just make yourself at home, uncle. You can lie down right

there on that sofa and push that button there--see, this way--if you

want some more toddy. It shan't cost you anything."

"Oh, I'll res' myself, but I ain' gwine sponge on you dat away. I got

some money," and the old man dug down into his long pocket. But his

host laid a hand on his arm.

"Your money's no good up here."

"Wh--wh--why, I thought dis money passed any whah in de Nunited

States!" exclaimed the bewildered old man.

"That's all right, but you can't spend it until we run out."

"Oh! Why, bless yo' soul, suh, you skeered me. You sho' is clevah."

Turner went out and came upon his emissaries, where they had halted

the singing Zach in the hallway, and were trying to get into his

muddled brain that his father was there.

"Wha'sh de ol' man doin' at de 'Banner,' gittin' gay in his ol' days?

Hic."

That was enough for Turner to hear. "Look a-here," he said, "don't you

get flip when you meet your father. He's come a long ways to see you,

and I'm damned if he shan't see you right. Remember you're stoppin' at

my house as long as the old man stays, and if you make a break while

he's here I'll spoil your mug for you. Bring him along, boys."

Zach had started in for a Christmas celebration, but they took him

into an empty room. They sent to the drug store and bought many

things. When the young man came out an hour later he was straight, but

sad.

"Why, Pap," he said when he saw the old man, "I'll be--"

"Hem!" said Turner.

"I'll be blessed!" Zach finished.

The old man looked him over. "Tsch! tsch! tsch! Dis is a Crismus gif'

fu' sho'!" His voice was shaking. "I's so glad to see you, honey; but

chile, you smell lak a 'pothac'ay shop."

"I ain't been right well lately," said Zach sheepishly.

To cover his confusion Turner called for eggnog.

When it came the old man said: "Well, I's Baptis' myse'f, but seein'

it's Crismus--"

JOHNSONHAM, JUNIOR

Now any one will agree with me that it is entirely absurd for two men

to fall out about their names; but then, circumstances alter cases. It

had its beginning in 1863, and it has just ended.

In the first place, Ike and Jim had been good friends on the

plantation, but when the time came for them to leave and seek homes

for themselves each wanted a name. The master's name was Johnson, and

they both felt themselves entitled to it. When Ike went forth to men

as Isaac Johnson, and Jim, not to be outdone, became James Johnsonham,

the rivalry began. Each married and became the father of a boy who

took his father's name.

When both families moved North and settled in Little Africa their

children had been taught that there must be eternal enmity between

them on account of their names, and just as lasting a friendship on

every other score. But with boys it was natural that the rivalry

should extend to other things. When they went to school it was a

contest for leadership both in the classroom and in sports, and when

Isaac Johnson left school to go to work in the brickyard, James

Johnsonham, not to be outdone in industry, also entered the same field

of labor.

Later, it was questioned all up and down Douglass Street, which, by

the way, is the social centre of Little Africa--as to which of the two

was the better dancer or the more gallant beau. It was a piece of good

fortune that they did not fall in love with the same girl and bring

their rivalry into their affairs of the heart, for they were only men,

and nothing could have kept them friends. But they came quite as near

it as they could, for Matilda Benson was as bright a girl as Martha

Mason, and when Ike married her she was an even-running contestant

with her friend, Martha, for the highest social honors of their own

particular set.

It was a foregone conclusion that when they were married and settled

they should live near each other. So the houses were distant from each

other only two or three doors. It was because every one knew every one

else's business in that locality that Sandy Worthington took it upon

himself to taunt the two men about their bone of contention.

"Mr. Johnson," he would say, when, coming from the down-town store

where he worked, he would meet the two coming from their own labors in

the brickyard, "how are you an' Mistah Johnsonham mekin' it ovah yo'

names?"

"Well, I don' know that Johnsonham is so much of a name," Ike would

say; and Jim would reply: "I 'low it's mo' name than Johnson, anyhow."

"So is stealin' ham mo' than stealin'," was the other's rejoinder, and

then his friends would double up with mirth.

Sometimes the victorious repartee was Jim's, and then the laugh was on

the other side. But the two went at it all good-naturedly, until one

day, one foolish day, when they had both stopped too often on the way

home, Jim grew angry at some little fling of his friend's, and burst

into hot abuse of him. At first Ike was only astonished, and then his

eyes, red with the dust of the brick-field, grew redder, the veins of

his swarthy face swelled, and with a "Take that, Mistah Johnsonham,"

he gave Jim a resounding thwack across the face.

It took only a little time for a crowd to gather, and, with their

usual tormentor to urge them on, the men forgot themselves and went

into the fight in dead earnest. It was a hard-fought battle. Both

rolled in the dust, caught at each other's short hair, pummeled, bit

and swore. They were still rolling and tumbling when their wives,

apprised of the goings on, appeared upon the scene and marched them

home.

After that, because they were men, they kept a sullen silence between

them, but Matilda and Martha, because they were women, had much to say

to each other, and many unpleasant epithets to hurl and hurl again

across the two yards that intervened between them. Finally, neither

little family spoke to the other. And then, one day, there was a great

bustle about Jim's house. A wise old woman went waddling in, and later

the doctor came. That night the proud husband and father was treating

his friends, and telling them it was a boy, and his name was to be

James Johnsonham, Junior.

For a week Jim was irregular and unsteady in his habits, when one

night, full of gin and pride, he staggered up to a crowd which was

surrounding his rival, and said in a loud voice, "James Johnsonham,

Junior--how does that strike you?"

"Any bettah than Isaac Johnson, Junior?" asked some one, slapping the

happy Ike on the shoulder as the crowd burst into a loud guffaw. Jim's

head was sadly bemuddled, and for a time he gazed upon the faces about

him in bewilderment. Then a light broke in upon his mind, and with a

"Whoo-ee!" he said, "No!" Ike grinned a defiant grin at him, and led

the way to the nearest place where he and his friends might celebrate.

Jim went home to his wife full of a sullen, heavy anger. "Ike Johnson

got a boy at his house, too," he said, "an' he done put Junior to his

name." Martha raised her head from the pillow and hugged her own baby

to her breast closer.

"It do beat all," she made answer airily; "we can't do a blessed thing

but them thaih Johnsons has to follow right in ouah steps. Anyhow, I

don't believe their baby is no sich healthy lookin' chile as this one

is, bress his little hea't! 'Cause I knows Matilda Benson nevah was

any too strong."

She was right; Matilda Benson was not so strong. The doctor went

oftener to Ike's house than he had gone to Jim's, and three or four

days after an undertaker went in.

They tried to keep the news from Martha's ears, but somehow it leaked

into them, and when Jim came home on that evening she looked into her

husband's face with a strange, new expression.

"Oh, Jim," she cried weakly, "'Tildy done gone, an' me jes' speakin'

ha'd 'bout huh a little while ago, an' that po' baby lef thaih to die!

Ain't it awful?"

"Nev' min'," said Jim, huskily; "nev' min', honey." He had seen Ike's

face when the messenger had come for him at the brickyard, and the

memory of it was like a knife at his heart.

"Jes' think, I said, only a day or so ago," Martha went on, "that

'Tildy wasn't strong; an' I was glad of it, Jim, I was glad of it! I

was jealous of huh havin' a baby, too. Now she's daid, an' I feel jes'

lak I'd killed huh. S'p'osin' God 'ud sen' a jedgment on me--s'p'osin'

He'd take our little Jim?"

"Sh, sh, honey," said Jim, with a man's inadequacy in such a moment.

"'Tain't yo' fault; you nevah wished huh any ha'm."

"No; but I said it, I said it!"

"Po' Ike," said Jim absently; "po' fellah!"

"Won't you go thaih," she asked, "an' see what you kin do fu' him?"

"He don't speak to me."

"You mus' speak to him; you got to do it, Jim; you got to."

"What kin I say? 'Tildy's daid."

She reached up and put her arms around her husband's brawny neck. "Go

bring that po' little lamb hyeah," she said. "I kin save it, an' 'ten'

to two. It'll be a sort of consolation fu' him to keep his chile."

"Kin you do that, Marthy?" he said. "Kin you do that?"

"I know I kin." A great load seemed to lift itself from Jim's heart as

he burst out of the house. He opened Ike's door without knocking. The

man sat by the empty fireplace with his head bowed over the ashes.

"Ike," he said, and then stopped.

Ike raised his head and glanced at him with a look of dull despair.

"She's gone," he replied; "'Tildy's gone." There was no touch of anger

in his tone. It was as if he took the visit for granted. All petty

emotions had passed away before this great feeling which touched both

earth and the beyond.

"I come fu' the baby," said Jim. "Marthy, she'll take keer of it."

He reached down and found the other's hand, and the two hard palms

closed together in a strong grip. "Ike," he went on, "I'm goin' to

drop the 'Junior' an' the 'ham,' an' the two little ones'll jes' grow

up togethah, one o' them lak the othah."

The bereaved husband made no response. He only gripped the hand

tighter. A little while later Jim came hastily from the house with

something small wrapped closely in a shawl.

THE FAITH CURE MAN

Hope is tenacious. It goes on living and working when science has

dealt it what should be its deathblow.

In the close room at the top of the old tenement house little Lucy lay

wasting away with a relentless disease. The doctor had said at the

beginning of the winter that she could not live. Now he said that he

could do no more for her except to ease the few days that remained for

the child.

But Martha Benson would not believe him. She was confident that

doctors were not infallible. Anyhow, this one wasn't, for she saw life

and health ahead for her little one.

Did not the preacher at the Mission Home say: "Ask, and ye shall

receive?" and had she not asked and asked again the life of her child,

her last and only one, at the hands of Him whom she worshipped?

No, Lucy was not going to die. What she needed was country air and a

place to run about in. She had been housed up too much; these long

Northern winters were too severe for her, and that was what made her

so pinched and thin and weak. She must have air, and she should have

it.

"Po' little lammie," she said to the child, "Mammy's little gal boun'

to git well. Mammy gwine sen' huh out in de country when the spring

comes, whaih she kin roll in de grass an' pick flowers an' git good

an' strong. Don' baby want to go to de country? Don' baby want to see

de sun shine?" And the child had looked up at her with wide, bright

eyes, tossed her thin arms and moaned for reply.

"Nemmine, we gwine fool dat doctah. Some day we'll th'ow all his nassy

medicine 'way, an' he come in an' say: 'Whaih's all my medicine?' Den

we answeh up sma't like: 'We done th'owed it out. We don' need no

nassy medicine.' Den he look 'roun' an' say: 'Who dat I see runnin'

roun' de flo' hyeah, a-lookin' so fat?' an' you up an' say: 'Hit's me,

dat's who 'tis, mistah doctor man!' Den he go out an' slam de do'

behin' him. Ain' dat fine?"

But the child had closed her eyes, too weak even to listen. So her

mother kissed her little thin forehead and tiptoed out, sending in a

child from across the hall to take care of Lucy while she was at

work, for sick as the little one was she could not stay at home and

nurse her.

Hope grasps at a straw, and it was quite in keeping with the condition

of Martha's mind that she should open her ears and her heart when they

told her of the wonderful works of the faith-cure man. People had gone

to him on crutches, and he had touched or rubbed them and they had

come away whole. He had gone to the homes of the bed-ridden, and they

had risen up to bless him. It was so easy for her to believe it all.

The only religion she had ever known, the wild, emotional religion of

most of her race, put her credulity to stronger tests than that. Her

only question was, would such a man come to her humble room. But she

put away even this thought. He must come. She would make him. Already

she saw Lucy strong, and running about like a mouse, the joy of her

heart and the light of her eyes.

As soon as she could get time she went humbly to see the faith doctor,

and laid her case before him, hoping, fearing, trembling.

Yes, he would come. Her heart leaped for joy.

"There is no place," said the faith curist, "too humble for the

messenger of heaven to enter. I am following One who went among the

humblest and the lowliest, and was not ashamed to be found among

publicans and sinners. I will come to your child, madam, and put her

again under the law. The law of life is health, and no one who will

accept the law need be sick. I am not a physician. I do not claim to

be. I only claim to teach people how not to be sick. My fee is five

dollars, merely to defray my expenses, that's all. You know the

servant is worthy of his hire. And in this little bottle here I have

an elixir which has never been known to fail in any of the things

claimed for it. Since the world has got used to taking medicine we

must make some concessions to its prejudices. But this in reality is

not a medicine at all. It is only a symbol. It is really liquefied

prayer and faith."

Martha did not understand anything of what he was saying. She did not

try to; she did not want to. She only felt a blind trust in him that

filled her heart with unspeakable gladness.

Tremulous with excitement, she doled out her poor dollars to him,

seized the precious elixir and hurried away home to Lucy, to whom she

was carrying life and strength. The little one made a weak attempt to

smile at her mother, but the light flickered away and died into

greyness on her face.

"Now mammy's little gal gwine to git well fu' sho'. Mammy done bring

huh somep'n' good." Awed and reverent, she tasted the wonderful elixir

before giving it to the child. It tasted very like sweetened water to

her, but she knew that it was not, and had no doubt of its virtues.

Lucy swallowed it as she swallowed everything her mother brought to

her. Poor little one! She had nothing to buoy her up or to fight

science with.

In the course of an hour her mother gave her the medicine again, and

persuaded herself that there was a perceptible brightening in her

daughter's face.

Mrs. Mason, Caroline's mother, called across the hall: "How Lucy dis

evenin', Mis' Benson?"

"Oh, I think Lucy air right peart," Martha replied. "Come over an'

look at huh."

Mrs. Mason came, and the mother told her about the new faith doctor

and his wonderful powers.

"Why, Mis' Mason," she said, "'pears like I could see de change in de

child de minute she swallowed dat medicine."

Her neighbor listened in silence, but when she went back to her own

room it was to shake her head and murmur: "Po' Marfy, she jes' ez

blind ez a bat. She jes' go 'long, holdin' on to dat chile wid all huh

might, an' I see death in Lucy's face now. Dey ain't no faif nur

prayer, nur Jack-leg doctors nuther gwine to save huh."

But Martha needed no pity then. She was happy in her self-delusion.

On the morrow the faith doctor came to see Lucy. She had not seemed so

well that morning, even to her mother, who remained at home until the

doctor arrived. He carried a conquering air, and a baggy umbrella, the

latter of which he laid across the foot of the bed as he bent over the

moaning child.

"Give me some brown paper," he commanded.

Martha hastened to obey, and the priestly practitioner dampened it in

water and laid it on Lucy's head, all the time murmuring prayers--or

were they incantations?--to himself. Then he placed pieces of the

paper on the soles of the child's feet and on the palms of her hands,

and bound them there.

When all this was done he knelt down and prayed aloud, ending with a

peculiar version of the Lord's prayer, supposed to have mystic effect.

Martha was greatly impressed, but through it all Lucy lay and moaned.

The faith curist rose to go. "Well, we can look to have her out in a

few days. Remember, my good woman, much depends upon you. You must try

to keep your mind in a state of belief. Are you saved?"

"Oh, yes, suh. I'm a puffessor," said Martha, and having completed his

mission, the man of prayers went out, and Caroline again took Martha's

place at Lucy's side.

In the next two days Martha saw, or thought she saw, a steady

improvement in Lucy. According to instructions, the brown paper was

moved every day, moistened, and put back.

Martha had so far spurred her faith that when she went out on Saturday

morning she promised to bring Lucy something good for her Christmas

dinner, and a pair of shoes against the time of her going out, and

also a little doll. She brought them home that night. Caroline had

grown tired and, lighting the lamp, had gone home.

"I done brung my little lady bird huh somep'n nice," said Martha,

"here's a lil' doll and de lil' shoes, honey. How's de baby feel?"

Lucy did not answer.

"You sleep?" Martha went over to the bed. The little face was pinched

and ashen. The hands were cold.

"Lucy! Lucy!" called the mother. "Lucy! Oh, Gawd! It ain't true! She

ain't daid! My little one, my las' one!"

She rushed for the elixir and brought it to the bed. The thin dead

face stared back at her, unresponsive.

She sank down beside the bed, moaning.

"Daid, daid, oh, my Gawd, gi' me back my chile! Oh, don't I believe

you enough? Oh, Lucy, Lucy, my little lamb! I got you yo' gif'. Oh,

Lucy!"

The next day was set apart for the funeral. The Mission preacher read:

"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the

Lord," and some one said "Amen!" But Martha could not echo it in her

heart. Lucy was her last, her one treasured lamb.

A COUNCIL OF STATE

PART I

Luther Hamilton was a great political power. He was neither

representative in Congress, senator nor cabinet minister. When asked

why he aspired to none of these places of honor and emolument he

invariably shrugged his shoulders and smiled inscrutably. In fact, he

found it both more pleasant and more profitable simply to boss his

party. It gave him power, position and patronage, and yet put him

under obligations to no narrow constituency.

As he sat in his private office this particular morning there was a

smile upon his face, and his little eyes looked out beneath the heavy

grey eyebrows and the massive cheeks with gleams of pleasure. His

whole appearance betokened the fact that he was feeling especially

good. Even his mail lay neglected before him, and his eyes gazed

straight at the wall. What wonder that he should smile and dream. Had

he not just the day before utterly crushed a troublesome opponent?

Had he not ruined the career of a young man who dared to oppose him,

driven him out of public life and forced his business to the wall? If

this were not food for self-congratulation pray what is?

Mr. Hamilton's reverie was broken in upon by a tap at the door, and

his secretary entered.

"Well, Frank, what is it now? I haven't gone through my mail yet."

"Miss Kirkman is in the outer office, sir, and would like to see you

this morning."

"Oh, Miss Kirkman, heh; well, show her in at once."

The secretary disappeared and returned ushering in a young woman, whom

the "boss" greeted cordially.

"Ah, Miss Kirkman, good-morning! Good-morning! Always prompt and busy,

I see. Have a chair."

Miss Kirkman returned his greeting and dropped into a chair. She began

at once fumbling in a bag she carried.

"We'll get right to business," she said. "I know you're busy, and so

am I, and I want to get through. I've got to go and hunt a servant for

Mrs. Senator Dutton when I leave here."

She spoke in a loud voice, and her words rushed one upon the other as

if she were in the habit of saying much in a short space of time. This

is a trick of speech frequently acquired by those who visit public

men. Miss Kirkman's whole manner indicated bustle and hurry. Even her

attire showed it. She was a plump woman, aged, one would say about

thirty. Her hair was brown and her eyes a steely grey--not a bad face,

but one too shrewd and aggressive perhaps for a woman. One might have

looked at her for a long time and never suspected the truth, that she

was allied to the colored race. Neither features, hair nor complexion

showed it, but then "colored" is such an elastic word, and Miss

Kirkman in reality was colored "for revenue only." She found it more

profitable to ally herself to the less important race because she

could assume a position among them as a representative woman, which

she could never have hoped to gain among the whites. So she was

colored, and, without having any sympathy with the people whom she

represented, spoke for them and uttered what was supposed by the

powers to be the thoughts that were in their breasts.

"Well, from the way you're tossing the papers in that bag I know

you've got some news for me."

"Yes, I have, but I don't know how important you'll think it is. Here

we are!" She drew forth a paper and glanced at it.

"It's just a memorandum, a list of names of a few men who need

watching. The Afro-American convention is to meet on the 22d; that's

Thursday of next week. Bishop Carter is to preside. The thing has

resolved itself into a fight between those who are office-holders and

those who want to be."

"Yes, well what's the convention going to do?"

"They're going to denounce the administration."

"Hem, well in your judgment, what will that amount to, Miss Kirkman?"

"They are the representative talking men from all sections of the

country, and they have their following, and so there's no use

disputing that they can do some harm."

"Hum, what are they going to denounce the administration for?"

"Oh, there's a spirit of general discontent, and they've got to

denounce something, so it had as well be the administration as

anything else."

There was a new gleam in Mr. Hamilton's eye that was not one of

pleasure as he asked, "Who are the leaders in this movement?"

"That's just what I brought this list for. There's Courtney, editor of

the _New York Beacon_, who is rabid; there's Jones of Georgia, Gray of

Ohio--"

"Whew," whistled the boss, "Gray of Ohio, why he's on the inside."

"Yes, and I can't see what's the matter with him, he's got his

position, and he ought to keep his mouth shut."

"Oh, there are ways of applying the screw. Go on."

"Then, too, there's Shackelford of Mississippi, Duncan of South

Carolina, Stowell of Kentucky, and a lot of smaller fry who are not

worth mentioning."

"Are they organized?"

"Yes, Courtney has seen to that, the forces are compact."

"We must split them. How is the bishop?"

"Neutral."

"Any influence?"

"Lots of it."

"How's your young man, the one for whom you've been soliciting a

place--what's his name?"

Miss Kirkman did her womanhood the credit of blushing, "Joseph

Aldrich, you mean. You can trust to me to see that he's on the right

side."

"Happy is the man who has the right woman to boss him, and who has

sense enough to be bossed by her; his path shall be a path of roses,

and his bed a flowery bed of ease. Now to business. They must not

denounce the administration. What are the conditions of membership in

this convention?"

"Any one may be present, but it costs a fee of five dollars for the

privilege of the floor."

Mr. Hamilton turned to the desk and made out a check. He handed it to

Miss Kirkman, saying, "Cash this, and pack that convention for the

administration. I look to you and the people you may have behind you

to check any rash resolutions they may attempt to pass. I want you to

be there every day and take notes of the speeches made, and their

character and tenor. I shall have Mr. Richardson there also to help

you. The record of each man's speech will be sent to his central

committee, and we shall know how to treat him in the future. You

know, Miss Kirkman, it is our method to help our friends and to crush

our enemies. I shall depend upon you to let me know which is which.

Good-morning."

"Good-morning, Mr. Hamilton."

"And, oh, Miss Kirkman, just a moment. Frank," the secretary came in,

"bring me that jewel case out of the safe. Here, Miss Kirkman, Mrs.

Hamilton told me if you came in to ask if you would mind running past

the safety deposit vaults and putting these in for her?"

"Certainly not," said Miss Kirkman.

This was one of the ways in which Miss Kirkman was made to remember

her race. And the relation to that race, which nothing in her face

showed, came out strongly in her willingness thus to serve. The

confidence itself flattered her, and she was never tired of telling

her acquaintances how she had put such and such a senator's wife's

jewels away, or got a servant for a cabinet minister.

When her other duties were done she went directly to a small dingy

office building and entered a room, over which was the sign, "Joseph

Aldrich, Counselor and Attorney at Law."

"How do, Joe."

"Why, Miss Kirkman, I'm glad to see you," said Mr. Aldrich, coming

forward to meet her and setting a chair. He was a slender young man,

of a complexion which among the varying shades bestowed among colored

people is termed a light brown skin. A mustache and a short Vandyke

beard partially covered a mouth inclined to weakness. Looking at them,

an observer would have said that Miss Kirkman was the stronger man of

the two.

"What brings you out this way to-day?" questioned Aldrich.

"I'll tell you. You've asked me to marry you, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm going to do it."

"Annie, you make me too happy."

"That's enough," said Miss Kirkman, waving him away. "We haven't any

time for romance now. I mean business. You're going to the convention

next week."

"Yes."

"And you're going to speak?"

"Of course."

"That's right. Let me see your speech."

He drew a typewritten manuscript from the drawer and handed it to her.

She ran her eyes over the pages, murmuring to herself. "Uh, huh,

'wavering, weak, vaciliating adminstration, have not given us the

protection our rights as citizens demanded--while our brothers were

murdered in the South. Nero fiddled while Rome burned, while this

modern'--uh, huh, oh, yes, just as I thought," and with a sudden twist

Miss Kirkman tore the papers across and pitched them into the grate.

"Miss Kirkman--Annie, what do you mean?"

"I mean that if you're going to marry me, I'm not going to let you go

to the convention and kill yourself."

"But my convictions--"

"Look here, don't talk to me about convictions. The colored man is the

under dog, and the under dog has no right to have convictions. Listen,

you're going to the convention next week and you're going to make a

speech, but it won't be that speech. I have just come from Mr.

Hamilton's. That convention is to be watched closely. He is to have

his people there and they are to take down the words of every man who

talks, and these words will be sent to his central committee. The man

who goes there with an imprudent tongue goes down. You'd better get to

work and see if you can't think of something good the administration

has done and dwell on that."

"Whew!"

"Well, I'm off."

"But Annie, about the wedding?"

"Good-morning, we'll talk about the wedding after the convention."

The door closed on her last words, and Joseph Aldrich sat there

wondering and dazed at her manner. Then he began to think about the

administration. There must be some good things to say for it, and he

would find them. Yes, Annie was right--and wasn't she a hustler

though?

PART II

It was on the morning of the 22d and near nine o'clock, the hour at

which the convention was to be called to order. But Mr. Gray of Ohio

had not yet gone in. He stood at the door of the convention hall in

deep converse with another man. His companion was a young looking

sort of person. His forehead was high and his eyes were keen and

alert. The face was mobile and the mouth nervous. It was the face of

an enthusiast, a man with deep and intense beliefs, and the boldness

or, perhaps, rashness to uphold them.

"I tell you, Gray," he was saying, "it's an outrage, nothing less.

Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Bah! It's all twaddle.

Why, we can't even be secure in the first two, how can we hope for the

last?"

"You're right, Elkins," said Gray, soberly, "and though I hold a

position under the administration, when it comes to a consideration of

the wrongs of my race, I cannot remain silent."

"I cannot and will not. I hold nothing from them, and I owe them

nothing. I am only a bookkeeper in a commercial house, where their

spite cannot reach me, so you may rest assured that I shall not bite

my tongue."

"Nor shall I. We shall all be colored men here together, and talk, I

hope, freely one to the other. Shall you introduce your resolution

to-day?"

"I won't have a chance unless things move more rapidly than I expect

them to. It will have to come up under new business, I should think."

"Hardly. Get yourself appointed on the committee on resolutions."

"Good, but how can I?"

"I'll see to that; I know the bishop pretty well. Ah, good-morning,

Miss Kirkman. How do you do, Aldrich?" Gray pursued, turning to the

newcomers, who returned his greeting, and passed into the hall.

"That's Miss Kirkman. You've heard of her. She fetches and carries for

Luther Hamilton and his colleagues, and has been suspected of doing

some spying, also."

"Who was that with her?"

"Oh, that's her man Friday; otherwise Joseph Aldrich by name, a fellow

she's trying to make something of before she marries him. She's got

the pull to do it, too."

"Why don't you turn them down?"

"Ah, my boy, you're young, you're young; you show it. Don't you know

that a wind strong enough to uproot an oak only ripples the leaves of

a creeper against the wall? Outside of the race that woman is really

considered one of the leaders, and she trades upon the fact."

"But why do you allow this base deception to go?"

"Because, Elkins, my child," Gray put his hand on the other's shoulder

with mock tenderness, "because these seemingly sagacious whites among

whom we live are really a very credulous people, and the first one who

goes to them with a good front and says 'Look here, I am the leader of

the colored people; I am their oracle and prophet,' they immediately

exalt and say 'That's so.' Now do you see why Miss Kirkman has a

pull?"

"I see, but come on, let's go in; there goes the gavel."

The convention hall was already crowded, and the air was full of the

bustle of settling down. When the time came for the payment of their

fees, by those who wanted the privilege of the floor, there was a

perfect rush for the secretary's desk. Bank notes fluttered

everywhere. Miss Kirkman had on a suspiciously new dress and bonnet,

but she had done her work well, nevertheless. She looked up into the

gallery in a corner that overlooked the stage and caught the eye of a

young man who sat there notebook in hand. He smiled, and she smiled.

Then she looked over at Mr. Aldrich, who was not sitting with her,

and they both smiled complacently. There's nothing like being on the

inside.

After the appointment of committees, the genial bishop began his

opening address, and a very careful, pretty address it was, too--well

worded, well balanced, dealing in broad generalities and studiously

saying nothing that would indicate that he had any intention of

directing the policy of the meetings. Of course it brought forth all

the applause that a bishop's address deserves, and the ladies in the

back seats fluttered their fans, and said: "The dear man, how eloquent

he is."

Gray had succeeded in getting Elkins placed on the committee on

resolutions, but when they came to report, the fiery resolution

denouncing the administration for its policy toward the negro was laid

on the table. The young man had succeeded in engineering it through

the committee, but the chairman decided that its proper place was

under the head of new business, where it might be taken up in the

discussion of the administration's attitude toward the negro.

[Illustration: THE BISHOP'S ADDRESS.]

"We are here, gentlemen," pursued the bland presiding officer, "to

make public sentiment, but we must not try to make it too fast; so if

our young friend from Ohio will only hold his resolution a little

longer, it will be acted upon at the proper time. We must be moderate

and conservative."

Gray sprang to his feet and got the chairman's eye. His face was

flushed and he almost shouted: "Conservatism be hanged! We have rolled

that word under our tongues when we were being trampled upon; we have

preached it in our churches when we were being shot down; we have

taught it in our schools when the right to use our learning was denied

us, until the very word has come to be a reproach upon a black man's

tongue!"

There were cries of "Order! Order!" and "Sit down!" and the gavel was

rattling on the chairman's desk. Then some one rose to a point of

order, so dear to the heart of the negro debater. The point was

sustained and the Ohioan yielded the floor, but not until he had gazed

straight into the eyes of Miss Kirkman as they rose from her notebook.

She turned red. He curled his lip and sat down, but the blood burned

in his face, and it was not the heat of shame, but of anger and

contempt that flushed his cheeks.

This outbreak was but the precursor of other storms to follow. Every

one had come with an idea to exploit or some proposition to advance.

Each one had his panacea for all the aches and pains of his race. Each

man who had paid his five dollars wanted his full five dollars' worth

of talk. The chairman allowed them five minutes apiece, and they

thought time dear at a dollar a minute. But there were speeches to be

made for buncombe, and they made the best of the seconds. They howled,

they raged, they stormed. They waxed eloquent or pathetic. Jones of

Georgia was swearing softly and feelingly into Shackelford's ear.

Shackelford was sympathetic and nervous as he fingered a large bundle

of manuscript in his back pocket. He got up several times and called

"Mr. Chairman," but his voice had been drowned in the tumult. Amid it

all, calm and impassive, sat the man, who of all others was expected

to be in the heat of the fray.

It had been rumored that Courtney of the _New York Beacon_ had come to

Washington with blood in his eyes. But there he sat, silent and

unmoved, his swarthy, eagle-like face, with its frame of iron-grey

hair as unchanging as if he had never had a passionate thought.

"I don't like Jim Courtney's silence," whispered Stowell to a

colleague. "There's never so much devil in him as when he keeps still.

You look out for him when he does open up."

But all the details of the convention do not belong to this narrative.

It is hardly relevant, even, to tell how Stowell's prediction came

true, and at the second day's meeting Courtney's calm gave way, and he

delivered one of the bitterest speeches of his life. It was in the

morning, and he was down for a set speech on "The Negro in the Higher

Walks of Life." He started calmly, but as he progressed, the memory of

all the wrongs, personal and racial that he had suffered; the

knowledge of the disabilities that he and his brethren had to suffer,

and the vision of toil unrequited, love rejected, and loyalty ignored,

swept him off his feet. He forgot his subject, forgot everything but

that he was a crushed man in a crushed race.

The auditors held their breath, and the reporters wrote much.

Turning to them he said, "And to the press of Washington, to whom I

have before paid my respects, let me say that I am not afraid to have

them take any word that I may say. I came here to meet them on their

own ground. I will meet them with pen. I will meet them with pistol,"

and then raising his tall, spare form, he shouted, "Yes, even though

there is but one hundred and thirty-five pounds of me, I will meet

them with my fists!"

This was all very rash of Courtney. His paper did not circulate

largely, so his real speech, which he printed, was not widely read,

while through the columns of the local press, a garbled and distorted

version of it went to every corner of the country. Purposely

distorted? Who shall say? He had insulted the press; and then Mr.

Hamilton was a very wealthy man.

When the time for the consideration of Elkins' resolution came,

Courtney, Jones and Shackelford threw themselves body and soul into

the fight with Gray and its author. There was a formidable array

against them. All the men in office, and all of those who had received

even a crumb of promise were for buttering over their wrongs, and

making their address to the public a prophecy of better things.

Jones suggested that they send an apology to lynchers for having

negroes where they could be lynched. This called for reproof from the

other side, and the discussion grew hot and acrimonious. Gray again

got the floor, and surprised his colleagues by the plainness of his

utterances. Elkins followed him with a biting speech that brought

Aldrich to his feet.

Mr. Aldrich had chosen well his time, and had carefully prepared his

speech. He recited all the good things that the administration had

done, hoped to do, tried to do, or wanted to do, and showed what a

very respectable array it was. He counseled moderation and

conservatism, and his peroration was a flowery panegyric of the "noble

man whose hand is on the helm, guiding the grand old ship of state

into safe harbor."

The office-holders went wild with enthusiasm. No self-interest there.

The opposition could not argue that this speech was made to keep a

job, because the speaker had none. Then Jim Courtney got up and

spoiled it all by saying that it may be that the speaker had no job

but wanted one.

Aldrich was not moved. He saw a fat salary and Annie Kirkman for him

in the near future.

The young lady had done her work well, and when the resolution came to

a vote it was lost by a good majority. Aldrich was again on his feet

and offering another. The forces of the opposition were discouraged

and disorganized, and they made no effort to stop it when the rules

were suspended, and it went through on the first reading. Then the

convention shouted, that is, part of it did, and Miss Kirkman closed

her notebook and glanced up at the gallery again. The young man had

closed his book also. Their work was done. The administration had not

been denounced, and they had their black-list for Mr. Hamilton's

knife.

There were some more speeches made, just so that the talkers should

get their money's worth; but for the masses, the convention had lost

its interest, and after a few feeble attempts to stir it into life

again, a motion to adjourn was entertained. But, before a second

appeared, Elkins arose and asked leave to make a statement. It was

granted.

"Gentlemen," he said, "we have all heard the resolution which goes to

the public as the opinion of the negroes of the country. There are

some of us who do not believe that this expresses the feelings of our

race, and to us who believe this, Mr. Courtney has given the use of

his press in New York, and we shall print our resolution and scatter

it broadcast as the minority report of this convention, but the

majority report of the race."

Miss Kirkman opened her book again for a few minutes, and then the

convention adjourned.

* * * * *

"I wish you'd find out, Miss Kirkman," said Hamilton a couple of days

later, "just what firm that young Elkins works for."

"I have already done that. I thought you'd want to know," and she

handed him a card.

"Ah, yes," he said. "I have some business relations with that firm. I

know them very well. Miss Anderson," he called to his stenographer,

"will you kindly take a letter for me. By the way, Miss Kirkman, I

have placed Mr. Aldrich. He will have his appointment in a few days."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Hamilton; is there anything more I can do for

you?"

"Nothing. Good-morning."

"Good-morning."

A week later in his Ohio home William Elkins was surprised to be

notified by his employers that they were cutting down forces, and

would need his services no longer. He wrote at once to his friend

Gray to know if there was any chance for him in Washington, and

received the answer that Gray could hardly hold his own, as great

pressure was being put upon him to force him to resign.

"I think," wrote Gray, "that the same hand is at the bottom of all our

misfortunes. This is Hamilton's method."

Miss Kirkman and Mr. Aldrich were married two weeks from the day the

convention adjourned. Mr. Gray was removed from his position on

account of inefficiency. He is still trying to get back, but the very

men to whom his case must go are in the hands of Mr. Hamilton.

SILAS JACKSON

I

Silas Jackson was a young man to whom many opportunities had come. Had

he been a less fortunate boy, as his little world looked at it, he

might have spent all his days on the little farm where he was born,

much as many of his fellows did. But no, Fortune had marked him for

her own, and it was destined that he should be known to fame. He was

to know a broader field than the few acres which he and his father

worked together, and where he and several brothers and sisters had

spent their youth.

Mr. Harold Marston was the instrument of Fate in giving Silas his

first introduction to the world. Marston, who prided himself on being,

besides a man of leisure, something of a sportsman, was shooting over

the fields in the vicinity of the Jackson farm. During the week he

spent in the region, needing the services of a likely boy, he came to

know and like Silas. Upon leaving, he said, "It's a pity for a boy as

bright as you are to be tied down in this God-forsaken place. How'd

you like to go up to the Springs, Si, and work in a hotel?"

The very thought of going to such a place, and to such work, fired the

boy's imagination, although the idea of it daunted him.

"I'd like it powahful well, Mistah Ma'ston," he replied.

"Well, I'm going up there, and the proprietor of one of the best

hotels, the Fountain House, is a very good friend of mine, and I'll

get him to speak to his head waiter in your behalf. You want to get

out of here, and see something of the world, and not stay cooped up

with nothing livelier than rabbits, squirrels, and quail."

And so the work was done. The black boy's ambitions that had only

needed an encouraging word had awakened into buoyant life. He looked

his destiny squarely in the face, and saw that the great world outside

beckoned to him. From that time his dreams were eagle-winged. The farm

looked narrower to him, the cabin meaner, and the clods were harder to

his feet. He learned to hate the plough that he had followed before in

dumb content, and there was no longer joy in the woods he knew and

loved. Once, out of pure joy of living, he had gone singing about his

work; but now, when he sang, it was because his heart was longing for

the city of his dreams, and hope inspired the song.

However, after Mr. Marston had been gone for over two weeks, and

nothing had been heard from the Springs, the hope died in Silas's

heart, and he came to believe that his benefactor had forgotten him.

And yet he could not return to the old contentment with his mode of

life. Mr. Marston was right, and he was "cooped up there with nothing

better than rabbits, squirrels, and quail." The idea had never

occurred to him before, but now it struck him with disconcerting force

that there was something in him above his surroundings and the labor

at which he toiled day by day. He began to see that the cabin was not

over clean, and for the first time recognized that his brothers and

sisters were positively dirty. He had always looked on it with

unconscious eyes before, but now he suddenly developed the capacity

for disgust.

When young 'Lishy, noticing his brother's moroseness, attributed it to

his strong feeling for a certain damsel, Silas turned on him in a

fury. Ambition had even driven out all other feelings, and Dely Manly

seemed poor and commonplace to the dark swain, who a month before

would have gone any length to gain a smile from her. He compared

everything and everybody to the glory of what he dreamed the Springs

and its inhabitants to be, and all seemed cheap beside.

Then on a day when his spirits were at their lowest ebb, a passing

neighbor handed him a letter which he had found at the little village

post office. It was addressed to Mr. Si Jackson, and bore the Springs

postmark. Silas was immediately converted from a raw backwoods boy to

a man of the world. Save the little notes that had been passed back

and forth from boy to girl at the little log schoolhouse where he had

gone four fitful sessions, this was his first letter, and it was the

first time he had ever been addressed as "Mr." He swelled with a pride

that he could not conceal, as with trembling hands he tore the missive

open.

[Illustration: HIS BROTHER AND SISTER.]

He read it through with glowing eyes and a growing sense of his own

importance. It was from the head waiter whom Mr. Marston had

mentioned, and was couched in the most elegant and high-sounding

language. It said that Mr. Marston had spoken for Silas, and that if

he came to the Springs, and was quick to learn, "to acquire

knowledge," was the head waiter's phrase, a situation would be

provided for him. The family gathered around the fortunate son, and

gazed on him with awe when he imparted the good news. He became, on

the instant, a new being to them. It was as if he had only been loaned

to them, and was now being lifted bodily out of their world.

The elder Jackson was a bit doubtful about the matter.

"Of co'se ef you wants to go, Silas, I ain't a-gwine to gainsay you,

an' I hope it's all right, but sence freedom dis hyeah piece o'

groun's been good enough fu' me, an' I reckon you mought a' got erlong

on it."

"But pap, you see it's diff'ent now. It's diff'ent, all I wanted was a

chanst."

"Well, I reckon you got it, Si, I reckon you got it."

The younger children whispered long after they had gone to bed that

night, wondering and guessing what the great place to which brother Si

was going could be like, and they could only picture it as like the

great white-domed city whose picture they had seen in the gaudy Bible

foisted upon them by a passing agent.

As for Silas, he read and reread the letter by the light of a tallow

dip until he was too sleepy to see, and every word was graven on his

memory; then he went to bed with the precious paper under his pillow.

In spite of his drowsiness, he lay awake for some time, gazing with

heavy eyes into the darkness, where he saw the great city and his

future; then he went to sleep to dream of it.

From then on, great were the preparations for the boy's departure. So

little happened in that vicinity that the matter became a neighborhood

event, and the black folk for three miles up and down the road

manifested their interest in Silas's good fortune.

"I hyeah you gwine up to de Springs," said old Hiram Jones, when he

met the boy on the road a day or two before his departure.

"Yes, suh, I's gwine up thaih to wo'k in a hotel. Mistah Ma'ston, he

got me the job."

The old man reined in his horse slowly, and deposited the liquid

increase of a quid of tobacco before he said; "I hyeah tell it's

powahful wicked up in dem big cities."

"Oh, I reckon I ain't a-goin' to do nuffin wrong. I's goin' thaih to

wo'k."

"Well, you has been riz right," commented the old man doubtfully, "but

den, boys will be boys."

He drove on, and the prospect of a near view of wickedness did not

make the Springs less desirable in the boy's eyes. Raised as he had

been, almost away from civilization, he hardly knew the meaning of

what the world called wickedness. Not that he was strong or good.

There had been no occasion for either quality to develop; but that he

was simple and primitive, and had been close to what was natural and

elemental. His faults and sins were those of the gentle barbarian. He

had not yet learned the subtler vices of a higher civilization.

Silas, however, was not without the pride of his kind, and although

his father protested that it was a useless extravagance, he insisted

upon going to the nearest village and investing part of his small

savings in a new suit of clothes. It was quaint and peculiar apparel,

but it was the boy's first "store suit," and it filled him with

unspeakable joy. His brothers and sisters regarded his new

magnificence with envying admiration. It would be a long while before

they got away from bagging, homespun, and copperas-colored cotton,

whacked out into some semblance of garments by their "mammy." And so,

armed with a light bundle, in which were his few other belongings, and

fearfully and wonderfully arrayed, Silas Jackson set out for the

Springs. His father's parting injunctions were ringing in his ears,

and the memory of his mammy's wet eyes and sad face lingered in his

memory. She had wanted him to take the gaudy Bible away, but it was

too heavy to carry, especially as he was to walk the whole thirty

miles to the land of promise. At the last, his feeling of exaltation

gave way to one of sorrow, and as he went down the road, he turned

often to look at the cabin, until it faded from sight around the bend.

Then a lump rose in his throat, and he felt like turning and running

back to it. He had never thought the old place could seem so dear. But

he kept his face steadily forward and trudged on toward his destiny.

The Springs was the fashionable resort of Virginia, where the

aristocrats who thought they were ill went to recover their health and

to dance. Compared with large cities of the North, it was but a small

town, even including the transient population, but in the eyes of the

rural blacks and the poor whites of the region, it was a place of

large importance.

Hither, on the morning after his departure from the home gate, came

Silas Jackson, a little foot-sore and weary, but hopeful withal. In

spite of the pains that he had put upon his dressing, he was a quaint

figure on the city streets. Many an amused smile greeted him as he

went his way, but he saw them not. Inquiring the direction, he kept

on, until the many windows and broad veranda of the great hotel broke

on his view, and he gasped in amazement and awe at the sight of it,

and a sudden faintness seized him. He was reluctant to go on, but the

broad grins with which some colored men who were working about the

place regarded him, drove him forward, in spite of his embarrassment.

He found his way to the kitchen, and asked in trembling tones for the

head waiter. Breakfast being over, that individual had leisure to come

to the kitchen. There, with the grinning waiters about him, he stopped

and calmly surveyed Silas. He was a very pompous head waiter.

Silas had never been self-conscious before, but now he became

distressfully aware of himself--of his awkwardness, of his clumsy

feet and dangling hands, of the difference between his clothes and the

clothes of the men about him.

After a survey, which seemed to the boy of endless duration, the head

waiter spoke, and his tone was the undisputed child of his looks.

"I pussoom," said Mr. Buckner, "that you are the pusson Mistah Ma'ston

spoke to the p'op'ietor about?"

"Yes, suh, I reckon I is. He p'omised to git me a job up hyeah, an' I

got yo' lettah--" here Silas, who had set his bundle on the floor in

coming into the Presence, began to fumble in his pockets for the

letter. He searched long in vain, because his hands trembled, and he

was nervous under the eyes of this great personage who stood unmoved

and looked calmly at him.

Finally the missive was found and produced, though not before the

perspiration was standing thick on Silas's brow. The head waiter took

the sheet.

"Ve'y well, suh, ve'y well. You are evidently the p'oper pusson, as I

reco'nize this as my own chirography."

The up-country boy stood in awed silence. He thought he had never

heard such fine language before.

"I ca'culate that you have nevah had no experience in hotel work,"

pursued Mr. Buckner somewhat more graciously.

"I's nevah done nuffin' but wo'k on a farm; but evahbody 'lows I's

right handy." The fear that he would be sent back home without

employment gave him boldness.

"I see, I see," said the head waiter. "Well, we'll endeavor to try an'

see how soon you can learn. Mistah Smith, will you take this young man

in charge, an' show him how to get about things until we are ready to

try him in the dinin'-room?"

A rather pleasant-faced yellow boy came over to Silas and showed him

where to put his things and what to do.

"I guess it'll be a little strange at first, if you've never been a

hotel man, but you'll ketch on. Just you keep your eye on me."

All that day as Silas blundered about slowly and awkwardly, he looked

with wonder and admiration at the ease and facility with which his

teacher and the other men did their work. They were so calm, so

precise, and so self-sufficient. He wondered if he would ever be like

them, and felt very hopeless as the question presented itself to him.

They were a little prone to laugh at him, but he was so humble and so

sensible that he thought he must be laughable; so he laughed a little

shamefacedly at himself, and only tried the harder to imitate his

companions. Once when he dropped a dish upon the floor, he held his

breath in consternation, but when he found that no one paid any

attention to it, he picked it up and went his way.

He was tired that night, more tired than ploughing had ever made him,

and was thankful when Smith proposed to show him at once to the rooms

apportioned to the servants. Here he sank down and fell into a doze as

soon as his companion left him with the remark that he had some

studying to do. He found afterward that Smith was only a temporary

employee at the Springs, coming there during the vacations of the

school which he attended, in order to eke out the amount which it cost

him for his education. Silas thought this a very wonderful thing at

first, but when he grew wiser, as he did finally, he took the point of

view of most of his fellows and thought that Smith was wasting both

time and opportunities.

It took a very short time for Silas's unfamiliarity with his

surroundings to wear off, and for him to become acquainted with the

duties of his position. He grew at ease with his work, and became a

favorite both in dining-room and kitchen. Then began his acquaintance

with other things, and there were many other things at the Springs

which an unsophisticated young man might learn.

Silas's social attainments were lamentably sparse, but being an apt

youngster, he began to acquire them, quite as he acquired his new

duties, and different forms of speech. He learned to dance--almost a

natural gift of the negro--and he was introduced into the subtleties

of flirtation. At first he was a bit timid with the nurse-girls and

maids whom the wealthy travelers brought with them, but after a few

lessons from very able teachers, he learned the manly art of ogling to

his own satisfaction, and soon became as proficient as any of the

other black coxcombs.

If he ever thought of Dely Manly any more, it was with a smile that he

had been able at one time to consider her seriously. The people at

home, be it said to his credit, he did not forget. A part of his

wages went back every month to help better the condition of the cabin.

But Silas himself had no desire to return, and at the end of a year he

shuddered at the thought of it. He was quite willing to help his

father, whom he had now learned to call the "old man," but he was not

willing to go back to him.

II

Early in his second year at the Springs Marston came for a stay at the

hotel. When he saw his protege, he exclaimed: "Why, that isn't Si, is

it?"

"Yes, suh," smiled Silas.

"Well, well, well, what a change. Why, boy, you've developed into a

regular fashion-plate. I hope you're not advertising for any of the

Richmond tailors. They're terrible Jews, you know."

"You see, a man has to be neat aroun' the hotel, Mistah Ma'ston."

"Whew, and you've developed dignity, too. By the Lord Harry, if I'd

have made that remark to you about a year and a half ago, there at the

cabin, you'd have just grinned. Ah, Silas, I'm afraid for you. You've

grown too fast. You've gained a certain poise and ease at the expense

of--of--I don't know what, but something that I liked better. Down

there at home you were just a plain darky. Up here you are trying to

be like me, and you are colored."

"Of co'se, Mistah Ma'ston," said Silas politely, but deprecatingly,

"the worl' don't stan' still."

"Platitudes--the last straw!" exclaimed Mr. Marston tragically.

"There's an old darky preacher up at Richmond who says it does, and

I'm sure I think more of his old fog-horn blasts than I do of your

parrot tones. Ah! Si, this is the last time that I shall ever fool

with good raw material. However, don't let this bother you. As I

remember, you used to sing well. I'm going to have some of my friends

up at my rooms to-night; get some of the boys together, and come and

sing for us. And remember, nothing hifalutin; just the same old darky

songs you used to sing."

"All right, suh, we'll be up."

Silas was very glad to be rid of his old friend, and he thought when

Marston had gone that he was, after all, not such a great man as he

had believed. But the decline in his estimation of Mr. Marston's

importance did not deter him from going that night with three of his

fellow-waiters to sing for that gentleman. Two of the quartet insisted

upon singing fine music, in order to show their capabilities, but

Silas had received his cue, and held out for the old songs. Silas

Jackson's tenor voice rang out in the old plantation melodies with the

force and feeling that old memories give. The concert was a great

success, and when Marston pressed a generous-sized bank-note into his

hand that night, he whispered, "Well, I'm glad there's one thing you

haven't lost, and that's your voice."

That was the beginning of Silas's supremacy as manager and first tenor

of the Fountain Hotel Quartet, and he flourished in that capacity for

two years longer; then came Mr. J. Robinson Frye, looking for talent,

and Silas, by reason of his prominence, fell in this way.

Mr. J. Robinson Frye was an educated and enthusiastic young mulatto

gentleman, who, having studied music abroad, had made art his

mistress. As well as he was able, he wore the shock of hair which was

the sign manual of his profession. He was a plausible young man of

large ideas, and had composed some things of which the critics had

spoken well. But the chief trouble with his work was that his one aim

was money. He did not love the people among whom American custom had

placed him, but he had respect for their musical ability.

"Why," he used to exclaim in the sudden bursts of enthusiasm to which

he was subject, "why, these people are the greatest singers on earth.

They've got more emotion and more passion than any other people, and

they learn easier. I could take a chorus of forty of them, and with

two months' training make them sing the roof off the Metropolitan

Opera house."

When Mr. Frye was in New York, he might be seen almost any day at the

piano of one or the other of the negro clubs, either working at some

new inspiration, or playing one of his own compositions, and all black

clubdom looked on him as a genius.

His latest scheme was the training of a colored company which should

do a year's general singing throughout the country, and then having

acquired poise and a reputation, produce his own opera.

It was for this he wanted Silas, and in spite of the warning and

protests of friends, Silas went with him to New York, for he saw his

future loom large before him.

The great city frightened him at first, but he found there some, like

himself, drawn from the smaller towns of the South. Others in the

company were the relics of the old days of negro minstrelsy, and still

others recruited from the church choirs in the large cities. Silas was

an adaptable fellow, but it seemed a little hard to fall in with the

ways of his new associates. Most of them seemed as far away from him

in their knowledge of worldly things as had the waiters at the Springs

a few years before. He was half afraid of the chorus girls, because

they seemed such different beings from the nurse girls down home.

However, there was little time for moping or regrets. Mr. Frye was, it

must be said, an indefatigable worker. They were rehearsing every day.

Silas felt himself learning to sing. Meanwhile, he knew that he was

learning other things--a few more elegancies and vices. He looked upon

the "rounders" with admiration and determined to be one. So, after

rehearsals were over other occupations held him. He came to be known

at the clubs and was quite proud of it, and he grew bolder with the

chorus girls, because he was to be a star.

After three weeks of training, the company opened, and Silas, who had

never sung anything heavier than "Bright Sparkles in the Churchyard,"

was dressed in a Fauntleroy suit, and put on to sing in a scene from

"Rigoletto."

Every night he was applauded to the echo by "the unskilful," until he

came to believe himself a great singer. This belief was strengthened

when the girl who performed the Spanish dance bestowed her affections

upon him. He was very happy and very vain, and for the first time he

forgot the people down in a little old Virginia cabin. In fact, he had

other uses for his money.

For the rest of the season, either on the road or in and about New

York, he sang steadily. Most of the things for which he had longed and

had striven had come to him. He was known as a rounder, his highest

ambition. His waistcoats were the loudest to be had. He was possessed

of a factitious ease and self-possession that was almost aggression.

The hot breath of the city had touched and scorched him, and had dried

up within him whatever was good and fresh. The pity of it was that he

was proud of himself, and utterly unconscious of his own degradation.

He looked upon himself as a man of the world, a fine product of the

large opportunities of a great city.

Once in those days he heard of Smith, his old-time companion at the

Springs. He was teaching at some small place in the South. Silas

laughed contemptuously when he heard how his old friend was employed.

"Poor fellow," he said, "what a pity he didn't come up here, and make

something out of himself, instead of starving down there on little or

nothing," and he mused on how much better his fate had been.

The season ended. After a brief period of rest, the rehearsals for

Frye's opera were begun. Silas confessed to himself that he was tired;

he had a cough, too, but Mr. Frye was still enthusiastic, and this was

to be the great triumph, both for the composer and the tenor.

"Why, I tell you, man," said Frye, "it's going to be the greatest

success of the year. I am the only man who has ever put grand-opera

effects into comic opera with success. Just listen to the chords of

this opening chorus." And so he inspired the singer with some of his

own spirit. They went to work with a will. Silas might have been

reluctant as he felt the strain upon him grow, but that he had spent

all his money, and Frye, as he expressed it, was "putting up for him,"

until the opening of the season.

Then one day he was taken sick, and although Frye fumed, the

rehearsals had to go on without him. For awhile his companions came to

see him, and then they gradually ceased to come. So he lay for two

months. Even Sadie, his dancing sweetheart, seemed to have forgotten

him. One day he sent for her, but the messenger returned to say she

could not come, she was busy. She had married the man with whom she

did a turn at the roof-garden. The news came, too, that the opera had

been abanboned, and that Mr. Frye had taken out a company with a new

tenor, whom he pronounced far superior to the former one.

Silas gazed blankly at the wall. The hollowness of his life all came

suddenly before him. All his false ideals crumbled, and he lay there

with nothing to hope for. Then came back the yearnings for home, for

the cabin and the fields, and there was no disgust in his memory of

them.

When his strength partly returned, he sold some of the few things

that remained to him from his prosperous days, and with the money

purchased a ticket for home; then spent, broken, hopeless, all

contentment and simplicity gone, he turned his face toward his native

fields.