KENNETH came into contact with few others than his own people during
the first month after his return to Central City. The first two
weeks had been spent in getting his offices arranged with the
innumerable details of carpentering, plastering, painting, and
disposition of the equipment he had ordered in New York during the
days he had spent there on his return from France.
During the early months of 1917, when through every available means
propaganda was being used to whip into being America's war spirit,
one of the most powerful arguments heard was that of the beneficial
effect army life would have on the men who entered the service.
Newspapers and magazines were filled with it, orators in church and
theatre and hall shouted it, every signboard thrust it into the
faces of Americans. Alluring pictures were painted of the growth,
physical and mental, that would certainly follow enlistment "to make
the world safe for democracy."
To some of those who fought, such a change probably did come, but
the mental outlook of most of them was changed but little. The war
was too big a thing, too terrible and too searing a catastrophe, to
be adequately comprehended by the farmer boys, the clerks, and the
boys fresh from school who chiefly made up the fighting forces.
Their lives had been too largely confined to the narrow ways to
enable them to realize the immensity of the event into which they
had been so suddenly plunged. Their most vivid memories were of
"that damned second loot" or of _beaucoup vin blanc_ or, most
frequently, of all-too-brief adventures with the _mademoiselles_.
With the end of the war and demobilization had come the short
periods of hero-worship and then the sudden forgetfulness of those
for whom they had fought. The old narrow life began again with but
occasional revolts against the monotony of it all, against the
blasting of the high hopes held when the war was being fought. Even
these spasmodic revolts eventually petered out in vague mutterings
among men like themselves who let their inward dissatisfaction
dissipate in thin air.
More deep-rooted was this revolt among Negro ex-service men. Many of
them entered the army, not so much because they were fired with the
desire to fight for an abstract thing like world democracy, but,
because they were of a race oppressed, they entertained very
definite beliefs that service in France would mean a more decent
regime in America, when the war was over, for themselves and all
others who were classed as Negroes. Many of them, consciously or
subconsciously, had a spirit which might have been expressed like
this: "Yes, we'll fight for democracy in France, but when that's
over with we're going to expect and we're going to get some of that
same democracy for ourselves right here in America." It was because
of this spirit and determination that they submitted to the rigid
army discipline to which was often added all the contumely that race
prejudice could heap upon them.
Kenneth was of that class which thought of these things in a more
detached, more abstract, more subconscious manner. During the days
when, stationed close to the line, he treated black men brought to
the base hospital with arms and legs torn away by exploding shells,
with bodies torn and mangled by shrapnel, or with flesh seared by
mustard gas, he had inwardly cursed the so-called civilization which
not only permitted but made such carnage necessary. But when the
nightmare had ended, he rapidly forgot the nausea he had felt, and
plunged again into his beloved work. More easily than he would have
thought possible, he forgot the months of discomfort and weariness
and bloodshed. It came back to him only in fitful memories as of
some particularly horrible dream.
To Kenneth, when work grew wearisome or when memories would not
down, there came relaxation in literature, an opiate for which he
would never cease being grateful to Professor Fuller, his old
teacher at Atlanta. It was "Pop". Fuller who, with his benign and
paternal manner, his adoration of the best of the world's
literature, had sown in Kenneth the seed of that same love. He read
and reread _Jean Christophe_, finding in the adventures and
particularly in the mental processes of Rolland's hero many of his
own reactions towards life. He had read the plays of Bernard Shaw,
garnering here and there a morsel of truth though much of Shaw
eluded him. Theodore Dreiser's gloominess and sex-obsession he liked
though it often repelled him; he admired the man for his honesty and
disliked his pessimism or what seemed to him a dolorous outlook on
life. He loved the colourful romances of Hergesheimer, considering
them of little enduring value but nevertheless admiring his
descriptions of affluent life, enjoying it vicariously. Willa
Cather's _My Antonia_ he delighted in because of its simplicity and
power and beauty.
The works of D. H. Lawrence, Kenneth read with conflicting emotions.
Mystical, turgid, tortuous phrases, and meaning not always clear.
Yet he revelled in Lawrence's clear insight into the bends and
backwaters and perplexing twistings of the stream of life. Kenneth
liked best of all foreign writers Knut Hamsun. He had read many
times _Hunger, Growth of the Soil_, and other novels of the
Norwegian writer. He at times was annoyed by their lack of plot, but
more often he enjoyed them because they had none, reflecting that
life itself is never a smoothly turned and finished work of art, its
causes and effects, its tears and joys, its loves and hates neatly
dovetailing one into another as writers of fiction would have it.
So too did he satisfy his love for the sea in the novels of
Conrad—the love so many have who are born and grow to manhood far
from the sea. Kenneth loved it with an abiding and passionate love
loved, yet feared it for its relentless power and savagery—a love
such as a man would have for an alluring, yet tempestuous mistress
of fiery and uncertain temper. In Conrad's romances he lived by
proxy the life he would have liked had not fear of the water and the
circumstances of his life prevented it. Flaubert, Zola, Maupassant
he read and reread, finding in the struggles of _Emma Bovary_ and
_Nana_ and other heroines and heroes of the French realists mental
counterparts of some of the coloured men and women of his
acquaintance in their struggles against the restrictions of stupid
and crass and ignorant surroundings. The very dissimilarities of
environment and circumstance between his own acquaintances and the
characters in the novels he read, seemed to emphasize the narrowness
of his own life in the South. So does a bedridden invalid read with
keen delight the adventurous and rococo romances of Zane Grey or
Jack London.
But perhaps best of all he admired the writing of Du Bois—the fiery,
burning philippics of one of his own race against the proscriptions
of race prejudice. He read them with a curious sort of detachment—as
being something which touched him in a more or less remote way but
not as a factor in forming his own opinions as a Negro in a land
where democracy often stopped dead at the colour line.
It was in this that Kenneth's attitude towards life was most clearly
shown. His was the more philosophic viewpoint on the race question,
that problem so close to him. The proscriptions which he and others
of his race were forced to endure were inconvenient, yet they were
apparently a part of life, one of its annoyances, a thing which had
always been and probably would be for all time to come. Therefore,
he reasoned, why bother with it any more than one was forced to by
sheer necessity? Better it was for him if he attended to his own
individual problems, solved them to the best of his ability and as
circumstances would permit, and left to those who chose to do it the
agitation for the betterment of things in general. If he solved his
problems and every other Negro did the same, he often thought, then
the thing we call the race problem will be solved. Besides, he
reasoned, the whole thing is too big for one man to tackle it, and
if he does attack it, more than likely he will go down to defeat in
the attempt. And what would be gained? …
His office completed, Kenneth began the making of those contacts he
needed to secure the patients he knew were coming. In this his
mother and Mamie were of invaluable assistance. Everybody knew the
Harpers. It was a simple matter for Kenneth to renew acquaintances
broken when he had left for school in the North. He joined local
lodges of the Grand United Order of Heavenly Reapers and the Exalted
Knights of Damon. The affected mysteriousness of his initiation into
these fraternal orders, the secret grip, the passwords, the
elaborately worded rituals, all of which the other members took so
seriously, amused him, but he went through it all with an out wardly
solemn demeanour. He knew it was good business to affiliate himself
with these often absurd societies which played so large a part in
the lives of these simple and illiterate coloured folk. Along with
the strenuous emotionalism of their religion, it served as an outlet
for their naturally deep feelings. In spite of the renewal of
acquaintances, the careful campaign of winning confidence in his
ability as a physician, Kenneth found that the flood of patients did
not come as he had hoped. The coloured people of Central City had
had impressed upon them by three hundred years of slavery and that
which was called freedom after the Emancipation Proclamation was
signed, that no Negro doctor, however talented, was quite as good as
a white one. This slave mentality, Kenneth now realized, inbred upon
generation after generation of coloured folk, is the greatest
handicap from which the Negro suffers, destroying as it does that
confidence in his own ability which would enable him to meet without
fear or apology the test of modern competition.
Kenneth's youthful appearance, too, militated against him. Though
twenty-nine years old, he looked not more than a mere twenty-four or
twenty-five. "He may know his stuff and be as smart as all
outdoors," ran the usual verdict, "but I don't want no boy treating
me when I'm sick."
Perhaps the greatest factor contributing to the coloured folks' lack
of confidence in physicians of their own race was the inefficiency
of Dr. Williams, the only coloured doctor in Central City prior to
Kenneth's return. Dr. Williams belonged to the old school and moved
on the theory that when he graduated some eighteen years before from
a medical school in Alabama, the development of medical knowledge
had stopped. He fondly pictured himself as being the most prominent
personage of Central City's Negro colony, was pompous, bulbous-eyed,
and exceedingly fond of long words, especially of Latin derivation.
He made it a rule of his life never to use a word of one syllable if
one of two or more would serve as well. Active in fraternal order
circles (he was a member of nine lodges), class-leader in Central
City's largest Methodist church, arbiter supreme of local affairs in
general, he filled the rôle with what he imagined was unsurpassable
éclat. His idea of complimenting a hostess was ostentatiously to
loosen his belt along about the middle of dinner. Once he had been
introduced as the "black William Jennings Bryan," believed it
thereafter, and thought it praise of a high order.
He was one of those who say on every possible occasion: "I am kept
so terribly busy I never have a minute to myself." Like nine out of
ten who say it, Dr. Williams always repeated this stock phrase of
those who flatter themselves in this fashion—so necessary to those
of small minds who would be thought great—not because it was true,
but to enhance his pre-eminence in the eyes of his hearers—and in
his own eyes as well.
He always wore coats which resembled morning coats, known in local
parlance as "Jim-swingers." He kept his hair straightened, wore it
brushed straight back from his forehead like highly polished steel
wires, and, with pomades and hair oils liberally applied, it
glistened like the patent leather shoes which adorned his ample
feet.
His stout form filled the Ford in which he made his professional
calls, and it was a sight worth seeing as he majestically rolled
through the streets of the town bowing graciously and calling out
loud greetings to the acquaintances he espied by the way. Always his
bows to white people were twice as low and obsequious as to those of
darker skin. Until Kenneth returned, Dr. Williams had had his own
way in Central City. Through his fraternal and church connections
and lack of competition, he had made a little money, much of it
through his position as medical examiner for the lodges to which he
belonged. As long as he treated minor ailments—cuts, colic,
childbirths, and the like he had little trouble. But when more
serious maladies attacked them, the coloured population sent for the
old white physician, Dr. Bennett, instead of for Dr. Williams.
The great amount of time at his disposal irritated Kenneth. He was
like a spirited horse, champing at the bit, eager to be off. The
patronizing air of his people nettled him—caused him to reflect
somewhat bitterly that "a prophet is not without honour save in his
own country." And when one has not the gift of prophecy to foretell,
or of clairvoyance to see, what the future holds in the way of
success, one is not likely to develop a philosophic calm which
enables him to await the coming of long-desired results. He was
seated one day in his office reading when his mother entered.
Closing his book, he asked the reason for her frown.
"You remember Mrs. Bradley—Mrs. Emma Bradley down on Ashley
Street-don't you, Kenneth?" Without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Harper
went on: "Well, she's mighty sick. Jim Bradley has had Dr. Bennett
in to see what's the matter with her but he don't seem to do her
much good."
Kenneth remembered Mrs. Bradley well indeed. The most talkative
woman in Central City. It was she who had come to his mother with a
long face and dolorous manner when he as a youngster had misbehaved
in church. He had learned instinctively to connect Mrs. Bradley's
visits with excursions to the little back room accompanied by his
mother and a switch cut from the peach-tree in the back yard—a sort
of natural cause and effect. Visions of those days rose in his mind
and he imagined he could feel the sting of those switches on his
legs now.
"What seems to be the trouble with her?" he asked.
"It's some sort of stomach-trouble—she's got an awful pain in her
side. She says it can't be her appendix because she had that removed
up to Atlanta when she was operated on there for a tumour nearly
four years ago. Dr. Bennett gave her some medicine but it doesn't
help here any. Won't you run down there to see her?"
"I can't, mamma, until I am called in professionally. Dr. Bennett
won't like it. It isn't ethical. Besides, didn't Mrs. Bradley say
when I came back that she didn't want any coloured doctor fooling
with her?"
"Yes, she did, but you mustn't mind that. Just run in to see her as
a social call."
Kenneth rose and instinctively took up his bag. Remembering, he put
it down, put on his hat, kissed his mother, and walked down to
Mrs. Bradley's. Outside the gate stood Dr. Bennett's mud-splashed
buggy, sagging on one side through years of service in carrying its
owner's great bulk. Between the shafts stood the old bay horse, its
head hung dejectedly as though asleep, which Central City always
connected with its driver.
Entering the gate held by one hinge, Kenneth made his way to the
little three-room unpainted house which served as home for the
Bradleys and their six children. On knocking, the door was opened by
Dr. Bennett, who apparently was just leaving. He stood there, his
hat on, stained by many storms, its black felt turning a greenish
brown through years of service and countless rides through the red
dust of the roads leading out of Central City. Dr. Bennett himself
was large and flabby. His clothes hung on him in haphazard fashion
and looked as though they had never been subjected to the indignity
of a tailor's iron. A Sherlock Holmes, or even one less gifted,
could read on his vest with little difficulty those things which its
wearer had eaten for many meals past. Dr. Bennett's face was red
through exposure to many suns, and covered with the bristle of a
three days' growth of beard. Small eyes set close together, they
belied a bluff good humour which Dr. Bennett could easily assume
when there was occasion for it. The corners of the mouth were
stained a deep brown where tobacco juice had run down the folds of
the flesh.
Behind him stood Jim Bradley with worried face, his ashy black skin
showing the effects of remaining all night by the bedside of his
wife.
Dr. Bennett looked at Kenneth inquiringly.
"Don't you remember me, Dr. Bennett? I'm Kenneth Harper."
"Bless my soul, so it is. How're you, Ken? Le's see it's been nigh
on to eight years since you went No'th, ain't it? Heard you was back
in town. Hear you goin' to practise here. Come ‘round to see me some
time. Right glad you're here. I'll be kinder glad to get somebody to
help me treat these niggers for colic or when they get carved up in
a crap game. Hope you ain't got none of them No'then ideas 'bout
social equality while you was up there. Jus' do like your daddy did,
and you'll get along all right down here. These niggers who went
over to France and ran around with them Frenchwomen been causin' a
lot of trouble ‘round here, kickin' up a rumpus, and talkin' ‘bout
votin' and ridin' in the same car with white folks. But don't you
let them get you mixed up in it, ‘cause there'll be trouble sho's
you born if they don't shut up and git to work. Jus' do like your
daddy did, and you'll do a lot to keep the white folks' friendship."
Dr. Bennett poured forth all this gratuitous advice between
asthmatic wheezes without waiting for Kenneth to reply. He then
turned to Jim Bradley with a parting word of advice.
"Jim, keep that hot iron on Emma's stomach and give her those pills
every hour. ‘Tain't nothin' but the belly-ache. She'll be all right
in an hour or two."
Turning without another word, he half ambled, half shuffled out to
his buggy, pulled himself up into it with more puffing and wheezing,
and drove away. Jim Bradley took Kenneth's arm and led him back on
to the little porch, closing the door behind him.
"I'm pow'ful glad t' see you, Ken. My, but you done growed sence you
went up No'th! Befo' you go in dar, I want t' tell you somethin'.
Emma's been right po'ly fuh two days. Her stomach's swelled up right
sma't and she's been hollering all night. Dis mawning she don't seem
jus' right in de haid. I tol her I was gwine to ast you to come see
her, but she said she didn't want no young nigger doctah botherin'
with her. But don't you min' her. I wants you to tell me what to
do."
Kenneth smiled.
"I'll do what I can for her, Jim. But what about Dr. Bennett?"
"Dat's a' right. He give her some med'cine but it ain't done her no
good. She's too good a woman fuh me to lose her, even if she do talk
a li'l' too much. You make out like you jus' drap in to pass the
time o' day with her."
Kenneth entered the dark and ill-smelling room. Opposite the door a
fire smouldered in the fire-place, giving fitful spurts of flame
that illumined the room and then died down again. There was no
grate, the pieces of wood resting on crude andirons, blackened by
the smoke of many fires. Over the mantel there hung a cheap charcoal
reproduction of Jim and Emma in their wedding-clothes, made by some
local "artist" from an old photograph. One or two nondescript chairs
worn shiny through years of use stood before the fire. In one corner
stood a dresser on which were various bottles of medicine and of
"Madame Walker's Hair Straightener." On the floor a rug, worn
through in spots and patched with fragments of other rugs all
apparently of different colours, covered the space in front of the
bed. The rest of the floor was bare and showed evidences of a recent
vigorous scrubbing. The one window was closed tightly and covered
over with a cracked shade, long since divorced from its roller,
tacked to the upper ledge of the window.
On the bed Mrs. Bradley was rolling and tossing in great pain. Her
eyes opened slightly when Kenneth approached the bed and closed
again immediately as a new spasm of pain passed through her body.
She moaned piteously and held her hands on her side, pressing down
hard one hand over the other.
At a sign from Jim, Kenneth started to take her pulse.
"Go way from here and leave me ‘lone! Oh, Lawdy, why is I suff'rin'
this way? I jus' wish I was daid! Oh-oh-oh!"
This last as she writhed in agony. Kenneth drew back the covers,
examined Mrs. Bradley's abdomen, took her pulse. Every sign pointed
to an attack of acute appendicitis. He informed Jim of his
diagnosis.
"But, Doc, it ain't dat trouble, 'cause Emma says dat was taken out
a long time ago."
"I can't help what she says. She's got appendicitis. You go get
Dr. Bennett and tell him your wife has got to be operated on right
away or she is going to die. Get a move on you now! If it was my
case, I would operate within an hour. Stop by my house and tell Bob
to bring me an ice bag as quick as he can."
Jim hurried away to catch Dr. Bennett. Kenneth meanwhile did what he
could to relieve Mrs. Bradley's suffering. In a few minutes Bob came
with the ice bag. Then Jim returned with his face even more doleful
than it had been when Kenneth had told him how sick his wife was.
"Doc Bennett says he don't care what you do. He got kinder mad when
I told him you said it was ‘pendicitis, and tol' me dat if I
couldn't take his word, he wouldn't have anything mo' to do with
Emma. He seemed kinder mad ‘cause you said it was mo' than a
stomach-ache. Said he wa'n't goin' to let no young nigger doctor
tell him his bus'ness. So, Doc, you'll have t' do what you thinks
bes'."
"All right, I'll do it. First thing, I'm going to move your wife
over to my office. We can put her up in the spare room. Bob will
drive her over in the car. Get something around her and you'd better
come on over with her. I'll get Dr. Williams to help me."
Kenneth was jubilant at securing his first surgical case since his
return to Central City, though his pleasure was tinged with doubt as
to the ethics of the manner in which it had come to him. He did not
let that worry him very long, however, but began his preparations
for the operation.
First he telephoned to Mrs. Johnson, who, before she married and
settled down in Central City, had been a trained nurse at a coloured
hospital at Atlanta. She hurried over at once. Neat, quiet, and
efficient, she took charge immediately of preparations, sterilizing
the array of shiny instruments, preparing wads of absorbent cotton,
arranging bandages and catgut and hæmostatics.
Kenneth left all this to Mrs. Johnson, for he knew in her hands it
would be well done. He telephoned to Dr. Williams to ask that he
give the anæsthesia. In his excitement Kenneth neglected to put in
his voice the note of asking a great and unusual favour of
Dr. Williams. That eminent physician, eminent in his own eyes,
cleared his throat several times before replying, while Kenneth
waited at the other end of the line. He realized his absolute
dependence on Dr. Williams, for he knew no white doctor would assist
a Negro surgeon or even operate with a coloured assistant. There was
none other in Central City who could give the ether to Mrs. Bradley.
It made him furious that Dr. Williams should hesitate so long. At
the same time, he knew he must restrain the hot and burning words
that he would have used. The pompous one hinted of the pressure of
his own work—work that would keep him busy all day.
Into his words he injected the note of affront at being asked—he,
the coloured physician of Central City—to assist a younger man.
Especially on that man's first case. Kenneth swallowed his anger and
pride, and pleaded with Dr. Williams at least to come over. Finally,
the older physician agreed in a condescending manner to do so.
Hurrying back to his office, Kenneth found Mrs. Bradley arranged on
the table ready for the operation. Examining her, he found she was
in delirium, her eyes glazed, her abdomen hard and distended, and
she had a temperature of 105 degrees. He hastily sterilized his
hands and put on his gown and cap. As he finished his preparations,
Dr. Williams in leisurely manner strolled into the room with a
benevolent and patronizing "Howdy, Kenneth, my boy. I won't be able
to help you out after all. I've got to see some patients of my own."
He emphasized "my own," for he had heard of the manner by which
Kenneth had obtained the case of Mrs. Bradley Kenneth, pale with
anger, excited over his first real case in Central City, stared at
Dr. Williams in amazement at his words.
"But, Dr. Williams, you can't do that! Mrs. Bradley here is dying!"
The older doctor looked around patronizingly at the circle of
anxious faces. Jim Bradley, his face lined and seamed with toil, the
lines deepened in distress at the agony of his wife and the
imminence of losing her, gazed at him with dumb pleading in his
eyes, pleading without spoken words with the look of an old,
faithful dog beseeching its master. Bob looked with a malevolent
glare at his pompous sleekness, as though he would like to spring
upon him.
Mrs. Johnson plainly showed her contempt of such callousness on the
part of one who bore the title, however poorly, of physician. In
Kenneth's eyes was a commingling of eagerness and rage and
bitterness and anxiety. On Emma Bradley's face there was nothing but
the pain and agony of her delirious ravings. Dr. Williams seemed to
enjoy thoroughly his little moment of triumph. He delayed speaking
in order that it might be prolonged as much as possible. The silence
was broken by Jim Bradley.
"Doc, won't you please he'p?" he pleaded. "She's all I got!"
Kenneth could remain silent no longer. He longed to punch that fat
face and erase from it the supercilious smirk that adorned it.
"Dr. Williams," he began with cold hatred in his voice, "either you
are going to give this anæsthesia or else I'm going to go into every
church in Central City and tell exactly what you've done here
today."
Dr. Williams turned angrily on Kenneth.
"Young man, I don't allow anybody to talk to me like that-least of
all, a young whippersnapper just out of school …" he shouted.
By this time Kenneth's patience was at an end. He seized the lapels
of the other doctor's coat in one hand and thrust his clenched fist
under the nose of the now thoroughly alarmed Dr. Williams.
"Are you going to help—or aren't you?" he demanded.
The situation was becoming too uncomfortable for the older man. He
could stand Kenneth's opposition but not the ridicule which would
inevitably follow the spreading of the news that he had been beaten
up and made ridiculous by Kenneth. He swallowed—a look of indecision
passed over his face as he visibly wondered if Kenneth really dared
hit him—followed by a look of fear as Kenneth drew back his fist as
though to strike. Discretion seemed the better course to pursue he
could wait until a later and more propitious date for his revenge—he
agreed to help. A look of relief came over Jim Bradley's face. A
grin covered Bob's as he saw his brother showing at last some signs
of fighting spirit. Without further words Kenneth prepared to
operate. …
The patient under the ether, Kenneth with sure, deft strokes made an
incision and rapidly removed the appendix. Ten—twelve—fifteen
minutes, and the work was done. He found Mrs. Bradley's peritoneum
badly inflamed, the appendix swollen and about to burst. A few
hours' delay and it would have been too late. …
The next morning Mrs. Bradley's temperature had gone down to normal.
Two weeks later she was sufficiently recovered to be removed to her
home. Three weeks later she was on her feet again. Then Kenneth for
the first time in his life had no fault to find with the vigour with
which Mrs. Bradley could use her tongue. Glorying as only such a
woman can in her temporary fame at escape from death by so narrow a
margin, she went up and down the streets of the town telling how
Kenneth had saved her life. With each telling of the story it took
on more embellishments until eventually the simple operation ranked
in importance in her mind with the first sewing-up of the human
heart.
Kenneth found his practice growing. His days were filled with his
work. One man viewed his growing practice with bitterness. It was
Dr. Williams, resentful of the small figure he had cut in the
episode in Kenneth's office, which had become known all over Central
City. Of a petty and vindictive nature, he bided his time until he
could force atonement from the upstart who had so presumptuously
insulted and belittled him, the Beau Brummel, the leading physician,
the prominent coloured citizen. But Kenneth, if he knew of the
hatred in the man's heart, was supremely oblivious of it.
The morning after his operation on Mrs. Bradley, he added another to
the list of those who did not wish him well. He had taken the bottle
of alcohol containing Mrs. Bradley's appendix to Dr. Bennett to show
that worthy that he had been right, after all, in his diagnosis. He
found him seated in his office, Dr. Bennett, with little apparent
interest, glanced at the bottle.
"Humph!" he ejaculated, aiming at the cuspidor and letting fly a
thin stream of tobacco juice which accurately met its mark. "You
never can tell what's wrong with a nigger anyhow. They ain't got
nacheral diseases like white folks. A hoss doctor can treat 'em
better'n one that treats humans. I always said that a nigger's more
animal than human. …"
Kenneth had been eager to discuss the case of Mrs. Bradley with his
fellow practitioner. He had not even been asked to sit down by
Dr. Bennett. He realized for the first time that in spite of the
superiority of his medical training to that of Dr. Bennett's, the
latter did not recognize him as a qualified physician, but only as a
"nigger doctor." Making some excuse, he left the house. Dr. Bennett
turned back to the local paper he had been reading when Kenneth
entered, took a fresh chew of tobacco from the plug in his hip
pocket, grunted, and remarked: "A damned nigger telling me I don't
know medicine!"