Robert found Pinkney, hat on head, about to leave the office.
“Come along,” he said, “you’re just in time. I’m going to the Tribe
office. I’ll introduce you to the Sublime Headman--Joseph Andrew
Lister.” Together they descended to the street.
“Lister? I heard the name at the concilium. Who is he otherwise? Is he
a Corinthian?”
“Lister?--have a cigar, Robert. He’s the Rev. Mr. Lister, a very
distinguished minister. Let me see. I think he was a Methodist divine.
But he has given up his clerical work, he told me, to devote all his
time to the Tribe. It was his idea, in fact. He began recruiting
members in about 1915 or so and laid the foundation. The office is only
a few blocks down.”
“I thought,” said Robert, “the initiation ceremony had a sort of
ecclesiastical flavor. It was very impressive though. I dreamed about
it all night.”
“Did you?” Pinkney grinned. “Lister and Griffith devised it. Lister is
the man with the ideal of solidifying the best element in this country;
while Griffith is the practical man. He really made it. He works out
all the plans. He is really quite a capable fellow.”
They crossed the street, Pinkney, with his slightly annoying habit
of politeness, or excessive friendliness, holding Hamilton’s arm and
helping him. A persistent newsboy thrust a paper before him and Pinkney
bought two copies.
“Want one? I have mine delivered at the office every day, but--”
Robert glanced at the streamer headline and discovered the meaning of
what the newsboy had been shouting. A half-dozen masked men had taken a
Negro from his place of employment in Corinth, driven him far into the
country and tarred and feathered him. Members of the Trick Track Tribe
were suspected. Howard’s cheeks were flushed and he moistened his lips
with his tongue.
“Look at that,” said Robert, “they’re accusing the Tribe.”
“Oh, the police are friendly. The chief is one of us. There’s no
danger. Whenever something like this happens, the Tribe is naturally
blamed anyway. And if members of the Tribe did do it, no one would
tell. There’s been altogether too much lawlessness among the niggers
lately. The courts are cluttered with them. It should be a good lesson
for them.”
“But isn’t this lawlessness?”
“The Tribe has its own law and metes out its own justice. You’ll see.
You’ve taken only your first degree. You haven’t learned about the
tribunal. It’s the fairest, justest institution in the United States.
It fortifies the ordinary methods of law enforcement and insures
justice to every one whose case is brought before it. If a man is
condemned by it, be sure he is guilty.”
Robert noticed that Howard had not said that the Tribe had or had not
been responsible for the affair. Yet he had vindicated it. There was
a peculiar thing about the oath, too, or one of them: a person was
permitted to deny a fact or even to falsify in defense of the Tribe. A
phrase he had heard somewhere popped into his mind: “A good dose of tar
taken externally with lots of feathers.”
Howard was detailing the offenses of the Negroes of Corinth. Of the
entire black race. Of the colored races. What had they to do with this
one individual human being who had been punished by these superior
white men? Well, perhaps this man was guilty. The newspaper story
hinted that the victim had distributed among his fellow Negroes white
mule, a poisonous whiskey that incited the drinkers to violence--when
it did not paralyze them, more or less permanently. After all, what
was the law, but an institution to maintain justice? It was an
instrument of man. It functioned through men. What difference was there
fundamentally if men in long white gowns and masks sentenced you or a
judge with a white wig and black robes or men in business suits! As
long as the man was really guilty. And ordinary justice often lagged,
allowed the criminal to escape, failed to impress its lesson on others.
“Oh, it was probably a good lesson at that,” said Robert.
“Probably!” exclaimed Pinkney. “Why there’s no doubt about it. It will
do more to restore law and order, to stop the selling of white mule
than raiding a dozen stills. I know the niggers. You know them too,
Hamilton. They’ll become frightened and quit.”
The Rev. Mr. Lister was in his private office in conference with
Mr. Griffith and another gentleman, according to the rather plump,
middle-aged woman who sat typing in the outer room. Pinkney introduced
Robert to her. Her name was Mrs. Ward. She had pleasant, a trifle
flirtatious, brown eyes, assisted Mr. Griffith in editing the Tribe
paper and various pamphlets, and chewed gum.
“Seen the last copy of the Clarion?” she asked, with a smile, turning
to reach for something.
“No, what’s that?” asked Robert.
Mrs. Ward and Pinkney informed him simultaneously that it was a
propaganda weekly, Mrs. Ward with a coquettish shake of her finger and
a somewhat more pronounced appearance of her double chin.
“Captain Hamilton has just been initiated,” explained Pinkney
apologetically. “Mrs. Ward, here, is the brains of the Tribe.”
She laughed.
“Here it is,” she said, handing the magazine to Robert. “Aren’t men
the flatterers? There’s a corker in this week about the Catholics. You
wanna read it. Didja see last week’s Jew article, Mr. Pinkney? Griffith
wrote ’em. There’s some swell stuff about the Inquisition. I don’t see
where he reads so much.”
Hamilton glanced over the first page of The Clarion. There was an
engraving of de Torquemada with the caption, “Do You Want Him Here?”
beneath. But before he could read beyond the first paragraph--a
series of queries, as to whether we wanted this or that medieval
institution here--he became conscious of voices raised in the office
of the Sublime Headman. First an impassioned, angry voice. The words
were indistinguishable. Then the angry voice of the minister. Robert
recognized the cadences, rolling in anger:
“To violate your oath means disgrace, dishonor and _death_.”
A door flew open. The voices ceased abruptly. A white-faced man strode
out of the room. He stopped in embarrassment as he saw Pinkney, twisted
his hat, screwed his lips into a smile and mumbled a greeting, then
stumbled out of the room. Robert’s hands involuntarily crushed the copy
of The Clarion. A buzzer sounded.
“Come in, gentlemen,” called a sunny voice.
“Walk right in there,” beamed Mrs. Ward, adjusting a new sheet in her
typewriter. “He’s in there alone with Griffith now.”
The Rev. Mr. Lister was seated at a mahogany desk--a tall impressive
figure in frock coat, wing collar and black cravat--a dignified and
picturesque survival of, say, the middle of the nineteenth century,
with a wavy mane parted at one side and brushed back from a high
forehead; thin lips of the orator; intent pale blue eyes.
Joseph Andrew Lister had been an itinerant Methodist preacher and later
organizer for a fraternal society, before the inspiration came to him
to revive a secret society for the reformation of humanity and the
establishment of a more perfect justice on earth. He had been born on a
farm in northern Georgia and had been obliged to rise at four o’clock
every morning to begin the day’s chores. He hated farm life and, having
at the age of seven, attended an Evangelistic meeting, presided over by
a fiery preacher, decided to find solace in religion.
His parents, who were very religious, and an uncle, who ran a small
store in a neighboring town, scraped together enough to send Joseph
through a seminary, where he applied himself with such zeal that he led
all his classes. He knew both testaments almost by heart and found in
them the epitome of all wisdom. When not studying he was continually
composing sermons and delivering them, under his breath in his room,
or aloud in the fields or on the street. At sixteen he come home on
Sunday to preach at the church where he had been confirmed and which
his parents attended, to their inexpressible pride.
He might have continued to serve as a minister, assisting his parents
with the less arduous duties of the farm between sermons, had he not
been induced to join a fraternal society in his thirty-fifth year.
He suddenly got an insight into a new world. The idea of fraternal
association and benevolence in a lay organization fired his imagination
and he saw in it a greater field for spreading practical Christianity.
The position of organizer, besides, was somewhat more remunerative, and
so, when it was offered him, he abandoned the pulpit. He was fairly
successful in gaining new members, won a reputation as a fiery talker
and was looked upon as a person of superior learning and godliness
among his associates. These qualities alone would not have sufficed to
build up the Trick Track Tribe had not the more practical genius of
Griffith pointed the way. Lister remained, however, the figurehead and
mouthpiece of the organization which he had been unable to build, while
Griffith, the guiding genius, remained more or less in the background.
“Good morning, brother Pinkney,” said the Rev. Mr. Lister in orotund
tones. “Isn’t this one of our initiates? Ah, yes, Captain Hamilton. I
am delighted to enroll you in our Tribe. ‘I have an errand to thee, O
captain.’” He smiled. “The Tribe is a military organization, a mighty
host. And we need captains to spread the word.”
The Headman shook hands warmly with both Hamilton and Pinkney.
Griffith, who had been leaning back in a chair, arose and followed his
example.
“Let us be seated.” Robert noticed how the Headman’s eyes glowed, how
the corners of his lips turned down and how he habitually pressed the
tips of his fingers together. A sincere man, a man fairly burning with
religious zeal. “In recruiting this magnificent army that is to bear
the message of the Trick Track Tribe to every portion of the continent,
we are in need of captains, even as the Kings of Israel needed captains
of their hundreds.”
He complimented Robert magnificently on fighting the hosts of the enemy
and now girding up his loins again to renew the fight for godliness
here.
Robert, he judged, did not know all about the Tribe, but he must take
some of its mission on faith. No doubt he knew its main objects. White
supremacy. Noah had begot Shem, Ham and Japheth. God had created men,
black and white--the white to be supreme, the black to be ruled. The
purity of womanhood. Men and women who feared God and who kept His
commandments. Patriotism. Something about money changers in the Temple.
Griffith, whose quick eye had been traveling back and forth between the
minister and Robert, leaned forward and pointed his finger at the desk.
“It’s this way, Hamilton,” he said. “Pinkney has probably told you
and I’ve said something about it--we’re planning our big drive, to
expand simultaneously all over the country. We need men of standing to
organize branches. We want to hit the big places in the North. Chicago
and St. Louis are important centers now, because a lot of niggers have
been imported there during the war. Chicago seems to be the logical
center for the Middle West. We’ve had a man there for a few weeks
looking over the field, and we’d like--that is, we would be delighted
to have you accept a position as a Grand Bogey--that’s a district
manager. You’d work out of Chicago. There’s an office there now under a
different name--the Dearborn Statistical Bureau.”
Pinkney rose.
“Well, I simply wanted to bring Captain Hamilton here. I don’t suppose
you need me any more.” They didn’t, thanked him profusely, and he left.
The Headman listened to Griffith for a while and then turned to another
desk, where he worked over some papers.
Robert was to employ lesser Bogeys or sales managers under
him--division Bogeys for states, regimental for cities.
“Now,” Griffith coughed and looked uneasy. “As for the matter of
compensation. We realize that no matter how inspired a person’s motives
may be, he can’t do his best work without remuneration. So I’ve devised
a plan whereby our sales managers, that is our Bogeys, are able to
carry on their splendid work and at the same time make a good thing of
it.”
Mr. Lister looked up from his work, pursed his lips together and nodded
importantly.
“The laborer is worthy of his reward,” he said.
“Yes, that’s it exactly,” agreed Griffith.
The reward was to be fifty cents for each new member. The initiation
fee was $10.00. Of this the Bogey who actually sold the membership, or
rather, gained the recruit, kept $4.00, the division Bogey kept $1.00
and the Grand Bogey fifty cents. Of course, the Grand Bogey would have
twenty or thirty lesser Bogeys working under him, and although the
recompense on each sale, or rather new membership--Griffith _would_
drift back into the terminology of salesmanship--would be less, his
total profits would be greater. Thus out of the $10.00, more than half,
or $5.50, would go to the various Bogeys, and $4.50 was to be forwarded
to the Commander Bogey, who was Griffith. If Robert actually sold the
memberships himself, he would keep the other Bogey’s share. Then there
was the mask, which was sold for $6.50, and the horse robe, $14.00;
water for the initiation ceremony, at $10.00 a quart, and so forth, all
of which brought their share of profit.
Robert wondered whether Pinkney was familiar with all these financial
details of the organization, whether his father knew about it, whether
the other citizens of Corinth who had discussed it so glowingly as a
sort of new church sprung up. Well, one had to be practical. The main
thing was to get a number of Americans united in a common purpose, and
it took money to do these things. The contractors who had undertaken
the undoubtedly patriotic work of building the army cantonments during
the war had made profits. There was no use being a sentimentalist.
Even the directors of charity drives received compensation for their
work--often handsome compensation--and who could deny that raising
money for charity was a good thing. True, if the Hamilton Corporation
had not failed, Robert would not have accepted the position as Grand
Bogey, except, perhaps, without compensation. But now he must be
practical. He had been in Chicago only once before in his life, as a
boy, and it would be interesting to see it again. It had changed a
great deal. And then, too, he would have a chance to see McCall and
Levin. Dorothy, too!
“I suppose you’ll join the American Legion,” said Griffith.
“Yes. We’re just forming a post here, but I suppose I might as well
join in Chicago now.”
“Fine,” said Griffith. “This is a military organization, you see. We
want to get that element into it. How soon can you leave?”
Robert considered.
“Almost any time. There is nothing really to hinder me at all. In a
week, say, if you want me to.”
“The sooner the better. I’ll have Mrs. Ward fix you up with a supply
of propaganda materials. I see you’ve got a copy of The Clarion.
Of course, you understand, The Clarion’s published by The Clarion
Publishing Company. But it’s all good stuff. Read the article about the
Catholics.”
“Is that true about the Knights of Columbus trying to control politics
in this country?”
Griffith laughed.
“Read some of the stuff we’ve prepared. There’s a pamphlet by Prof.
Lorner that’s a knockout, positively a knockout. And you want to read
the K. C. oath.”
Griffith and the Rev. Mr. Lister shook hands with him. Mrs. Ward was
directed to get a complete Grand Bogey’s layout ready and a few pieces
of literature were thrust into his hand.
“We’ll run you through the other degrees so you can qualify for a Grand
Bogey,” said Griffith. “We’re getting another young captain--good
family, good mixer--for New York. Keep your eyes peeled for recruits.
Drop in again tomorrow at this time. And read this literature. It’s
good ammunition.”