It was Ragan, in the end, who brought Jim Forrest to see Eph. Forrest
was a reporter on one of the daily papers. He was unlike the reporter of
fiction, in that he was neither a “cub” nor a “star.” He was just plain
reporter, with a nose for news, and human sympathy, and some ability as
a writer. He was a young fellow twenty-two or three years old. His
father died just as he finished college, and Jim of necessity gave up
law school and buckled down to earn a living for his mother and himself.
The newspaper business seldom pays enormous salaries; but there is no
other profession in which a green man can earn so much. Jim began on a
salary of fifteen dollars a week, and at the end of his first year was
raised to twenty. At the same time they put him on the night shift at
police headquarters.
When Jim was earning fifteen dollars a week, he and his mother lived,
and that was about all. For they had been accustomed to five or six
thousand a year before Mr. Forrest died; and a dollar still looked
small and unimportant to them. By the time Jim was raised to twenty,
Mrs. Forrest had learned to make one dollar do the work of two; and they
managed.... Jim worked hard, and wondered when he could ask for another
raise.
But when the United States went into the war, newspapers stopped raising
salaries. And the worst of it was that Jim was particularly anxious for
more money at that time. The sight of his friends, the young unmarried
men among whom his life was laid, decked out in khaki, gave Jim a
miserable feeling that was like nothing so much as homesickness. He had
a nostalgia for the training camps that was actually physical; it was so
acute that it sickened him.
But--there was nothing he could do. If he went, his mother could not
live. That was pure mathematics; and when Jim had reluctantly accepted
this fact, he set himself to keep a stiff upper lip and stick heroically
to the tasks of peace when the cowardly way would have been for him to
go to war. He stuck to the tasks of peace, but he did not accept the
situation as hopeless. He began to cast about for chances to earn a
little extra money, for special stories he might write, for
opportunities to earn one of the bonuses that were sometimes awarded for
exceptional performance.
He was a likeable boy; he had friends, and they helped him with
suggestions. One of these friends was Ragan, and Ragan told Jim one day
to go see old Eph.
“There’s a story in him, and a big one,” he assured Jim. “That old
nigger.... You can write a yarn about him that will make every man in
town cry into his coffee.”
Jim knew Eph by sight; he asked Ragan for details.
“Work the patriotic line,” Ragan advised him. “D’you know Eph tried to
enlist, when we went into the war? Well, he did.”
“Is that straight?”
“Sure. Sergeant Hare told me. Said Eph all but cried at being turned
down. Offered to go along and sing to the boys, or cook for them....”
“Thanks,” said Jim. “You know Eph pretty well. Put in a word for me,
will you?”
“You’re through at four in the morning,” Ragan suggested. “He’ll
probably be around till then. Come up with me, and I’ll take you to
him.”
That was in September, a warm, still night of early fall; and they found
old Eph as Ragan had expected, still squatting with his back against the
kiosk, still strumming softly, still crooning under his breath as he
strummed. The darky looked up sidewise when they came near, and grinned
at Ragan, and bobbed his head.
“Howdy, Miste’ Ragan,” he said.
Ragan chuckled. “Tol’able, Eph,” he mimicked. “Get up out of that. This
is Jim Forrest, wants to talk to you.”
Eph looked at Jim suspiciously. “Howcome?” he asked.
Forrest smiled. “I’m a reporter,” he explained. “I want to write
something about you. Everyone has seen you; I want to tell them more
about you than they’ve seen.”
Eph shook his head stubbornly. “Ol’ Eph ain’ gwine git his name in no
papers,” he protested. “You go ’long, boy, and lemme ’lone.”
Jim became grave. He knew the first and strongest weapon in a reporter’s
armory; the art of making your victim angry. And he knew enough about
Eph to hit the old man in a tender spot. “I want to get your story about
the way you fought in the Confederate army,” he explained.
Eph got to his feet with a menacing swiftness; and he shook his old fist
in Jim’s face. “Dat’s a lie,” he said shrilly. “I fit ag’in’ de South;
an’ I kin prove it.”
Jim looked puzzled. “Why--aren’t you twisted, sir? I understand that you
fought for three years, before you were wounded, and that General Lee
himself gave you a letter....”
Eph boiled, but he controlled his tongue. He studied Jim, leaning closer
to look into the young man’s eyes. “Y’all know dat ain’ right,” he said
steadily. “Howcome you want to pester an ol’ nigger lak me?”
Jim was ashamed of himself, but he stuck to his attack. “I may be
mistaken,” he confessed. “Maybe they told me wrong.... Maybe they were
trying to start trouble between us, sir. What was the straight of it?
Didn’t you fight in the war at all?”
Eph tapped Jim slowly on the breast. “Nemmine me,” he said slowly.
“Nemmine me. Le’s talk ’bout you. Howcome you ain’ got on one o’ dem
kharki uniforms, boy? Howcome? Huh?”
The attack was so unexpected; it struck so acutely to the mark that Jim
was silenced. But Ragan took his part; he touched old Eph’s arm. “There
now, old man,” he said. “He’s all right. But he’s got a mother to
support. If he don’t take care of her, nobody will. He’s got to take
care of her, hasn’t he?”
Eph looked from Jim to Ragan, puzzling. “Ain’ he got tuh tek care o’ dis
country, too?” he demanded. “Why caint his maw tek in washin’?”
Ragan chuckled. “Don’t you worry,” he told Eph. “Jim here will go, when
he can. Why, here, Eph. He wants to write this story about you so he can
make extra money--get enough ahead so he can go.... Enough to take care
of his mother....”
Jim had turned hopelessly away. Eph looked at the boy’s straight
shoulders; and he looked at Ragan. And then the old darky did a
surprising thing.
He crossed, and touched Jim’s arm. “You, suh ...” he said softly.
Jim looked at him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I won’t bother you any
more....”
Eph chuckled. “Lawdy, man, you cain’ bother me. Listen.... You come
’long home with me now. I aim tuh talk to you, some....”
Jim hesitated; he was surprised. Eph nodded. “You come ’long,” he
insisted, and took Jim’s arm, and turned him about, and led the boy,
half unwilling, across the street, past the tall old church, and up the
hill.
Ragan scratched his head, watching them go, puzzled; and he wondered;
and then he gave up the puzzle.