It was surprising how merely meeting McCall once more should so
strongly revive old memories clustering about Dorothy. There was his
first memory of her at the hospital--her cool hand on his forehead; her
quick, skillful movements; her sympathetic smile. There was Dorothy at
the Luxembourg Gardens, holding his hand and looking gently down at the
ground. There was the kiss--like a scarlet memory. There were a hundred
little gestures, glances of her eyes, movements of her hands, the way
she patted back a stray wisp of hair--a hundred nothings. All these
came back to him now.
After leaving the Press Club, he had been unable to reach Levin by
phone--he was still busy on his case--and so he had walked eastward to
Michigan Avenue and then along the row of shops, stopping to peer into
windows, viewing the stream of fashionably attired men and women and
the swiftly passing motor cars and taxis. A sooty, green park ran along
the lake front and a gray stone building of classic design commanded
it. Beyond the park Lake Michigan looked green and cool and clean. As
he walked, Robert kept fancying that he saw Dorothy just ahead of him,
but whenever he quicked his pace he would find it simply an illusion--a
passing resemblance.
He turned west to La Salle Street--two rows of gigantic structures--
banks, trust companies, brokerages mainly--overshadowing a current of
business men, their bankers, lawyers and clerks, and of hurrying
vehicles. To the south, at the end of the street, he recognized the
Board of Trade Building.
Clinton Freeman, the man in charge of the Dearborn Statistical Bureau,
proved a hair taller than Robert, blond and built like a tackle--a chap
one could easily like. He had come out of the war a first lieutenant,
had been stationed with Southern troops for several months and had
grown to admire Southerners in a general way, without analysing his
reasons for it. He liked their soft accent and liked to mimic it,
throwing in an inordinate number of “you-alls” and drawling out his
words at exaggerated length. He liked their geniality and their easy
air of self-confidence. He had found them generous, courteous--even
chivalrous, when they referred to women--and light-hearted--the virtues
of aristocracy. From these acquaintances Freeman had learned the
Southerner’s viewpoint on lynching--the need of keeping the inferior
black man in his place, the necessity of stamping out “the only crime
for which a nigger is ever lynched.”
“I’m mighty glad to see you!” Freeman had an effusive manner and
gripped hands like a wrestler. “They wrote you were coming and sent
several wires. Come right in!”
Robert followed into a private office and, on a comfortable swivel
chair, swapped war and football experiences. Yes, Freeman had played
football, on a small mid-Western college team, and remembered reading
of Hamilton’s exploits at Harvard.
“I’ll bet you could have raised hob with the Yale line,” Robert
appraised him frankly. “I think your Western teams are on a par with
the East’s best. Too bad they don’t meet oftener.”
Freeman agreed as to the strength of the Western teams.
“Now,” he asked, a bit flattered, “what’s your plan of work? Do you
smoke?” He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a box of cigars.
“Thanks!” Robert selected one. “Well--my plan is a little vague.”
Freeman nodded sympathetically and offered him a light. Robert puffed
meditatively for a moment.
“Of course, I’m supposed to map out a definite campaign. I understand
you have been gathering data, getting up lists and so on, you know--”
he waved his hand--“as a sort of basis for me to work on. Divide the
city into districts, get Bogeys to work each one, then go to another
city and so on. But--”
“Yes, we’ve got quite a lot of dope here! Pardon me, what were you
going to say?”
“There are some things about the Tribe I wanted to ask you about. You
know I’ve just been taken in.”
“Well, I’m pretty green myself. Only a month or so.”
Robert explained some of his perplexities, the questions over which he
had puzzled on the train.
“Oh, I wouldn’t bother too much about that,” said Freeman. “The main
object is to get members, find out what they’re interested in and sell
them from that angle. That states’ rights stuff doesn’t mean anything.
I wouldn’t mention it at all. It might go well in the South, but not
here, except, perhaps, to some Democrats, only the trouble is that most
of them are Catholics.”
“But why is it on our cards?”
Freeman grinned.
“Well, somebody thought it was a good thing. Personally, I don’t. But
somebody had to decide. Of course, it depends on how far you carry
states’ rights. Take federal meat inspection or the pure food act or
the federal income tax--those were all opposed because they interfered
with states’ rights. And I suppose the Southern mill owners naturally
oppose a federal child-labor law. But that’s nothing to get memberships
on. You’re probably right. I suppose it was simply taken over from
the old Know Knothing party platform, when states’ rights meant no
interference with slavery. So I’d just forget it. Nobody notices it on
the card and thinks it means some sort of guarantee of personal liberty
like freedom of speech and freedom of the press, which the Constitution
guarantees us anyway.”
Robert almost admired, without in any way approving, Freeman’s easy
manner of using or discarding an argument according to his belief in
its power to convince. If an argument didn’t convince he simply dropped
it, and he never apologized for having used a false or fallacious one.
He had a bass voice, which he could let out on occasion, especially
when he spoke on the Tribal ideal of patriotism.
“The Trick Track Tribe is not merely a political party to secure this
or that law or set of laws, Hamilton. It is a militant group, formed
to combat all the forces that are attacking Americanism.” He brought
his fist down on the desk with a bang. “States’ rights may or may not
be of particular importance. National prohibition may or may not meet
favor with all true Americans, but there can be no question about the
supremacy of the white race, the rights guaranteed us by the American
Constitution, separation of church and state, the sanctity of the
home.” The last phrase fairly rolled out of Freeman’s eloquent mouth.
“It is our aim to guard the supremacy of the white race, protect our
Constitution from the radicals who would attack it and keep the hand
of the Pope from clutching at our state. In every way we shall work
to conserve this country and to confound the enemies within its walls
as well as without its gates, to support the government in enforcing
its laws and to aid the government whenever and wherever it seems
inadequate to cope with its foes. By God, we’ll have law and order if
we have to terrorize every other man, woman and child in this country,
and if we have to tar and feather every person who doesn’t toe the
mark!”
Freeman was a man who might easily sway an audience. It was not so
much what he said, but how he said it. Even Robert felt himself
carried away. There was something about him when he became excited
over his theme that reminded one of Griffith. Both, then, had a
natural eloquence. And both, when they fell back into the discussion
of more commonplace subjects, appeared to relax--Griffith into a bored
carelessness, Freeman into a broad friendliness.
“Before you start working, you ought to look around the city a bit.”
Freeman looked at his watch. “I’ll be busy for another hour or so, or
perhaps we’d better start out some morning. I suppose you’re a stranger
here.”
“Practically,” said Robert. “But I think I’d rather wait until some
other time. It’s too late now.” He made some remark about having a lot
of “things” to attend to--a nebulous idea thrown out so that he might
be alone that evening.
A stenographer opened the door and tossed a publication on the desk.
Freeman glanced at it.
“Before you go,” he said, “take this along. Never seen a colored paper
before, have you?”
“No.”
“Well, just read it. Some colored fanatics want social equality with
the whites, repeal of all laws prohibiting intermarriage of blacks and
whites and junk like that.”
“Well, if we had them down in Corinth we’d know how to fix ’em.”
“I’ll say you would!”
They shook hands warmly.
“You probably want to be alone tonight, but any time you’re lonely--you
know, just give me a ring.”
“All right.”
Robert stuck the paper in his pocket and left.
He got another cinder in his eye returning to the hotel, and found his
room lonesome and noisy. Two blocks away a skyscraper was being erected
and the continual rat-a-tat of the riveters, like the bullets of
machine guns, mingled with the repeated blasts of patrolmen’s whistles,
the noise of hundreds of vehicles and of thousands of human beings.
His nostrils were filled with fine particles of coal and dust. Robert
was lonesome and wondered why he had refused Freeman’s invitation. Of
course, there were letters to write and booklets to read, but then it
was only a little after four and he would have all evening for that.
Because it was the thing he least wished to do, he decided to write
Margaret first of all. His fountain pen was dry and the ink well in the
combination table and desk held only some black powder and a dead fly.
He telephoned to the desk and while waiting for the ink idly looked
through the telephone directory. The advertisements. The Hamiltons. The
M’s. He was conscious that his heart was beating unusually fast. But
there were so many Meadows that it was impossible even to guess which
might be the right one. He telephoned to Levin’s home again, leaving
his name and telephone number.
As he did so, he had a peculiar feeling of slipping back in time a half
year--their last meeting in New York, the sense of their friendship. He
wondered whether belonging to the Tribe would put an end to that.
A perspiring bell boy brought the ink, took the tip thankfully and
made some remark about the weather. The door closed behind him and
Robert began writing. It was dreadful business telling her about the
family financial troubles. Why should he do it? Well, it had to be done
somehow. He wondered why it should be Margaret--how they had really
become engaged.
Levin surprised him by telephoning from the lobby, just as he was
dashing off the last line. He hastily addressed the envelope, folded
the letter, slipped it inside and grabbed his hat. He looked guiltily
at a little pile of Tribal propaganda and placed it in the dresser
drawer out of sight. The Tribe was, somehow, against the Jews. He
hadn’t found out why yet, but it seemed more decent to have the
booklets out of sight.
Levin was pacing the lobby, the same old Levin, only a bit overworked
perhaps, nervous. But it was good to see him again. Levin’s face lit up.
“It’s like being in Paris again,” he remarked. “Welcome to Chicago!”
He would have had Robert up to the house, but something made that
impossible. His sister was having a little society meeting--or
something like that.
“It’s great to see you again, Doc,” said Hamilton.
“You have come just in time. I needed someone to talk to.” Levin knew
a restaurant, De Jonghe’s, and whisked him to it. It _was_ somewhat
Gallic, not exactly a French restaurant, but as French as one might
reasonably expect five thousand miles west of Paris. And the food was
delicious. They lingered over it.
“You look--” Robert paused. “Have you just fallen into love or out?”
Levin laughed.
“Well, perhaps, _out_. Not exactly, though.” He changed the subject.
“What’s that?” He had noticed the paper in Robert’s pocket.
“Oh, let me see. Oh, yes, some nigger paper.” He laid it on the table.
“Ah, The Torch.” Levin picked it up and began turning the pages.
“It’s one of the leading colored papers in the country now. And--by
George--guess who’s running it!”
“How the dickens should I know who’s running a nigger paper? Got a
cigarette on you?”
“Never mind, I’ll order cigars. Sure, you know him. The fellow who
saved your life in France.”
“The nigger! Williams?”
“Yes, Williams. He’s considered one of the highest literary authorities
in the United States. You ought to see him while you’re here.”
“I would,” said Robert. “I would, if he weren’t a nigger.”
“Oh, rats, I thought you had gotten over that!”
A waiter appeared, set a bottle of wine and glasses on the table and
offered a box of cigars. Robert took one, laid it on the table and
sipped thoughtfully at his wine. Had he changed? And had he changed
back again? A nigger was a nigger to him once more. But in Corinth,
yes, even in Corinth, he had put in a word for the despised black. Once
he had thought that the ideals born of the war, the spirit of democracy
and justice and idealism, would last. Here it was--how many months?
two months, not quite three, since his homecoming--and he was back
again. Or was it simply the pressure of Corinth--Margaret, Pinkney, his
father, his set. Catholic. Jew. The Trick Track Tribe. Well, one had
to live in his own world. And anyway a nigger was black and ugly and
overworked.
“But I really couldn’t go to him. Bah! Shake his hand? No thanks!”
“The reaction _has_ set in,” remarked Levin. “And you’re an example.”
He lit a cigar and puffed for a moment. “Now it’s the nigger. Next it
will be--why where you come from, Corinth, you’ve got your Trick Track
Tribe--an organization with the identical aims of the secret societies
of savages and based on nothing but prejudices.”
“But you must admit that the nigger is different,” protested Robert.
“He has always been the accursed of races. He has always been a slave.
He has never had a civilization, never had a government, never created
anything. Africa! What would it be if it weren’t for the whites? Hell,
these coons who wait on the tables and shine shoes would still be
savages in the jungles, without education and without religion, if it
weren’t for the white man.”
“I’ll admit nothing,” Levin retorted. “You speak from prejudice. Take
Williams for instance. He’s educated, cultured, refined. He _does_ hold
a high position in the literary world and among his own race. Don’t
sneer! But you wouldn’t visit him simply because he’s black.”
“Well, I’ll admit that Williams is all that you say. He’s an exception.
I’ll admit that there are a thousand such exceptions in the world.
What of it? What has that to do with what I have said? I said that the
nigger has always been a slave, that he has always--”
Levin interrupted.
“You have an idea that the Negro is somehow sub-human?”
“Well--yes, if you put it that way!”
“That’s a belief that is based neither on science nor on history.
It is flatly contradicted by Egyptian, Greek, Roman, Byzantine and
Arabian experience, and it is being contradicted in this country today.
Whether Negroes are equal in capacity to white men--that is on the
average--or even whether they have produced or will produce a single
genius worthy to rank with the highest geniuses of the white race is an
idle and unimportant question. They can at least gain their livelihood
as laborers and artisans. They can operate their own farms. They can
take their place in the mines and the forests. Let them have fair play
and they will naturally find their right place, wherever that may be.
The Tribe talks of Negro disloyalty, of seditious plots with the
Bolsheviki. There is not a shred of evidence to back these extravagant
charges against an entire race. But if the white men treated them with
fairness and justice they would have no reason to fear even these
mythical plots. Experience has shown that whenever aliens are treated
as citizens, they become citizens, whatever may be their religion or
race. Give the American Negro but half a chance and you will find that
he loves and hates, not with an African, but with an American heart.
“You say that the Negro has never had a civilization. He has had one of
the most ancient of civilizations, with centers of culture at Ghana,
Melle and Timbuctoo. There were kingdoms and empires in Songhay and
Zymbabwe. There were art and industry in Yuruba and Benien, Negroes
worked in iron long before the European. They wove. They carved. They
had their music. They had a well-organized tribal government, with town
meetings and market places. Those are the elements of civilization--not
our civilization--not the civilization of the cold North or East,
of Europe or Asia--but a highly developed civilization adapted to
Africa. Out of Africa came the ivory and gold of the remotest times.
Africans--your niggers--welded iron, practiced agriculture and carried
on trade when Europe was still a wilderness. Your niggers sat on the
throne of the Pharaohs in Egypt.”
“Niggers the kings of Egypt! Why how--?”
“The next time you see a picture of the great sphinx of Ghizeh, study
its features. Thick lips. Flat nose. High cheek bones. The features are
those of a Negro. And the Pharaohs did not erect sphinxes in honor of
their slaves! Yes, Negroes, during certain dynasties, ruled Egypt, the
most ancient of civilizations, the birthplace of learning. And it was
a black woman, Queen Nefertari, who is the most venerated figure in
Egyptian history.”
“I never knew that.” Robert puffed thoughtfully.
“And what did the white man do for Africa? For four hundred years,
white Europe traded in black human beings, robbed Africa of a hundred
million human souls, transformed the face of her social life,
overthrew her organized government, distorted her ancient industry and
snuffed out her cultural development. Today, instead of taking slaves
from Africa, white men are converting Africa into a huge plantation,
where the natives toil and die under the lash for the profit of the
white world. Yes, the white men brought religion--the Bible in one
hand and the rifle in the other. And, oh, yes, they brought another
thing--gin.
“Listen to this. It’s from a colored writer, Du Bois: ‘Twenty centuries
after Christ, Black Africa--prostrated, raped and shamed--lies at the
foot of the conquering Philistines of Europe. Beyond the awful sea, a
black woman is weeping and waiting, with her sons on her breast. What
shall the end be? The world-old and fearful things--war and wealth,
murder and luxury? Or shall it be a new thing--a new peace and a new
democracy of all races--a great humanity of equal men?’”
Robert laid down his cigar.
“I guess, we have been a little rough on them,” he said.
Levin developed the idea of the reaction, the growth of hatreds, the
development of the mob spirit.
“You can’t get any two men to think exactly alike on any question,” he
said. “But, with a little knowledge of human nature and the gift of
oratory or a forceful way of writing, you can get millions to _feel_
alike--especially to hate alike. The crowd just now is stirred up
against alcohol. In Rome the crowd used to be stirred up for it and
went on Bacchanals.”
“But alcohol does detract from one’s efficiency, doesn’t it?”
“Certainly! But who drinks to become more efficient? You drink to
become less efficient, to forget your troubles, to relax, to forget.
Granted that alcohol makes a man unable to turn a grindstone as rapidly
as water. His ultimate object in turning the grindstone is to be able
to buy pleasure, which includes alcohol. Take away his pleasure and you
take away his object for working.”
“Well, I hate to see prohibition come. But I guess most of the people
want it.”
“Yes, that is the intolerance of your mob. The tyranny of the majority.
If fifty-one per cent of the people don’t want to drink, or don’t want
to smoke, or don’t want to sing songs on Sunday, they make everybody
else conform. The mob uses its liberty to deprive the individual of his
freedom.”
For the first time Robert felt ill at ease in Levin’s company. The
knowledge that Levin was a Jew and that he himself was a member of the
Trick Track Tribe made him feel uneasy, as though he were a traitor,
but whether to his old friendship or to the Tribe he was uncertain.
They sat talking for a while, exchanging reminiscences of Paris and New
York, and Levin finally walked with Robert back to his hotel.
“Be sure to come up Friday,” said Levin.
Robert promised, yet he knew that he would not keep the appointment.
It was bad enough going out with him, but he had been unable to avoid
that. But to break bread with him in his own house, to accept his
hospitality and that of his family, that would be going too far. Not
while he remained a member of the Tribe.