_His Face Was Her Guide._
"This is a rich man's war and a poor man's fight." Such is said to have
been the character of the sentiment that was widespread in the ranks of
the Confederate army during the late Civil War.
Be that as it may, it is very evident that the highest interest of the
"poor whites" who bore the brunt of the fighting was to be conserved by
the collapse rather than the triumph of the cause for which they fought
with unsurpassed gallantry. For, with the downfall of the system of
enforced labor, the work of the world became an open market, and the
dignity of labor being restored, the "poor whites" had both a better
opportunity and a more congenial atmosphere to begin their rise. Thus
the stars in their courses fought for the "poor whites" in fighting
bitterly against them.
At one time the Negroes of the cities of the South had almost a
monopoly of the work of transferring passengers and baggage to
and from the depots, but white men organized transfer companies, placed
white agents on the incoming trains to solicit patronage, employed white
men to drive the transfer wagons and thus largely wrested the business
from the hands of the Negroes. But the Negroes would yet drive up to the
station, hoping for some measure of success in the spirited contests
that would arise in attempts to capture such gleanings as the advance
agents of the transfer companies had left behind.
So, when the train on which we rode into Almaville poured its stream of
passengers upon the platform of the car shed and they had ascended the
steps to the depot platform, they were greeted with a series of shouts
from the Negro hackmen and expressmen standing at the edge of the
platform, the preponderance of the chances against them lending color to
their cries.
Ensal Ellwood and Earl Bluefield boarded a street car, while the Negro
girl who had occupied the coach with them, not knowing anything about
the city, went in the direction of the clamoring hackmen, hoping that
some one of them might tell her where she could find proper
entertainment for the night. As she drew near, the line of hackmen bent
forward, with hands outstretched for traveling bags, each man eyeing her
intently as if hoping that the character of the look bestowed upon her
might influence her choice. One man pulled off his hat, hoping to
impress her with a mark of respect not exhibited by the others. The
remainder of the hackmen quickly pulled off their hats, determined that
no one should have the advantage. The young woman tossed back her veil
that she might see the better.
[Illustration: "The young woman looked into his face and recoiled."
(20-21.)]
A young man better dressed than the hackmen was standing behind them.
The moment he caught sight of the young woman's astonishingly beautiful
face he pushed through the crowd, walked rapidly to her side, gently
took hold of her satchel, and said quietly, "You will go with me. I will
see you properly cared for."
The young woman looked into his face and recoiled. His tone was
respectful and there was nothing affronting in his look or demeanor, yet
the young woman felt utterly repelled.
"That's right, lady. Don't go with him. Go with any of the rest of these
men in preference to him," said a genial faced young man, slightly below
medium height, rather corpulent and very dark.
The young woman looked in his direction and was favorably impressed with
his open, frank expression.
"I'll trust myself to your care," said she, pulling away from the well
dressed young man.
Leroy Crutcher, for such was his name, cast a look of malignant hatred
at Bud Harper, the successful hackman and muttered something under his
breath. He also scowled at the young woman whose utter disdain of him
had cut him to the quick.
"I will get even with the pair of them, if it takes me the balance of my
life," said Leroy Crutcher to the group of hackmen, after Bud Harper and
the young woman had driven away.
The men looked at him in sullen, contemptuous silence, loathing and yet
dreading him more than they did a serpent, for he conducted a house of
ill-repute for the exclusive use of white men and Negro girls, and,
being diligent in endeavoring to bring to his home any and all Negro
girls to whom his white patrons might take a fancy, had great influence
with this element of whites.
Noting the indisposition of the men to talk to him, and rightly
interpreting their contemptuous silence, Crutcher drew from his pocket a
wallet full of greenbacks. Taking out as many one dollar bills as there
were hackmen, he threw them on the platform and said, "I am a gentleman,
myself. Money talks these days. Help yourselves, gentlemen."
The men did not look at the money. Each one returned to his vehicle and
journeyed to his humble home, leaving Crutcher alone upon the platform.
If the hackmen had taken his money it would have served as proof to him
that they were no better than he, that they were not in a business like
his simply because they lacked his skill and finesse.
The action of the hackmen intensified his resentment at the treatment
accorded him by Bud Harper and the young woman, and, meditating
vengeance, he now walked toward his den of infamy where his mother had
reigned in her day and where he was born of a white father.
The human race has not thus far even approached the point of
constructing such habitations as would render mankind indifferent to
rumblings underground, nor has society such secure foundation that it
can think lightly of its lower elements.
In the long run the LeRoy Crutchers will be heard from. It is
inevitable.