



Produced by Cathy Maxam and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)









[Illustration]

NOTES FROM THE JACKET DUSTCOVER OF THE FORGED NOTE:

It is sometimes asked what inspires people to begin to write. Many
reasons may be given, but in this particular instance, a brief statement
of the author's experiences might be of interest.

At the age of twenty-one he was a homesteader on the Rosebud Indian
Reservation, South Dakota, where he was about the only <DW64> settler. At
twenty-six he was prosperous; and when another strip of the famous
reservation was thrown open to settlement, he helped some of his
relatives to secure land by furnishing money with which to purchase
relinquishments on homesteads and other expenses. He also secured for a
young lady another homestead, upon which she made filings. Six months
later they were married and then went to live on her homestead.

She was the daughter of a minister in one of the leading <DW64> churches
and was well educated, loved her husband devotedly--to all
appearances--and they were happy.

Her father and husband represented beings with different points of view,
and on this account an enmity grew up between them. The husband had
often publicly criticised some of the leaders in his race as not being
sincere, particularly many of the preachers. A year after the marriage,
the preacher paid his second visit and when the husband was away, to
indicate his dislike for the pioneer, he had his daughter, who was sick
in bed, forge her husband's name to a check for a large sum, secured the
money and took his daughter to his home in Chicago.

The homestead had been contested previous to this, and the minister had
denounced the white man (a banker), who filed the contest, scathingly
for trying to beat his daughter out of her homestead. Left alone after
her departure, with only his ninety-year-old grandmother, who had raised
a family in the days of slavery, for company, Mr. Micheaux wrote his
first book. In the meantime, the case dragged through all the land
courts at Washington, being finally settled by Secretary of the Interior
Lane in her favor. About this time, the book appeared, and was called
"THE CONQUEST".

In this was told anonymously the story of a base intrigue on the part of
the preacher to vent his spite. The white banker, whose bank in the
meantime had failed, read the book, and understood.... He went to
Chicago and sent the preacher money to Cairo to come to Chicago, which
the preacher did. Although unsuccessful in his effort before the
government to beat Mr. Micheaux's wife out of her homestead, which had
cost Mr. Micheaux thirty-five hundred dollars and which at that time was
worth six thousand dollars, the banker succeeded in having the preacher
persuade his daughter to sell him the homestead, giving her in
consideration, only three hundred dollars.[A]

    [A] NOTE--Until a homestead is commuted--proved up on--it may be
    relinquished by the holder without any person's or persons' consent.
    The woman, therefore, in this case could sell the homestead without
    her husband's consent.




[Illustration: "Nice,--Hell! How long do you figure those church people
would kite you about, if I told them _what you were_ back in--you know
where?"]




THE FORGED NOTE

[Illustration: They stood together now upon the walkway, and suddenly he
gripped her hand.]

[Illustration: They regarded the clock strangely, and uttered audibly,
"Eighteen minutes left," and in the meantime it tick-tocked the fatal
minutes away.]




        THE FORGED NOTE

  _A Romance of the Darker Races_

             BY

        OSCAR MICHEAUX
  _Author of_ "The Conquest"

  _ILLUSTRATED BY C.W. HELLER_

      Lincoln, Nebraska
  WESTERN BOOK SUPPLY COMPANY
            1915

[Illustration]




     COPYRIGHT, 1915
          BY
  WOODRUFF BANK NOTE CO.

  _All rights reserved_

[Illustration: "Has it occurred to you that you have told me nothing,
absolutely nothing, about yourself?" The look she gave him was severe;
but he only regarded her strangely.]

      Press of the
  Woodruff Bank Note Co.
     Lincoln, Nebr.

[Illustration: Murphy conducted a blind tiger in his loft; he also ran a
crap game in connection; and it was his place that "Legs" visited
frequently.]

[Illustration: "I own the L. & N. Railroad."]




TO ONE WHOSE NAME DOES NOT APPEAR


I am leaving you and Dixie land tomorrow. It is customary perhaps to
say, "Dear Old Dixie" but, since I happen to be from that little place
off in the northwest, of which I have fondly told you, the _Rosebud
Country_, where I am returning at once, and which is the only place that
is dear to me, I could not conscientiously use the other term. Still, I
am grateful, and well I should be; for, had I not spent these eighteen
months down here, I could never have written _this_ story. No
imagination, positively not mine, could have created "Slim", "T. Toddy",
"Legs", "John Moore", et al. I really knew them. I haven't even changed
their names, since what's the use? They, unless by chance, will never
know, for, as I knew them, they never read. Only one of them I am sure
ever owned a book. That one did, however, and that I know, for he stole
my dictionary before I left the town. Whatever he expected to do with
it, is a puzzle to me, but since it was leather-bound, I think he
imagined it was a Bible. He was very fond of Bibles, and I recall that
was the only thing he read. He is in jail now, so I understand; which is
no surprise, since he visited there quite often in the six months I knew
him. As to "Legs", I have no word; but since summer time has come, I am
sure "Slim" has either gone into "business" or is "preaching." "T.
Toddy" was pretty shaky when I saw him last, and I wouldn't be surprised
if he were not now in Heaven. And still, with what he threatened to do
to me when he was informed that I had written of him in a book, he may
be in the other place, who knows! I recall it with a tremor. We were in
a restaurant some time after the first threat, but at that time, he
appeared to understand that I had written nothing bad concerning him,
and we were quite friendly. He told of himself and his travels, relating
a trip abroad, to Liverpool and London. In the course of his remarks, he
told that he used to run down from Liverpool to London every morning,
since it was just over the hill a mile, and could be seen from Liverpool
whenever the fog lifted. He advised me a bit remonstratingly, that,
since I had written of him in the book, if I had come to him in advance,
he would have told me something of himself to put into it that would
have interested the world. I suggested that it was not then too late,
and that he should make a copy of it. He intimated that it would be
worth something and I agreed with him, and told him I would give him
fifty cents. He said that would be satisfactory, but he wanted it then
in advance. I wouldn't agree to that, but told him that he would have to
give me a brief of his life, where and when he was born, if he had been,
also where and when he expected to die, etc. first. He got "mad" then
and threatened to do something "awful". Took himself outside and opened
a knife, the blade of which had been broken, and was then about a half
inch long, and told me to come out, whereupon he would show me my heart.
As he waited vainly for me, he took on an expression that made him
appear the worst man in all the world. I did not, of course go out, and
told him so--through the window.

That was the end of it--and of him, so far as I know. But you can
understand by this how near I have been to death in your Dixie Land.
When I come back it will not be for "color"; but--well, I guess you
know.

New Orleans, La., August 1, 1915.
O.M.

[Illustration: He awakened from a strange dream. The Bible had fallen to
the floor, and lay open at a chapter under which was written, "_THOU
SHALT NOT STEAL!_"]




BOOK ONE

WHICH DEALS WITH ORIGINALS


CONTENTS

  CHAPTER              PAGE

     I  THE BARRIER      15

    II  ATTALIA      31

   III  NEXT DAY--DISCOVERIES      40

    IV  AND HE NEVER KNEW      47

     V  B.J. DICKSON      51

    VI  "OH, YOU SELL BOOKS!"      59

   VII  IN THE OFFICE OF THE GRAND SECRETARY      63

  VIII  HENRY HUGH HODDER      67

    IX  "SWEET GENEVIEVE"      74

     X  "DO SOMETHING AND YOU'LL FIND OUT"      78

    XI  "JEDGE L'YLES' CO'T"      84

   XII  A JEW; A GENTILE; A MURDER--AND SOME MORE      93

  XIII  "'CAUSE NIGGA'S 'S GITTIN' SO RICH"      105

   XIV  AND THEN CAME SLIM      111

    XV  "SHOO FLY!"      124

   XVI  "WHY DO YOU LOOK AT ME SO STRANGELY?"      130

  XVII  "I'LL NEVER BE ANYTHING BUT A VAGABOND!"      140


BOOK TWO

THE BEAST AND THE JUNGLE


CONTENTS

      I  EFFINGHAM      149

     II  "THESE <DW64>s IN EFFINGHAM ARE NIGGA'S PROPER"      164

    III  "I HAVE BEEN MARRIED", SAID SHE      173

     IV  "EIDDER STUCK UP AH SHE'S A WITCH!"      181

      V  "A BIGGA LIAH THEY AIN'T IN TOWN!"      189

     VI  "YES--_MISS_ LATHAM!"      196

    VII  "IT ALL FALLS RIGHT BACK ON SOCIETY!"      202

   VIII  "WHERE ARE YOU FROM?"      206

     IX  "BUT SMITH IS NOT HIS REAL NAME"      211

      X  "WHEN YOU HAVE BEEN GRASS WIDOWED, IT'S DIFFERENT"      224

     XI  "I'M WORRIED ABOUT MILDRED"      232

    XII  AND THEN SHE BEGAN TO GROW OTHERWISE      241

   XIII  ENTER--MR. TOM TODDY!      243

    XIV  THE DISAPPEARING CHIN      256

     XV  "WILSON! WILSON! MILDRED HAS GONE!"      268

    XVI  THE BEAST AND THE JUNGLE      273

   XVII  "THIS IS MR. WINSLOW, MADAM!"      278

  XVIII  "THOU SHALT NOT STEAL"      285

    XIX  THEY TURNED HER OUT OF CHURCH      290

     XX  "I _LOVE_ YOU"      299

    XXI  "PLEASE GET D' OLE MAN OUTTA JAIL"      302

   XXII  "THIS MAN IS LOSING HIS MIND!"      309

  XXIII  "I'LL BRAND YOU AS A FAKER!"      317

   XXIV  THE ARRAIGNMENT      324

[Illustration: "A crooked mother can't raise a straight daughter. It's
up to the daughter--and I've failed!"]


BOOK THREE

A MATTER OF TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS


CONTENTS

     I  "THAT GAL'S CROOKED"      336

    II  "_IT WAS IN THAT CHURCH LAST SUNDAY!_"      344

   III  "UH! 'ES GOT 'IM A NIGGA!"      349

    IV  "PLEASE GO!" SHE  CRIED HOARSELY      355

     V  THE TIME LIMIT      362

    VI  REMINISCENCES--CHARGE OF THE BLACK CAVALRY      369

   VII  "PLEASE STOP--AND SAVE ME!"      375

  VIII  WHAT HER EYES SAW      381

    IX  "WHA'S Y' MAN?"      386

     X  "KICK HIGHER DARE GAL!"      392

    XI  "MY WIFE--SICK--_HELL!_"      397

   XII  MID-NIGHT DECEMBER THIRTY-FIRST      407

  XIII  INTO THE INFINITE LONG AGO      412

   XIV  "GO, BROTHER! IN GOD'S NAME, GO!"      418


BOOK FOUR

THE QUEST ETERNAL


CONTENTS

     I  "'SCRIMINATIN' 'GINST NIGGA'S"      422

    II  AT LAST SHE DIDN'T CARE      432

   III  "THEY KNEW HE HAD WRITTEN THE TRUTH!"      439

    IV  THE WOMAN WITH THE THREE MOLES      446

     V  "HELLO BROWN SKIN"      450

    VI  "_WHO'RE YOU!_" SHE REPEATED      456

   VII  "AT LAST, OH LORD, AT LAST!"      462

  VIII  "WELL I'M GOING." AND SHE WENT      468

    IX  "I HOPE YOU--WON'T--BE--ANGRY"      473

     X  VELLUN PARISH--JEFFERSON BERNARD      478

    XI  "MILDRED, I'VE COME BACK"      495

   XII  THE SLAVE MARKET      504

  XIII  "RESTITUTION"      515

[Illustration: She had never felt that he would rebuke her, but now she
turned her head away to shut out the scorn in the look he had given
her.]

[Illustration: "Wha's yo' man?" "I--I have no _man_," Mildred replied,
turning her face away. "I am alone--alone in everything."]

[Illustration: "That last woman I married" said Slim, "was such a devil
she almost made me lose my religion."]




THE FORGED NOTE




CHARACTERS


   SYDNEY WYETH, An Observer, Who had the Courage of His Convictions.

   MILDRED LATHAM, A Girl of Mystery, Whose Fortunes are What We
     Follow.

   FURGESON AND THURMAN, Originals, Who Possessed some Wit and Humor.

   B.J. DICKSON, An Editor, and a Fighter of the Right Sort.

   V.R. COLEMAN, (SLIM) A Summertime Professor and "Business Man". (?)

   "LEGS", a "Crap Shooter", Who Reformed and Became a Hero.

   JOHN MOORE, A Character, Who Read the Bible--and did Other Things.

   MISS PALMER, Grasswidow and School Teacher, Who Desired to Remarry.

   DR. RANDALL, A Druggist, Who Knew Everybody's Business.

   WILSON JACOBS, A Minister, Who Works for Uplift among Black People.

   CONSTANCE JACOBS, His Sister, a Friend of the Girl of Mystery.

   STEPHEN MYER, With a Heart, but a Sinner, Who Died and Went to----.




THE FORGED NOTE




BOOK I.




CHAPTER ONE

_The Barrier_


He sat at a desk in the small office he had taken. Before him were
papers and bills--unpaid--and letters too, he had not opened, while to
one side were others he had read, and had typed replies thereto. He had
paused in his work, and was gazing stupidly at the litter before him.

His name was Sidney Wyeth, and his home was away off in the great
northwest, in a strip of territory known as the _Rosebud Country_. As we
meet him now, however, he is located on the fifth floor of an office
building, slightly toward the outskirts of the business district of one
of our great American cities. He is by profession an author, which might
explain his presence at a desk. It happens, however, that he is not
there this time as a weaver of dreams, but attending to matter in
connection with the circulation of his work, for he is his own
publisher.

At that moment, however, he was nothing, for he was sick. For days he
had felt a strange illness. Obviously it had almost reached an acute
stage; for, apparently unable to maintain an upright position at the
desk, he presently stretched himself face downward.

He might have been in this position an hour, or it might have been only
a few minutes; but of a sudden he was brought to a position again erect,
with ears alert, since he was sure he had heard a sound without. He
strained his ears in silence.

Outside, a soft rain was falling. As he continued to listen, his gaze
wandered out over the city below, with its medley of buildings that rose
to various heights, and sparkled with electric lights. His gaze, in
drifting, presently surveyed the main street of the city, an unusually
wide thoroughfare, filled with the accustomed traffic. Beyond lay the
harbor, for the city is a great port, and the same was then filled with
innumerable vessels from far and near. A huge man-o-war arrested his
attention for a while, and then his gaze wandered further. A wind had
risen, from the way the water was dashed to spray against the windows.
The sound of a clock striking five resounded through the damp air, and
echoed in stentorian tones. It was late-winter, but, due perhaps to the
overcast skies, twilight was rapidly fading into darkness.

Failing to hear any further sound, he presently resumed his tired
position, and a few minutes later was lost in a sickly slumber.

There could be no mistake now! A step sounded in the hallway. It was a
light step, but firm and brisk and forward. It was unmistakably that of
a young woman. Onward it came in the direction of his small office.
There was a brief pause when the footsteps reached the door, and then a
knock, but without response from within. Presently the door was pushed
open, and the intruder entered the room lightly. Still, Sidney Wyeth,
unconscious of the presence of his visitor, did not move or speak.

The stranger paused hesitatingly, when once inside, and observed him
closely, where he sat with his face buried in his arms.

She was an attractive <DW52> girl, trimly dressed in a striking,
dark-blue tailored suit, cut in the latest fashion. A small hat reposed
jauntily upon her head, while a wealth of dark hair was gathered in a
heavy mass over her ears. Her delicately molded face, set off by a
figure seemingly designed by an artist, were sufficient to captivate the
most discriminating critic.

A thin dark strap extended over one shoulder, at the ends of which a
small case was attached. Presently she drew a book from this same case,
and crossed the room to where the man sat.

"Good evening," she ventured, pausing at his side, and fumbling the book
she had taken from the case, in evident embarrassment. He mumbled
something inaudible, but remained silent. His outwardly indifferent
reception had not a discouraging effect upon his visitor, however, for
no sooner had she caught the sound of his voice, than she fell into a
concentrated explanation of the book.

Soft and low, in spite of the rapid flow of words, her voice fell upon
his ears, and served to arouse him at last from his apparent lethargy;
but it was not that alone which made him rise to a half sitting posture,
and strain his ears. It was a peculiar familiarity in the tone. As he
continued to listen, he became convinced that somewhere, in the months
gone by, he had heard that voice before. "Where was it?" he whispered,
but, in his sluggish thoughts, he could not then recall. There was one
thing of which there was no doubt, however, and which added strangely to
the mystery. She was explaining his own book, _The Tempest_.

At last, in his morbid thoughts, he gave up trying to connect the voice
with a person he had once known, and, with a tired, long drawn sigh,
raised his hand wearily to his head, and grasped it as if in pain. The
flow of words ceased at once, and the voice now cried, with a note of
pain, and plainly embarrassed:

"You are ill and I have disturbed you! Oh, I'm _so_ sorry! Can you
overlook--pardon such an awkward blunder?" She clasped her hands
helplessly, and was plainly distressed. And then, as if seized with a
sudden inspiration, she cried, in a low, subdued voice: "I'll make a
light and bathe your forehead! You seem to have fever!"

Turning nimbly, and before he could object, had he wished to, she
crossed quickly to where a small basin hung from the wall; above this
was an electric button, which could be seen in the semi-darkness.
Touching this, whereupon the room became aglow with light, she caught up
a towel; and, dampening one end, she recrossed to where he sat,
strangely stupid, and, without hesitation, placed the wet end over his
burning forehead, and held it there for possibly a minute.

"Now," she inquired softly, in a tone of solicitous relief, "do you feel
better?"

As she concluded, she stepped where she could see his face more easily,
and sought his eyes anxiously. The next moment, both recoiled in sudden
recognition, as he cried:

"You!"

She was likewise astonished, and, after only a fraction of a moment, but
in which she regarded him with an expression that was akin to an appeal,
she likewise exclaimed:

"And _you_!" Quickly she became composed; and, catching up the book, as
though discovered in some misdemeanor, with a hurried, parting glance,
without another word, she abruptly left the room.

She was gone, but his brain was in a tumult.

And then the illness, that had been hovering over him for some time,
like a sinister ghost, suddenly came into its own, and a moment later,
with a convulsive gasp, he fell forward across the desk, deathly sick.

       *       *       *       *       *

It had begun in Cincinnati more than a year before. Wyeth, accompanied
by an assistant, had come down from Dayton for the purpose of
advertising his book, _The Tempest_ in that city. It was just preceding
an election, that resulted in a change in the city government. And it
was then he became acquainted with Jackson.

Now, being of an observant turn of mind, Wyeth took an interest in the
state of affairs. He found the city very much worked up on his arrival.
He had not yet secured accommodation, but, while standing on a corner
after checking his luggage in a nearby drug-store, he was gazing up and
down the street taking in the sights.

"Gentlemen," said someone, and turning, Wyeth and his companion looked
upon a man. He was a large mulatto with curly hair, small eyes, a sharp
nose, a firm chin, and an unusually small mouth for a <DW64>. He was
dressed in a dark suit, the worse for wear, while his shoes appeared
never to have been shined--in fact, his appearance was not altogether
inviting. And yet, there was something about the man that drew Wyeth's
attention, and he listened carefully to what he said. "You seem to be
strangers in the city, and of co'se will requiah lodgin'. He'ah is my
ca'd," he said, extending the bit of paste board upon which Sidney read
at a glance

     THE JACKSON HOUSE

     FIRST CLASS ROOMS, TRANSIENT OR REGULAR

     OPEN DAY AND NIGHT

"I'm the proprietor and the place is at yo' disposal. Supposin' you stop
with me while youah in the city. I'll sho treat y' right."

Sidney believed him, but his appearance made him hesitant. He looked
questioningly at his companion. The other's expression was unfavorable
to Jackson. So, after a pause and a perfunctory nod, they dismissed him
and proceeded to look further in quest of accommodation.

An hour or more was thus lost, and, being unable to find a room that
satisfied them, they at last, with some reluctance, found their way to
_The Jackson House_.

Inspection still left them dissatisfied, but it was getting late, so
they decided to spend the night. Jackson showed them to what he termed
his "best room." Wyeth looked with evident disfavor about the walls that
were heavy with cob webs, while the windowsill was as heavy with dust.
Jackson, following his gaze, hastily offered apology and excuse.

"Eve'thing needs a little dusting up, and the reason you happen to find
things as you do, is because I've been so busy with politics of late,
that I have jes' nach'elly neglected my business".

Ah! That was it, thought Sidney. He had felt this man was in some way
out of the ordinary. "So you're a politician?" he queried, observing him
carefully now.

"You hit it, son," he chuckled. "Yeh; that's my line, sho." Turning now,
with his face wreathed in smiles, he continued: "Big 'lection on in a
few days, too."

"So I understand," said Sidney. "I shall be glad to talk with you
regarding the same at your convenience later," and, paying him for the
room, they betook themselves to the street.

Election day was on, and Jackson was the busiest man in town. He was
what may be called a "good mixer," to say the least, and Sidney and he
had become good friends. So said Jackson that morning.

"Got a big job on t'day, kid; yeh, a big job."

"So...."

"Yeh; gotta vote thirty-five ah fo'ty nigga's, 'n', 'f youah 'quainted
wi' ouh fo'kes, you c'n 'preciate what I'm up ag'inst."

"Indeed...."

"Yeh; nigga's o'nry y' know; and lie lak dogs; but I'm 'n' ole han' at
the bus'ness, cause that's my line. Yeh. Been votin' nigga's in this
precinct now fo' mor'n thi'ty yeahs, so you'n see I autta know what I'm
'bout."

"I'd bet on that."

Jackson chuckled again. "The fust and wo'st difficulty is the dinge's
ig'nance". Drawing a sample ballot from somewhere, he displayed and
explained it at some length. "Now we gotta pu'ty faih line up on this
ticket this trip--'co'se the's a lotta suckers on it that I'd lak t' see
scratched; but we cain' affo'd to take the risk, 'cause it's lak this.
Nigga's so ig'nant 'n' pig headed they'd sho spile it all 'f we tried to
have them do any scratching. So the only sho thing is to instruct them
t' vote straight. Get me, Steve?"

Wyeth, listening carefully, nodded, and for a moment, a picture of the
titanic struggle of a half century before, rose before him; its cause,
its moral and more; it's sacrifice. Jackson was speaking again.

"Now we sho gotta win out this time; this 'lection has _got_ to put in
ouh candidates; 'cause 'f we don't--and this is between me 'n' you 'n'
that can a beah--things sho go'n break bad wi' me! But 'f things slide
through O.K.--'n my candidates walk in, it means a cole hund'd fo' muh;
think of it," he repeated, "a cole hund'd, Ah!" And, smacking his lips
after a long draught of beer, he emitted an exclamation to emphasize
what it _would_ mean to him, that wouldn't look very nice in print.

"What do these _others_ get if your candidates are elected?" asked
Wyeth, when Jackson paused.

"Aw, _them_ suckers gets theahs wether my men's 'lected a' not. That's
always my goal. 'f I could get them t' vote so much ah' nothin' I could
make a who' lot mo'; but we gotta fo'k out two dollahs a piece, win or
lose--and, a co'se, plenty of liquah; but we don' give a damn 'bout
that, as the saloon men furnish that, gratis."

"And you can depend upon them to vote as you wish--rather, instruct?"
ventured Wyeth. At this Jackson gave a low, short laugh as he replied:

"That's whe' I plays the high ca'd 'n' gets a hund'd," and, laughing
again in that peculiar fashion, he would say no more.

       *       *       *       *       *

The polls had closed. Darkness had settled over the city. The saloons
had opened their doors. From the streets came forth hilarious sounds,
where the many hundreds, now steeped in liquor, reeled about. This
confusion, mingled with the crash of heavy wagons, and horse hoofs
hurrying over the cobblestones, filled the damp air with an almost
deafening noise.

Sidney Wyeth lay stretched across the bed in his room, listening idly to
the sounds that echoed and re-echoed through the frame building.
Presently, his attention was attracted by another noise, familiar, but
more noticeable on this day.

"T-click-i-lick-ilick--ah--ha dice! T-click-ilick-i-lick--ah--ha dice!"

"Aw, shake'm ole nigga, shake'm!"

"Yeh. Roll 'm out. Don' let 'm spin 'roun' on d' en' lak dat! Shake'm
up. Make music!"

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick--ah--ha dice!"

"Trowed eight!"

"Dime he'n make it!"

"Make it a nickel!"

"Ah fate yu'".

"Hu'ry up, ole shine! Git yu' bet down."

"Shoot um!"

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick--ah, ha dice!"

"Two bits 'ell seben!"

"Ah got yu'!"

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick-ah, eighty day-es!"

"Cain' make eight wid a one up!"

"Do'n' try no kiddin'."

"T-click-i-lick-ilick--ah--eighter from Decatur!"

"Make music nigga, make music!"

"Two bits I'n pass!"

"Ah got yu'!"

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick--ah--eighty day-es!"

"Trowed seben!"

"Gimme d' craps!"

"Now, dice; ah-seben ah 'leben!"

"Throwed craps!"

"Hole on! Hole on! You caught dem dice, ole nigga!"

"Caught Hell! You trowed craps, d'y 'e heah! Two big sixes!" A
scrambling, mingled with much swearing, ensued.

"Say, cut out dis awgun' 'n' squabblin'," interposed one.

"'E cain' take mah money lak dat," protested the loser.

"'F you don' git y' rough mit offa dat coin, yuh big lump a dough, I
g'in' finish spreadin' dat nose ovah y' face!"

"I'on lak dis-a-way a messin' wi' mah jingle!"

"Youse a cheap nigga, Bad Eye, 'n' y' know it. You all time buttin' int'
a game wid about a dime, den sta'tin' a big argerment."

"Hush! Ain' dat Jackson a-comin'?"

Silence for possibly a minute. A muttering began to go around as they
schuffled about.

"Ah done ca'ied out mah 'structions 'n' now ah wants muh dough-rine,"
some one spat out ominously.

"Me, too," said another.

"Aw, be patient. Jack's all right," argued one.

"Sho", echoed another.

"Yeh, dat' all right, 's fur it goes; but I'n handle mah money bet'n
anybody else."

A heavy step sounded in the hallway, and presently a door opened into
the room, admitting Jackson.

"All heah, boys, eh!" He said in a voice that revealed high spirits.
"Good--what's this? Havin' a little game already? Say! Looks like y'
might a-waited fo' old Jack, ha ha!"

"Well," he resumed after a general laughing, "Did eve' body vote
straight?"

"Sho", they cried in chorus.

"N' how 'bout you, little breeches."

"Ke-heh! You say. 'Stamp ri' undah da' ole elephant's tail'; so when I
got 'nside da' place wi one a dem ballets, 'n' all dem names ah did'n'
know nothin' 'bout; but I 'memb'd what you say, so I jes' caught hole
that li'l ole thing 'n' went, bim! ri' unda' da' ole elephant's tail,
ya-ha!" The room, for a time, resounded with laughter.

Just then, Wyeth heard someone rap at the street door, enter, and
presently the counting and the clink of coins came to his ears. Then the
door closed, and a moment later, retreating foot steps were heard in the
hall-way. It was the lieutenant. And now the gurgle of throats could be
heard plainly, and the game was resumed, with Jackson in charge.

In the other room, Wyeth stripped himself and retired, and, ere sleep
came to him that night, he again had a vision of that titanic struggle
and its human slaughter--and it had all been to give those black men the
right. (?) Far into the night he thought it over, and when sleep did
come at last, he went into slumberland, at a loss to know whether to
condemn or to pity those poor creatures, who, that day--and before--had
sold their birthright for a mess of pottage.

       *       *       *       *       *

Weeks had passed. Over all the north country, snowladen fields frowned.
Zero weather was felt in many places. Sidney Wyeth was about to quit it
for a place far to the south, and at that moment, sat in the union
station at Columbus. A man marked with a chalk upon the bulletin board
the following:

TRAIN FOR CINCINNATI AND THE SOUTH, TWO HOURS LATE

And it was only then it occurred to him that a letter might be at the
postoffice for him. Forthwith he betook himself, returning shortly with
a small envelope, with his name written daintily across it in a feminine
hand It was from Mildred Latham, the girl he loved, and the heroine of
our story.

"Mildred, my Mildred!" he whispered softly, as he gazed fondly at the
epistle, and then broke the seal and read it. "Tonight, my dear," he
dreamily whispered, "I shall ask you to become my wife, for I love you,
love you, love you!"

As he sat waiting, his thoughts went back to the time he had met her,
and the place.

It was in Cincinnati, and before the election. He had, while canvassing,
come upon her in the door-way of a house with two stories, and a door
that opened upon the street. She stood in that door-way, and he had
approached her with much courtesy, and after his usual explanation, had
sold her _The Tempest_. He had been struck at once by her appearance,
and something about her expression--her obvious intelligence. She seemed
possibly twenty-one or two. "And such features," he breathed unheard.
She also had, he quickly observed, a wonderful skin--a smooth, velvety
olive, with round cheeks; where, notwithstanding the slight darkness, a
faint flush came and went. As to size, she was not tall; and still not
short; nor was she stout or slender; but of that indefinite type called
medium. Serenely perched, her head leaned slightly back. She had a frank
face and rounded forehead, from under which large, lustrous, soft dark
eyes--somewhat sad--gazed out at him. And as he continued in his subtle
observation, he was pleased to note that her nose was not large or flat,
but stood up beautifully. Her lips were red as cherries. The chin was
handsomely molded and firm, but slightly thin, and protruding. Her hair
was the most captivating of all. Done in the fashion, it was coal black
and wavy. It was of a fine, silken texture, and apparently long, from
the size of the knot at the back of her head. All this he observed with
favor. He had never seen a figure so clear cut. The girl was,
furthermore, dressed in a plain, dark silk dress, with small feet, the
toes of which, at that moment, peeped like mice from beneath the trimly
hanging skirt. Now, before he had gotten far in his dynamic spiel, the
sun, all red and glorious, as its rays slanted in the west, came
suddenly from beneath a cloud, and played hide and seek upon her face.
And, in that moment, he saw that she was exquisitely beautiful.

After this, he had seen her when, and however it was convenient, and
they had talked--they always talked--on so very many subjects. As time
went by, he always felt good cheer, for at last, it seemed--and this
meant much, for Sidney Wyeth had had much experience--he had met the One
Woman.

One day she said to him, and it was in a tone that was very careful:
"You wrote _The Tempest_, didn't you?" She had guessed his secret,
although the book had been published anonymously--and he had always been
guarded as to its author, so he replied somewhat awkwardly that he had.

"I felt it--was sure when I began reading," she said. "Because there is
something in it about you that you never tell--in conversation, but you
did in the book."

He was silent, for he knew not what to say at that moment. She resumed:

"Yes; and it is that which makes the book _so_ interesting--and so sad."
She fell silent then for a time, apparently engrossed in deep thought,
but with worried and sad expression.

There were other times she had appeared sad; times when he felt she
could have been happy and cheerful and gay. And that to him was ever a
mystery. He wished he could help her out of that way--at any time....
Some day he would, too. He was firm in this....

Then came the time when he was to leave, and he passed her way that day.
From across the street she saw him, and came at once with hands
outstretched; but when he made known the fact of his proposed departure,
she was downcast, and sorrowful and sad.

"I'm _so_ sorry," she said--and meant it. He was too, and said nothing.

"I shall miss you--oh, ever so much."

"I will you, too," he whispered. She looked up quickly, but what she saw
in his eyes made her as quickly turn away. They entered the house and
the parlor where it was dark for day-time, and sat together for a long
while in silence. Presently, from the next house came the notes of a
piano, and some one sang _Sweet Genevieve_. O, subtle art! It made them
both feel sad. Impulsively he arose and caught her in his arms, when the
music had changed to _The Blue Danube_. Around then, and around they
waltzed, light-footed to the sweet old tune. And as they danced, both
seemed to become strangely infected with a wild exhilaration. Entranced,
he unconsciously sought her eyes with an awakening passion, and saw that
she had been transformed by the music, and perhaps the dance, into a
wild, elfin-like creature, and he looked away.

Minutes went by like seconds and, after a time, he dared seek her eyes
again, only to see that she had grown more elfin still. And, as abruptly
as it had begun, the music stopped, and their dance ceased. They stood,
however, as though forgetting the embrace, and thus heard each others
hearts thump violently. One moment they stood thus, and then a breath of
wind through the open window, lifted a stray lock of her hair and laid
it against his cheek. He was intoxicated by its effect, and then
suddenly he had lost all composure. He crushed her to him, close,
closer, and, in bold defiance of all conventionality, he kissed her
lips--once, twice, three times! She was not angry, but struggled,
nevertheless, to be free. She heard his voice then, low, strained,
palpitating, and with soul on fire: "Mildred!" Again he cried, "Mildred!
O, my Mildred!" She swayed helplessly. "I----", but she got no further.
He had caught sight of her eyes, helpless; but with a weak appeal, as
her lips faltered:

"Please don't!" And in spite of his mad desire, and the words he could
have then sung like the poets, he hesitated, and for some reason, for
which he could not quite fully account, allowed her to disengage
herself.

Freed now, she took several steps, and when at some distance she paused,
and regarded him with forced defiance; but behind it, he caught again
that sad distraction. "What is it," he uttered, almost aloud. And then,
intuitively, he knew she was unhappy--aye, miserable. "I must help her,"
said he beneath his breath; but before he had decided how, he seemed to
hear a voice saying: "No, not yet because,--well, _you_ can't!"

The strains of music again came floating through the open window. He was
not aware of his gaze; but something in his expression seemed to inspire
her confidence; for, involuntarily she turned and started in his
direction. She took only a step or two, when she abruptly halted; paused
hesitatingly, uncertainly, with her thin lips compressed, hands
clinched, and her head thrown back in an obvious effort. But her throat
swelled almost to choking, as she withheld something she seemed mad to
say. An expression of superhuman effort seemed suddenly to be exerted,
and suddenly whirling, without a word, she silently quit the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

He was aroused now from his revery by "All a-bo-ar-d: Cincinnati and the
South," and an hour later, he was whirling southward over snowladen
fields to his Arcadia.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cincinnati rose about him at eight o'clock that evening, as he emerged
from the union station and started on his fateful quest. The snow,
ground to slush by thousands of wheels, made the hard streets filthy. He
scurried across, and caught a car that took him within two blocks of
where she lived. Progress was slow, but only seemingly, for he was so
impatient. It seemed fully an hour before he left it, although it was
not fifteen minutes. Along the poorly lighted street he rushed in
breathless haste. His heart kept up a tattoo that disturbed him, and he
heard himself muttering: "Sidney Wyeth, what's the matter? Why do you
feel this way? Pshaw! You ought surely to be happy, calm and imperious.
Mildred Latham loves you--and she needs you; but much she does with such
nerves!" He braced himself as he neared the house, and pictured himself
in the next hour. She would be in his arms--and all would be over--but
the happiness. This picture became so vivid, that for a time it served
to make him forget his nerves.

And now he had come unto the house, the house of his treasure, and
within all was silent. Strangely, a feeling came over him of an
approaching doom. Before him, shivering in the cold night, sat an old
woman, a hag. She looked at him out of one evil old eye, and he
shuddered noticeably. She was uncouth and unwelcome. "What's she doing
here?" he muttered.

"Does--ah--Miss Mildred Latham live here?" He ventured at last.

"Yes," snapped the hag, and appeared more evil still.

"Thank you," he murmured with forced courtesy, but very uneasy. Drawing
his card, he held it out to her, with: "Kindly take this and inform her
that a gentleman--a friend--would be glad to speak with her." The old
hag crushed it in her bony palm, and spat out five short words.... But,
oh, what mean, cruel, hurting little words!

He reeled in spite of his strength, then stood like a statue, frozen to
the spot.

The night was cold, and dark and dreary; but to Sidney Wyeth it was
hot--suffocating in those next moments. His jaw dropped as he started to
speak, but the words failed to come. After a time, the elements began to
clear, but left him weak. He turned with a savage gripping at his heart,
and stumbled back in the direction from whence he had come.

"Oh, Mildred!" he wailed. "Mildred, Mildred! I can't believe it.... I
can never, oh, never----and I loved you so!" On and on he went; at times
walking, other times stumbling; but always uttering incoherent
sentences. "It can't be true--it _isn't_ true! That old hag--spiteful
creature," he now growled distractedly,--"lied! I'll go back, curse her!
I'll go back and prove her the liar she is." He halted, staggered
drunkenly against a building, and then abruptly turned his face in the
direction from whence he had come. But, 'ere he had gone far, he
desisted. Believe those words or not, something forbade this step.
Weaker than ever, torn, distracted, and mentally prostrated, he paused
and leaned against a building, and for a long time gave up to utter
misery.

Our pen fails here to describe fully those conflicting moments. All that
he had lived for in those days, and all that he had recently hoped for,
seemed to have been swept forever from him in that one moment. After an
interminable spell of mental blankness, a sentence he had once been fond
of quoting, and which he had taken from Haggard's _Pearl Maiden_, came
back to him out of a remote past. It was this: "With time, most men
become used to disaster and rebuff. A colt that seems to break its neck
at the crack of a whip, will hobble at last to the knacker, unmoved from
a thousand blows rained upon him." So, presently, with a tired, wearied
sigh, he gathered himself together, and, with a last despairing look in
the direction of the fateful number, he passed down the dark street, and
disappeared in the direction of The Jackson House.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Wonder what's the matter wi' d' kid t'night?" said Jackson to his
consort, as she looked up inquiringly when he re-entered the room, after
showing Wyeth to his bed.

"I wonder", she commented thoughtfully. "He's always so cheerful and
pleasant when around. He walked in here like a ghost tonight. Now I
wonder what is the matter?"

It was late the following morning when Jackson chanced to be passing,
and peeped into the room occupied by his friend, who had acted so
strangely the night before. The coverlets had not been turned back,
altho the bed was sunk in the middle, as if someone had tossed
restlessly about over it the night before. Jackson wondered again. But
at that hour, Sidney Wyeth was on a train that was speeding southward
into Dixie.

       *       *       *       *       *

So it happened that the hero of this story went forth into a land which
is a part of our country.... A part wherein people and environment are
so far different from the rest, that a great problem is ever an issue.
This is the problem of human beings versus human beings. A land wherein
one race vies with the other; that other being a multitude of black
people, and, as one who reads this might know, a people who, once upon a
time had been slaves, chattels, and who for fifty and a few years have
been free. That time, however, has not been, as we might appreciate,
sufficient to eliminate many things hereditary.

       *       *       *       *       *

And what came to pass upon this journey; the things he discovered, the
one he again met, of what had resulted, due to the machinations of a
pious, evil genius, is the story I have to tell.




CHAPTER TWO

_Attalia_


"Heah! Heah! Don't get on that cah!" cried the conductor the following
morning, as Sidney Wyeth was climbing aboard the Jim Crow car of the
_Palm Leaf Limited_, bound for Attalia. He backed up and looked about
him in some surprise, and than demanded the reason why he shouldn't get
aboard that "cah".

"I thought I tole you once we had an extra heavy train, and no 
passengers allowed; but since I see yu', now I see you ain't the same
fellah that was here awhile ago." And then, in a few words, he explained
that, owing to the rush of people to the south during those first days
of January, the Jim Crow section of the train had been dispensed with
for that day. He explained further that a second section of the same
train would follow shortly. As it would, in all probability, pass them
at Lexington, Sidney, with a mumble of thanks, gathered up his grips and
returned to the waiting room, catching the same an hour later.

Kentucky soon lay before him. As far as eye could see, a snowy mantle
covered the ground, for it was winter. Presently, countless rows of
frame buildings appeared. A new brick station, which extended for some
length along the track, gave the traveler welcome.

When the train came to a stop, Sidney's attention was arrested by the
sight of a creature that may have been called a man, but gave every
evidence of being an ape.

"I wonder," said he, to a fellow passenger, "do those things grow 'round
here?"

They both enjoyed a laugh.

He was now in a land in which a portion of the people, apparently,
possessed little sense of humor, judging from the way his jokes were
accepted.

On the car were two women, among the half dozen or so 
passengers. Sidney overheard one of them say to the other:

"I'm from No'th C'lina; but I be'n in Oklahoma two ye's. I'm go'n back
home t' stay. Whe' you from?"

"Tennessee, Knoxville. I'm livin' in Bloomington, Illinois, now."

They looked inquiringly in the direction of Wyeth, and presently he was
drawn into the conversation. The latter possessed fine sense of humor,
and when he found these people so serious, he took delight in joking.

"Whe' you from?" they inquired, with all that is southern and hospitable
in their tone.

"From the _Rosebud Country_, South Dakota," he replied. Their faces were
a study. Somewhere in the years gone by they might have heard of that
state in school, but the _Rosebud Country_ was Greek to them.

"O-oh," they echoed, and then looked at each other and back at him.
Presently one of them inquired: "Where is that?"

"In Africa," he answered, but they did not catch the joke, and to this
day, they speak of the man they met from the Dark Continent.

At that moment, the train was crossing a stream over the highest bridge
Sidney had ever seen, with possibly one or two exceptions. It seemed a
thousand feet to the crystal water below, and every eye was fixed upon
it. The porter, a long, lank, laughing creature, scion of the south and
_some_ porter, seeing an opportunity to draw attention, rushed up in a
Shakesperian pose, and related dramatically, the incident of an
intoxicated man, who, while crossing that very stream, fell, of a
sudden, smack dab over-board, right into it. In concluding, he looked
about him more dramatically than ever, as the many "O-ohs," and "Mys!"
greeted his terrible story. And Sidney Wyeth, with eyes wide open,
inquired if he got wet.

"Jes' listen at that," they cried in chorus, and the joke was lost.

Down, down the train whirled into the bowels of Dixie. Far away to the
east, rising gray and ghostlike above the mists, the pine covered
Cumberland Range appeared and reappeared in the distance. Outlined like
grim sentinels, the scene, to the hero of this story, recalled the many
tragedies of which those mountains were the back-ground. The
moon-shiners, the feudists, the hill-billies and the rough-necks, always
had a haven there.

The puffing of many, many locomotives, the sight of buildings, and the
glare of electric lights gave evidence that they had reached a large
city. Chattanooga, city of southern trunk lines, and railroad center,
now greeted his eye.

He spent one night there, and the next day, resumed his journey toward
that most conspicuous of all southern towns, Attalia. It was a hundred
and fifty miles and more by rail. The train became more crowded as it
neared his destination, while the people grew more cosmopolitan. One of
these, a black man, entered at one of the many stations, and greeted
Wyeth pleasantly, inquiring where he was headed for. Wyeth answered
Attalia, and his companion became very sociable.

"Understand," said Wyeth, after a moment--the other had possessed
himself of a portion of the seat upon which he sat--"that Attalia is one
of the best towns in the south, and has one of the finest stations in
the country."

"La'gest 'n' finest in the wo'ld," said the other, with a show of pride.
He was a resident of the state of which Attalia was the capital, and
was, furthermore, a preacher. Wyeth didn't care to argue, so let it _be_
the largest and said:

"That's wonderful! I hear also, that it is a great commercial center as
well, and that the city is growing like a mushroom."

"Oh, yeh," said he. "Out-side Noo Yo'k, it's the busiest and best town
in the United States. Yes, yeh," he went on thoughtfully, "Attalia is
sho a mighty city. Eve' been theah?"

"Not for more than ten years," replied Sidney.

"Indeed! Well, well, I mus' say you'll ha'dly recognize it as the same."

They were now approaching the embryo city. Clouds of smoke, and the
whistling of innumerable locomotives filled the air. Wyeth began making
preparation to leave the train, when the other touched him, saying: "No
hurry, my deah suh, no hurry. Be's a long time yet befo' we 'rives in de
station, be's a long time yet."

"Well, well!" the other exclaimed, in some surprise.

"Oh, Attalia's a mighty city, a great city. Wait until you see Plum
street 'n' the sky-scrapers."

Meanwhile the train had arrived, and stood outside the station, through
which it had just passed. It was indeed a large and imposing structure.
As it rose behind them, under the bright sunlight, with its many
cornices glittering as so many diamonds, it was truly a city pride. From
where the train stood, the city lay like a great scroll, and vanished in
the distance. Smoke and dust filled the air, and hovered over the medley
of buildings like a dull, red cloud. Rising in uncertain lines, as if to
escape the gloom, a line of sky-scrapers appeared in the background.
"Those must be on Plum street," mused Sidney, as he looked about for a
conveyance.

Besides being the capital of the state, and the greatest commercial city
southeast of the Mississippi, Attalia is the city of conventions, the
southern center for insurance, a progressive journalistic city, and a
uniform town. It is also a center for the education of <DW64>s, since it
has a number of colleges supported by northern philanthropy. Yet the
city is unable to maintain a proficient and complete course of education
for its many <DW52> children. Unfortunately for the <DW64>s, when the
white schools are amply provided for, not enough is left for the proper
training of its black population, which constitutes one-third of the
whole.

Sidney did not fail to take note of the fact, as he passed through the
station, that, contrary to previous reports, the  waiting room
was cleanly kept, almost as well as that of the white race. White-coated
flunkies flitted about nimbly in prompt attention to the weary traveler,
in spite of an air of sleepiness.

Presently, Wyeth made inquiry regarding conveyance. No sooner had he
done so, than he was deluged with solicitations from a score or more
cabmen, who seemed literally to raise out of the floor. They would take
him in jig-time anywhere he wanted to go.

"But that's it," he said in a confused tone. "I don't know exactly where
I want to go."

"Deed, suh, I c'n take yu' any wha', jes' any wha' 'f you'll jes' name
de place."

Not being able, apparently, to make him understand that he was a
stranger, unacquainted with the city, he presently settled on the
charge, bundled in, and ordered to be taken to the best 
neighborhood, and in a few minutes he was being trundled on his way.

They turned into a street, after a block or two, that happened to be one
end of the leading business thoroughfare. On a corner post, Sidney read
Walthill. The cab took him up this street, surrounded on either side
with the many busy shops and people, and it continued until a viaduct
was reached. Attalia's broadway was just ahead. It was a wide street,
and yet not wide enough. It had been made wider recently, and in making
it so, the sidewalks had perforce been made narrower. They had not been
sufficiently wide before, and now this threw many pedestrians into the
street, where they walked along much slower than in Cincinnati even. As
the cab rolled along, Sidney observed that the street was considerably
wider after some distance, and this was the business section. To the
right and to the left, in fact in every direction, buildings, brick and
stone, concrete, stucco and an occasional frame, stood, here low, there
high, and still higher, even to twenty stories. As he looked, the
setting sun played subtly about the topmost peaks. Presently, the cab
turned into Audubon Avenue.

This street sloped down hill for many blocks, and when the cab had made
its abrupt turn further on, Sidney observed a large, red, brick building
with stone cornices rising skyward. Adjoining this, he caught a glimpse
of the outline of still another building, apparently unfinished.
Strangely enough, he felt this to be the property of black people. On
down the street the cab rolled.

It was a street quite wide enough, and paved in part with cobble
stones, and further on with asphalt. Glancing from right to left, as he
proceeded, he saw that it was given over largely to business conducted
by <DW64>s, Jews, Italians and Greeks.

Presently, his wandering gaze took in the proportions of a small book
shop, before which stood a tall, lean <DW64>, whom he surmised rightly to
be the proprietor. In the window, displayed conspicuously and
artistically, were numerous books by <DW64> authors which he had read,
and, of course, some he had not.

And still he was trundled on. His gaze met the sight of a mammoth stone
church, where he saw many <DW52> men standing about the front. Some
were brown, while others were yellow, and still others were almost
white. They were preachers, he knew, for all were fat. Only preachers
were always so, he recalled, and that's why he knew. Across another
street and on the same side, they came abreast of the structure that had
arrested his attention before. The first portion rose to only two
stories, but was so artistically constructed, that it caught his
attention, and commanded his admiration. Next to this, the other portion
reached to six stories, and, as he came to the front, he viewed it very
carefully. On one side of a wide entry, over which was written many
words which he could not decipher, was a first class barber shop where
black men were being shaved. On the other side, a bank occupied much
space, and this, he observed, for the first time in his life, was
conducted by black people--no, they were between and betwixt, but that
does not matter, they belonged to that race. At the rear he saw
elevators moving to and fro, while the entry was filled with these same
folk. His bosom swelled at the sight, for he was proud of his people.

"Heah's a place you might look ovah, deah brudder," said the cabman at
last, as he halted before an old frame structure, across the front of
which was written in large letters

     THE BIXLEY HOUSE

Sidney was not favorably impressed.

"How you lak it?" asked the cabman.

"Nix," he replied. "Try another."

The horse was turned about, and they journeyed back over the same street
from whence they had come. Two blocks were thus covered, and then they
turned into a street that intersected, and stopped before another place
less impressive looking. At this point, the cabman suggested a lady
friend of his, who kept nice rooms, and to this he was straightway
driven. He was satisfied at last, paid his fee, and in due time was
fairly well installed.

Sometime later, Sidney went forth on a tour of inspection. The first
place he decided to visit was the book store, where he had seen the
serious looking man at the front. He turned out to be so, very much so,
as Sidney learned in after months. His name was Tompkins, and he was
very affable, even pleasant.

"A-hem. Glad to know you, Mr. Wyeth," he said, accepting the
introduction. When Sidney stated the nature of his business, he answered
his many questions very pompously, and further said, that the <DW52>
people of the city had an inclination for literature.

Sidney, however, began to feel, after more questioning, that Tompkins
was stretching things, and that his statement, that the <DW52> people
were great readers, was largely exaggerated. It was, as we shall see
later; but for the present, he thanked Tompkins, and promised to drop in
again.

When he had dined at one of the many little restaurants, he wandered
back into the business section of the city. He failed to recognize any
of the places he had once known, which proved conclusively that Attalia
had progressed. He found himself on Plum street again, through which he
walked and reentered Walthill, and, after seeing many of the sights,
entered a large book store, where he inquired for a volume he had long
desired to read--rather, he inquired of a large, fat man, whether he had
it. The other looked around a spell, then replied:

"We sho God has," and stood waiting undecidedly. Presently he held it
toward Wyeth, who, somewhat hesitatingly, looked irrelevantly through
the pages. He was not sure, whether it was customary to take it in his
hands.

"All right," he said, and reached in his pocket for the money.

"Do you-ah--wish it?" the other inquired, still hesitating.

"Sure," Sidney replied. "That's why I called for it." He was obviously
surprised, and expressed the fact in his eyes. The other observed this,
and made haste to apologize:

"Ce'tainly, ce'tainly. Beg yo' pa'don. Not many cullud people buy works
of fiction, or anything besides an occasional Bible, school books and
stationery. That is why I was undecided whether you wanted to buy it or
not."

"Indeed!" echoed Sidney, taken suddenly aback. Then said: "I read a
great deal myself."

The clerk observed him closely for a moment, and then said: "You don't
live in these parts?"

"No."

"And you read a great deal? Where are you from?"

He was told.

"That accounts for it," said the other, proceeding to wrap up the book.

"Accounts for what?" curiously.

"Your being a reader."

"I don't understand.... Don't the <DW52> people down here read a great
deal also?"

"No," said the other simply.

"Well, I declare!" said Sidney in surprise. "I have only two hours or
less ago, been told by a book-seller that they do."

"Lordy me! Who told you that?"

"Tompkins. The--"

"Tompkins is a booster. He's all right, though," said the other, with a
low, amused laugh. But Sidney's curiosity was aroused, and he continued:

"There's a multitude of teachers and preachers, and I should think they
would buy lots of current literature to keep themselves informed for
their work; but perhaps they are not so well paid, and get it from the
library." The other appeared perplexed for a moment, but said
presently, without looking up:

"They have no library of their own, and the city library is not open to
<DW52> people, but they do not seem to be very anxious for books. The
teachers, and the preachers--" He threw up his hands in a gesture of
despair. "You'll find out for yourself. You are, I see, a keen observer,
and you'll find out."

Sidney left the store in a reflective frame of mind. "I didn't believe
Tompkins," he muttered, as he walked back in the direction of Audubon
Avenue. Just then he glanced to his left, into the largest barber shop
he had ever seen. It was for white people, but conducted by a <DW52>
man. It was not only the largest he had ever seen, but the finest, the
most artistic. He forgot, for the time, what he had just been told, and
which was causing him some concern, and again he felt his breast swell.

There was much to be learned about his people that he now realized he
did not know; and yet, surrounding it all was a peculiar mystery that he
decided to solve for himself. He did so, but that remains to be told.




CHAPTER THREE

_Next Day--Discoveries_


At eight-thirty the following morning, Sidney set forth, carrying a
small case containing a half dozen books. His purpose was to feel out
the city from a practical point of view. He had been told that the
better class of <DW64>s could be found by walking down Audubon Avenue,
as far as the residence section. So he followed it until the business
had been left blocks to the rear. At the end of the paved street he
turned into a house. It was a very sumptuous affair, with an attractive
lawn before it. He was told by a passerby that it was the home of a club
waiter. He ventured up to the front door, and, upon its being opened by
a mulatto woman, apparently the waiter's wife, he turned on his spiel.
She listened to it patiently, even speaking some words in praise, as he
explained the narrative in brief, but he failed to make a sale. He tried
more subtle arts, but in vain. And then she told him frankly that their
finances would not permit her to purchase the volume. This excuse always
made Wyeth desist from further effort.

He turned into the next house, and the next, and the next, until a half
dozen had been made, but with the same result. Since he had invariably
sold to three-fourths of the people whom he approached, he was not
nearly so confident by this time. These people lived in and owned homes
that were a pride, and it was not that they did not wish to buy; people
so easily approached can be expected, in a large part, to fall victim;
but 'ere long it became more clear to him. They were _not_ able. It was
well that he perceived this; for hope of success was small, if it
depended upon purchasers here. Most of the people he found in these
homes were dependent upon a very small salary. The cost of living was as
high here as in the north, in fact, the ordinary commodities were
higher. The sums they were receiving would not be considered sufficient
to care for the same people in the north, therefore, why should it here?
This was contrary again to what Sidney had always been told.

Presently, he happened upon a letter carrier. No time was lost here.
This man was paid for his work, so he forthwith became a victim of the
most artful spiel, and bought the book, cash. This served to spur Sidney
to renew his efforts, and he attacked those he approached more
vigorously. For a time he met with no more success.

He had a lunch at a nearby restaurant, of pigs feet and sweet potato
custard. After an hour, he resumed his efforts. And this began his
discoveries.

Entering a yard, he came up the steps of a house from the back way. He
passed a refrigerator, and crossed the porch to knock at the door.
But--a bottle of Kentucky's John Barleycorn calmly rested upon this same
refrigerator.

The door at which he knocked was opened presently, and he was invited to
enter, which he did; but, when leaving by the same way, after selling
another book for cash, "John" was gone.

At the next house, his customer was a tall woman of middle age and dark
skinned. She drew him adroitly into a prolonged conversation, and then
bought the book.

Now, Attalia is a _prohibition_ town in a southern _prohibition_ state.
Yes, it _is_--and it _isn't_. When Sidney Wyeth left that house that
afternoon, he had spent part of what he received for the book, for beer
and whiskey. Moreover, he was told that more than seventy-five places on
Audubon Avenue were engaged likewise, and in the city all--but that is a
matter for conjecture!

Obviously, _prohibition_ did not _prohibit_--but more of this later in
the story.

       *       *       *       *       *

That evening, while dining, he became acquainted with Ferguson and
Thurman, who will, for a time, occupy a part in the development of this
plot.

Ferguson was a preacher, but at this time--and for some time--had not
preached. He admitted painting to be more profitable from a financial
point of view. He complained, however, that if the "New Freedom"
continued in power much longer at Washington, and with the way things
"was a-goin'," he would have to give that up and go back to pickin'
cotton.

"They ain' nothin' in preachin' no mo', that's a sho thing."

"I do not agree with you on that score," said Sidney; "for, from what I
have learned already in regard to these parts, there must apparently be
more money in preaching than anything else, judging from the number of
preachers. And how fat they all appear!" Ferguson looked up quickly at
this remark, and as quickly down at himself.

"I didn' get this flesh preachin', I assuah you," he retorted, with
flushed face. And after a pause, he went on with some heat:

"But that's what don' sp'iled preachin'; too many lazy nigga's a-graftin
offa de people!" But Ferguson, as Wyeth learned later, was something of
a pessimist, and predicted all kinds of deplorable things. And it was at
this moment that a dejected creature made his appearance. He was bald
headed, bowlegged, but, notwithstanding these possible deficiencies in
his make-up, aggressive. His name was Thurman, and, said he, between
bites of sweet potato pie:

"Aw, nigga;--youah allus a-p'dictin'--som'thin' awful!--To--heah you
tell it,--since the democrats--has got int' powah--cawse a buncha crazy
nigga's--didn' know how t' vote--at dat aih convention in Chicawgo--the
world is--liable to end tomorra'!"

"It mought!--It mought;--'n' 'f it did--you be one--a d' fust--t' bu'n
in hell--too; but don't you 'dress me lak dat no mo'--in sech
distressful terms! You autta be 'shamed a-yo' se'f."

And he munched pie for a time, uninterrupted by speech.

Thurman only grunted unconcernedly.

"What are the prospects of the <DW52> people down here at the present
time?" inquired Sidney, hoping to relieve the tension; but he could have
rested easily on this score, for, as he learned later, they carried on
that way every night. That was their diversion; but Thurman was now
heard from.

"HELL!" he answered calmly.

"Good Lawd man!" cried Ferguson shocked. "What's comin' ovah you!"

"Lyin' 'n' stealin'; drinkin' cawn liquah 'n' gittin' drunk; bein' run
in, locked up and sent to d' stock-ade 'n' chain-gang;" he resumed,
ignoring Ferguson's shock entirely. Whereupon, Ferguson looked more
distressed than ever; but only wrinkled his face in a helpless frown,
and said nothing.

"Gee!" cried Sidney; "but that's an awful prospect." All this time
Thurman had not smiled, but accepted everything as a matter of course,
from the way he partook of sweet potato pie.

"You must not pay any attention to Mr. Thurman, Mister," said the
proprietress, from across the room. She was a patient-faced, sleepy,
short woman. And now, for the first time Thurman moved in his seat, and
took exception to the words. Said he, somewhat loudly, and emphasizing
his words with a raised hand:

"_Pay no 'tention! Pay no 'tention; wull I reckon yu'd bettah. Hump_,"
he deliberated, pausing long enough to fill his mouth with more potato:
"_Pay no 'tention when yu' know yu'se'f that Jedge Ly'les 's a
sentincin' mo' nigga's to the stock-ade 'n' chain-gang than he's eve'
done befo'. 'N' a good reason he has fo' doin' so too! Lyin', doity,
stinkin', stealin' nigga's_," he ended disgustedly.

Presently, before anyone had time to deny his sweeping assertion, he
resumed:

"Mis' M'coy, yu' know dem taters I got frum you tuther night?"

"I rember them quite well, Mr. Thurman," she replied, resignedly.

"I took them taters home 'n' put 'm in muh trunk, locked it 'n' put th'
key in muh pocket 's I allus do. Now what yu' think happened?" he
halted, and surveyed the atmosphere with serene contempt. "That low down
li'l' nigga in th' room wi' me, sneaks int' that trunk wid a duplicate
key, 'n' steal eve' last one'm! _Jes' think of it!_" he emphasized, with
a terrible gesture. "_Stole eve' las' one uv'm! Then talk about
nigga's!_"

"We did'n' say nothin' 'bout nigga's would'n' steal, man!" complained
Ferguson. "You jes' nache'lly went offa yo' noodle widout 'casion."

During all this conversation, a girl sat opposite Sidney. She was a
dark, sweet-faced maiden, with an expression that was inviting. Sidney,
happening to glance for the first time into her face, smiled and nodded.
She smiled back pleasantly. Ferguson and Thurman continued their
harrangue.

"They are a pair," ventured Sidney, to no one in particular, but the
girl smiled and inquired:

"Who are they?"

"I never saw them before," he replied.

She observed him closely, and said presently, in a very demure voice:

"Indeed. Ah--then--you don't live here?"

"No," he answered, and told her.

"O-oh, my," she echoed tremulously. "It must be fine away up in the
great northwest. And--do you expect to be here--er, some time?"

"For a few months at least." Whereupon she inquired as to his business,
and he likewise inquired of hers.

"I am employed in service," she said.

Now it happened that Sidney had, a few months before, met an agent in
Dayton, who persisted in canvassing nowhere else but among this class.
He thought of this, and made inquiry. He was told in reply, that
practically all the domestics were .

"I would like to see the book you sell," she said, presently. "If you
could bring it to the number where I am employed, and if, after seeing
it I am pleased with it, I would buy one." He could not have wished for
anything better, and told her so. Elevating his eye brows in pleased
delight, he said:

"I most assuredly will. Only tell me how I may get there--I'll make a
note of it," and he immediately did so.

"Catch a Plum Street car," she directed, "and get off at West Eleventh
Street, walk a block and a half west until you see a large house
numbered 40. They are Jews, so, should you lose the number, inquire for
Hershes'. You may call any time after two P.M."

"I will be there tomorrow at that hour if the sun rises, and if it
doesn't, I'll be there anyway," he laughed. She was amused.

"All right," she said, and took her leave.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next day was beautiful; the sun shone brightly, and the air was soft
and fragrant. Plum Street, besides being the leading business
thoroughfare, is likewise the most imposing resident district, at its
extreme end. Large cars, modern and built of steel, thread their way,
not only to the city limits, but they penetrate far into the country
beyond.

And it was aboard one of these modern conveyances that Sidney Wyeth
reclined, observing the size and grandeur of the many magnificent
residences, that stood back from either side of the street in sumptuous
splendor. Magnolias and an occasional palm adorned the yards, while
green grass and winter flowers filled the balmy air with a delightful
odor.

He alighted and found himself very soon in the rear of No. 40. Success
was his, for he sold to the girl, and three more at the same number, and
the next, and the next--and still the next, until darkness came. Thus he
came in touch with people who were more able, and positively, more
likely to buy.

       *       *       *       *       *

A few days after this he dropped in on Tompkins.

"Hello, my friend!" that worthy one said. "Why haven't you been in to
see me? I've been thinking of you."

"Indeed," said Sidney, in glad surprise. "I've been too busy," he
concluded shortly.

"Too busy!" echoed the other in evident surprise. And then he waited
expectantly.

"Oh, sure," Sidney smiled, looking over Tompkins' supply of books,
mostly Bibles, for such was the most Tompkins sold, as he learned.

"Been selling lots of books?..."

"Hundred and sixty-five orders in eight days."

"Great goodness," Tompkins exclaimed. He dropped all work for a moment,
and stood with mouth wide open. Then he inquired artfully: "Have you
_delivered_ any?"

"Fifty copies last Saturday and Monday."

"_Man!_ Are you telling me the truth!" he exclaimed dubiously.

"I _sell_ books," Sidney replied calmly.

Tompkins resumed his work in a very thoughtful mood. Presently, as
Sidney was leaving he called: "Say, drop in and see me some day when you
have time to talk--a long talk. I'm _interested_ in you."




CHAPTER FOUR

_And He Never Knew_


Weeks had passed. Mildred Latham could be seen sitting dejectedly by the
window of her small bed-room, gazing down a street that led to the
river. Every day since that next day when she had been told that a man
had called to see her, and instinct told her it was Sidney Wyeth, she
had sat thus. On this day, however, things were different. There had
been a change--a great change in her life; for she was today, and
henceforth, free, in a sense, but this is further along in the story.

Presently she picked up _The Tempest_. This was nothing unusual.
Although she had read it in two days after she had received it, she had,
in the weeks that had just passed, picked it up and reread certain parts
of it. But, as a change had come since the last time she held it, she
read it today with unusual interest. After reading for a few minutes,
she laid it aside, took from the table near a map of South Dakota, and
for a time studied the part of it across which was written _The Rosebud
Country_. She allowed her mind to wander meditatively back to the past.
She saw this land as it was when the country was young; when the bison
and the native Indian held sway; when mighty herds roamed across those
plains, molested little by the red man. She picked up the book and read
a little more. For scores of years they had lived and died, and at the
end of this regime, came the inevitable white man, the greatest race of
conquerors the world has ever known, without doubt. And behold the
change of a few short years! Nature in wild profusion, then materialism
in the extreme. They, these conquerors, had almost changed the world.
And among those thousands that crossed the densely settled prairies, and
made conquest of _The Rosebud Country_, were only a few black men.
Judging from this book, they could be counted upon the fingers of one
hand. One of these was Sidney Wyeth.

Yes, he had gone forth, hopeful and happy and gay, and had become a
<DW64> pioneer. So he began, and did a man's part in the development of
that now wonderful country. Thus she imagined it, and felt it must have
been. It _could_ not have been otherwise, because only _men_ went west,
to the wild and undeveloped--and stayed. _He_ had stayed for ten years.
How he spent those years, Mildred Latham could imagine. Through the
pages of that narrative, she had followed his fortunes to the
climax--the culmination of a base intrigue. What a glorious feeling it
must be, she felt, to be a pioneer; to blaze the way for others, that
human beings ever after, to the end of time, may live and thrive by the
right of others' conquest! He had plowed the soil, turned hundreds of
acres of that wild land into a state of plant productivity, which should
bear fruit for posterity. And if Sidney Wyeth had in the end failed, in
a way it was only after he had done a man's part in behalf of others.

But then came the evil.

In the lives of all men, the greatest thing is to love. Sidney Wyeth had
hoped, at some time, to gain this happiness, the love of a woman. Had he
earned it? Apparently not, from another's point of view. That was all so
singular, she thought, time and again. For the evil creature, evil
genius, was a preacher, a minister of the Gospel. "I can't quite
reconcile myself to that part of it, yet I should," she mused, now
aloud, "for _my_ father is a preacher."

Mildred Latham's thoughts drifted from Sidney Wyeth for a time, and
reverted to her own life, and that of her father, who was a preacher.
Soon, they wandered back to Sidney, to his life of Hell--the work of an
evil power--the torn soul upon its rack of torture--and finally the
anguish--always the anguish, followed by the dead calm of endless
existence.

Yet during their acquaintance, he never spoke of the past. No word of
censure, or of unmanly criticism, passed his lips.

So Mildred Latham could feel in a measure relieved, for she had
secrets,--and she kept them all to herself, too.

Directly, she shook off the depression, and rose to her feet.

"It is all settled," she said half aloud, and, going to her trunk, laid
the book in the tray, lifted the latter out, and, reaching to the
bottom, took up a small steel box and set it on the dresser. She then
inserted a small key, opened it, and took therefrom a heavy, legal
document. Examining it for a time, she put it into her hand bag, locked
the box, returned it to its place, replaced the tray and locked the
trunk again. This done, she slipped into a street suit, and, gathering
up the handbag firmly, left her room, locked the door, stepped into the
street, and caught a car that took her up town, where she alighted
before a mammoth office building. She entered this, took an elevator and
got off on the twentieth floor, entering the office of a prominent law
firm. This visit had been pre-arranged.

An hour later, she left a large bank on the ground floor, returned to
her room, took the box from her trunk, and replaced, not the legal
document, but a long, green slip of paper.

"All is now settled on that score," she whispered drearily, and then
busied herself mechanically about the room. Again she fell into that fit
of meditation. She could not--try as she might--shake off the
despondency. And always, in the background somewhere, lurked Sidney
Wyeth. Was this because she felt she would never see him again? She
couldn't, she knew, as she recalled her secret.

Suddenly she threw herself weakly across the bed, and sobbed for hours.
"Sidney, my Sidney," a careful listener might have heard her lips
murmur. But she was alone. Perhaps that made it so hard, for she was
alone now, always alone.

At last she got up and bathed her face, as she had done many times
before.

Always, too, she had a presentiment down in her heart, that somewhere or
somehow, some day fate would be kind and send him again into her life.
And then would she be ready?

O that persistent question!

Now Mildred Latham was not a weak woman. Far from it. In spite of the
secret, which was ever _her burden_, she was not the kind to give up
without struggle. This was perhaps the cause, in a degree, of the
suffering she endured. It was this sorrow which Sidney Wyeth had
observed, and wished to dispell. "If I could only have permitted him to
do so," she said, so many, many times. But always _The Barrier_.

"I will sell his book henceforth for my living," she said to herself at
the end of that day, as she had often said before. "And in doing that, I
shall ever live with his memory--God bless him!" For Mildred Latham
loved Sidney Wyeth.

And he never knew.




CHAPTER FIVE

_B.J. Dickson_


When Sidney Wyeth's work among the domestics was an assured success, he
decided to rent desk space in the large office building referred to, get
a typewriter, do a little circularizing, and concentrate his efforts
upon securing agents elsewhere, for the purpose of distributing his
work.

Accordingly, one Sunday morning, after being told that the custodian of
the building could be found in his office on the fourth floor, he betook
himself thither.

But let us pause for a moment, and retrace a long span of years, that we
may interest ourselves in the history of this same structure. For it has
a fascinating tale to tell.

       *       *       *       *       *

Before freedom came to the black people of the south, pious worship had
begun. Despite the fact that it was an offense to teach <DW64>s during
that dark period, or in any way to be responsible for allowing them to
teach themselves, many, nevertheless, did learn to read; and perhaps
because the slave-owners were inclined to be God-fearing people, they
did not, in a general sense, openly object when they found many of their
slaves worshipping. So it happened that, since men were in the majority
of those who learned to read, the first channel to which they diverted
this knowledge was preaching. And since, as above mentioned, they were
not always forbidden, worshipping the Christ among <DW64>s had been
practiced long before freedom came. Therefore, after freedom, preaching
became the leading profession among the men.

The reader is perhaps well acquainted with the pious emotion of the
<DW64>; our story will not dwell at length upon this; but the fact that,
to become a preacher as a professional pursuit, was the easiest and
most popular vocation; and from the fact, further, that <DW64>s had
become emotionally inclined from fear in one sense and another, so that
it is inherent, preaching and building churches swept that part of the
country like wildfire.

Of the different sects, the Baptist seemed to require the least training
in order to afford the most emotion. All that was required, in a
measure, to become a Baptist preacher, was to be a good "_feeler_" and
the practiced ability to make others _feel_.

History proves that people of all races (when still not far removed from
savagery) are inclined toward display. This is an inherent nature of
<DW64>s. Indeed, <DW64>s of today, in many instances those who have
graduated from the best colleges, seem yet largely endowed with this
trait, as this story will show later.

So, shortly after preaching and shouting became the custom, another
feature entered which permitted these people more "_feeling_," and this
was lodges, secret societies and social fraternities. These, like
everything else--omitting possibly the extreme "_feeling_" exercised
during religious worship--was patterned after white custom; but, insofar
as the <DW64> is concerned, a great deal more stress and effort and
feeling was put into the things mentioned. In a sense, they were the
<DW64>s all.

Naturally, these many lodges, etc., must have some object. And that
object for years, was irrevocably, to care for the sick and bury the
dead.

Our story will be concerned with the United Order of the AAASSSSBBBBGG,
which, for the purpose of this story, will answer as well as the real
name, and will be much easier to refer to.

The AAASSSSBBBBGG, is one of the oldest lodges in Dixie, having been in
operation among the black people for generations. And its great object
was, until a few years ago, to "ce'h fo' the sick 'n' bu'y the dead."

In the course of events, there had been elected to a very conspicuous
position in this same lodge, a man with a square jaw. He was of medium
height and build, but aggressive, very much so, in fact, a born fighter.
Happily, the latter trait was peculiarly necessary to the one who held
the office of grand secretaryship in this lodge--and to this office
Dickson fell heir.

Now Dickson was no ordinary <DW64>. He was ambitious, not the kind that
is likely to be satisfied with the past duties of the order. Because,
and it might be well to mention so strange a coincidence: This lodge had
not been able to spend all the money that had come into the treasury for
burial purposes. So the reserve totalled $40,000 cash. It was
confidentially whispered that the officers, a united click, preceding
Dickson, had calmly planned, when this amount reached $50,000, to grab
it all, and start a colony--for themselves, of course, in Africa. But,
alas! enters Dickson, the determined, the ambitious. And if anything can
serve to disturb an order like this, it is ambition. In all the years of
its existence, the slogan had been to crucify ambition religiously, but
Dickson crucified them. At this time, at least, they were relegated to
the scrub timber, where they lay dreaming of a time never to return, for
"the old order changeth."

In addition to the office of grand secretary, Dickson was an editor, and
before the moss-backs had realized it, some years before, he was editing
the official mouthpiece, _The Independent_. They thought little of this,
in fact, they didn't care, because, in the first place, no one else
cared for that job; it required too much thought to edit a paper that
the members would be likely to read. _The Independent_ had come out at
spasmodic intervals, reporting, in detail, the death of Miss Sallie Doe,
"a member in good standing, who had met her Jesus on the altar of
evermore;" or, that Jim Johnson, another member, "had been incarcerated
in the county jail, along with many others, for disturbing the peace;"
or, that at the revival at the Antioch Baptist church, of which Brother
Jasper was the pastor, "a soul stirring revival is going on with scores
'gittin' right with Jesus'," etc., etc., etc. But its greatest ambition,
apparently, had been to come before the people, guaranteed not to be
read.

So fancy, when, after getting control, Dickson "did it all over." _The
Independent_ became "_some_" paper. It fairly ripped and snorted. It
took up the instances of officers that were sluggish and backward and
slow, and made great headlines. "Whew!" the members cried, who had never
read the paper before. While others declared: "Ah allus knowed dat
nigga's crazy!" But everybody began reading the paper. They objected and
scrambled and stewed about what was said, called him the biggest liar,
bull-dozer, and everything else, but read the paper. So the circulation
doubled and trebled and quadrupled, and then doubled all over again,
until it was reaching every "live" member of the order. Dickson didn't
care whether it reached the others or not, and he told them so;
moreover, he said--in not so many words, but it was read between the
lines,--that they could go to Hell. They took the paper then.

There came a time at last when the treasury was reeking with Sam's good
gold, and Dickson had more enemies than could be counted readily. But
Dickson was wise. He had looked deeply into the condition and inborn
weakness of these black creatures, and had surmised that they only
patronized each other when they mutually hated. If they loved one
another, they were allowed to starve to death undisturbed.

He saw that <DW64>s would only build and occupy an office when the white
man refused to rent him anything but the attic--and not even that
sometimes. So, with a flare, a blaze and a roar, out came _The
Independent_, and said that the AAASSSSBBBBGG lodge had decided to erect
an office building of its own. It was to be six stories in height, of
brick, with stone cornices, and what not. Moreover, a picture of it
completed appeared on the front page of _The Independent_. That finished
it! They prepared to send him to the mad-house, and forthwith gathered
for that purpose, which was what Dickson wanted. They arrived in twos,
threes and fours, and then in droves. To the tune and number of
thousands they came and were met (?) by a brass band! And away went the
music: "Ta-ra--ta--ta-ti-rip-i-ta-ta-ta-tu!" It got into the <DW64>
blood. Music, of all things, always has effect. Before they were aware
of it, they were cake-walkin' and doin' the grizzly bear, and it has
also been whispered confidentially, that two preachers, high and mighty
in the order, "balled the jack." The music stopped for a spell. Through
the crowd--the black crowd--came a cry, "Arrah! Arrah! for the <DW64>,
the greatest race since the coming of Christ!" And it was answered:
"Arrah! Arrah! So we is. Who said we wasn't!" "The white man!" came back
the reply. "He's a liah!" went back the words heatedly. "If so, then,"
came back, "why do we continue to do our business in his attic? Why?"
This was a shock. But before recovery, sayeth the cry: "$50,000 odd we
have in the treasury to care for the sick and bury the dead! With
$60,000 more we can have a building all our own, with elevators and
mirrors and a thousand things, with our own girls to tickle the type and
scratch on the books." A wild dream flitted across the minds of these
black men, the underdogs, the slaves for a thousand years; their wives,
the cooks and the scrub women; their daughters, the lust of the beast.
And then from somewhere came another cry. It was soft and low, but firm
and regular. It came from a body of women, black women. "With our hands,
from the white people's pot, we will give unto thee thousands, and back
again to the pots we will go and slave, until our old bones can slave no
more, and pay, and pay until a mighty building, the picture of which we
have seen, shall stand as a monument to the effort of BLACK PEOPLE!"

And now there was a scramble to the front! It was a scramble as had
never been seen in Attalia before! $60,000 was fairly thrown over the
heads of one another to B.J. DICKSON, the grand secretary.

       *       *       *       *       *

Six months and a year had elapsed. And the monument stood serenely in
the sunlight, as Sidney Wyeth came down the street that Sunday morn. To
the side of this monument stood another, imposing and grand, not yet
finished, but soon to be, and it had all come through the indirect
efforts of B.J. Dickson. They were not satisfied with the one, when
they learned they _could_ do things, but needed another--so they
subscribed the necessary funds without effort, and built the other.

Before entering, Sidney walked across the street and viewed the
structure from the other side.

Thus he saw his people, as others see them.

For his life had been spent, for the most part, in white civilization.

As he surveyed it carefully, he was relieved to find that, to a
stranger, there was nothing to indicate that <DW52> people occupied the
building.

An intelligent looking man came out of it, and, crossing the street,
bowed casually to Wyeth. The latter, returning it, inquired regarding
the building and Dickson, and he was told the following:

"Yes, while there are many who do not give Dickson the credit, he is,
nevertheless, the man who has made all that possible."

"Everything is well kept apparently," said Wyeth. "That is unusual for
our people."

"That's Dickson," said the other. And then aside he inquired:

"Have you ever been through it?"

"I am just going," said Sidney.

"You should have done so during the week. Any time before one o'clock
Saturday."

"Why one o'clock Saturday?"

"Because everything ceases at that time."

"Indeed," Wyeth commented in wide surprise. "System?"

"That's it. That's Dickson."

"Indeed! Does he have charge of everything?"

"Indirectly, yes. That is, he does not own everything, of course not;
but it's like this: Do you observe how everything is in order?" Wyeth
did, and waited.

"Well," resumed the stranger: "You can bet your boots that it would not
be that way, if it were left to those in the buildings altogether. No;
they would--some of them--get into a fight, knock out a window or two,
and bring a pillow from home, to stick in the hole. The first time it
rained and blew in at the window, the plaster would fall. Then, others,
posing more than anything else, would have a crap game going on and sell
whiskey on the side. As for the letters in gold which you observe on the
windows, they are Dickson's ideas. <DW64>s would use chalk naturally.
But Dickson won't stand for anything like that. When anything is amiss,
he goes at them, as for instance, those stores in the front. Many of the
proprietors, when they empty a box, instead of putting it to the rear,
would stick it in the front, right up where every passerby could see it.
To augment it further, they would allow dust and dead flies to collect.
Cobwebs too and perhaps, pile a few old rags up on the top of it. But
B.J. goes to them, as I said, invites them across the street, and shows
it to them. He takes them up to one end of the building, and walks them
to the other, and allows them to see it as the casual observer would. If
he doesn't think or consider this sufficient, he takes them up town, and
allows their gaze to compare it with the way things are conducted by the
first class white people. And then he says: 'Now just look at it! That's
nigga's. Nigga's proper. You conduct your place so that every stranger,
seeing the city and the sights, when he gets before this building,
realizes at one glance that <DW64>s occupy it.'"

Sidney laughed a low, amused laugh. The other continued:

"That's why you see things as they are. Our people are not bad to
handle. They are, in fact, the most patriotic of all races, and are
surely anxious for the success of each other, only they don't know it.
They are like a herd without a leader. Dickson's a leader over there."

"Ah!" thought Sidney, "that's where it comes in. The race needs
leaders!" Again the other was speaking.

"Of course, we have a great many that would be leaders, oh, yes, indeed!
Over there in that building are many who are pining their lives away.
They are confident they are leaders, and are exasperated because they
have no following. They hate the people because they are not awake to
the fact. They declare, that they have _even been to school and
graduated from college and know everything_, which _alone_ should put
them at the head. For some peculiar reason, they cannot realize that
leaders are born, not made.

"Now you leave the building and wander about over the city, and you will
find a score or more of these would-be leaders, all with the same
delusion in regard to themselves. They include, for the most part,
teachers, preachers and doctors. They are so wrapped up in this idea,
that they are utterly incapable of appreciating what the race is
actually doing, and trying to do. Of these, perhaps the worst are the
teachers. This is probably because they are paid by the county, and do
not have to cater to the masses for their support." He paused, and
extended his hand. "Glad to know you, stranger, and good-by."

Sidney Wyeth watched him disappear, and then crossed the street to the
building, and entered.




CHAPTER SIX

"_Oh, You Sell Books_"


One beautiful day, the _Palm Leaf Limited_ carried another passenger
southward, aboard the Jim Crow car. It was Mildred Latham, and her
destination required a change at Chattanooga. Turning her course,
however, she went west and alighted at a town, happily located upon the
banks of the Mississippi. It was a large metropolis, a fac-simile of a
sister city, Attalia.

Miss Latham left the depot at once, and proceeded to Beal Street, which
was entirely occupied by <DW64>s. She entered a restaurant, but soon
came out, and started in search of a room. However, the land-ladies all
told her they preferred men, so she decided to look elsewhere.

A car put her off at a corner far removed from Beal Street. She passed
down a clean, quiet street, lined on either side by comfortable homes
occupied by <DW52> people. She paused before a small but handsome stone
church. It was the First Presbyterian, so the cornerstone read. To the
side, and back from the sidewalk, completely surrounded by vines, was
the parsonage, at least she took it for such. And so it proved to be.
She hesitated a moment, then, with an air of finality, she opened the
gate, entered the yard, and mounted the steps.

The door was opened by a kindly lady, whom she judged to be the pastor's
wife.

"Pardon me, please," began Miss Latham demurely, "but I am a stranger,
recently arrived in the city, and have been unable to secure lodging. I
noted the church next door, and surmised that, if this is the parsonage,
and if the pastor is in, he might assist me." She hesitated, and for a
time seemed at a loss how to proceed. In the meantime, the other
surveyed her critically. Strange women were always regarded with
suspicion. Finally she replied kindly, swinging the door wide:

"Come in, my dear child. You look tired and surely need rest. You must
have come a long way. The pastor of the church you refer to is not in
for the present, and, I regret to say, is out of the city, and is not
expected back for several days. I am his sister, however, and will help
you all I can." She paused as she placed a rocker at the disposal of the
stranger, and relieved her of coat and hat.

"You are very kind," said Mildred gratefully. "I hardly know how to
thank you."

"Please do not speak of it, my dear. As I am alone, you may stay with me
until you have found the kind of place you desire." She was silent and
thoughtful for a moment, and then asked softly, "where are you from?"

"Cincinnati."

"I do declare!" exclaimed the other in mild surprise. "I have relatives
there; but I have never seen the city myself."

The stranger appeared relieved.

"And do you expect to be in the city long?"

"I cannot say. I am here to sell a book, _The Tempest_, a western story,
by a <DW64> author. And, of course, it depends upon that, as to how long
I shall stay."

"Oh, you sell books." Mildred did not correct her. "I used to sell
books, and, indeed I liked it. I am fond of reading. I am anxious to see
the book you speak of when it is convenient, since I have observed
advertisements of it."

"It is a nice book," Mildred commented. "And as soon as I can have
access to my trunk at the depot, I shall be delighted to let you see and
read it."

"I shall indeed be pleased, I assure you," the other smiled back
sweetly. "I am always so interested when it comes to books, that I wish,
when you have had something to eat, you would tell me the story of _The
Tempest_."

"It will be a pleasure; but you need not fix me lunch, for I just ate a
short time ago, as I came from the station. So, if you now wish, I will
tell, in as few words as possible, and as best I can, the story of this
book.

"The story opens up on the banks of the river, near this city.... It
concerns a young man, restless and discontented, who regarded the world
as a great opportunity. So he set forth to seek his fortune.... Thus it
began, but shortly, it led through a maze of adventures, to a land in
the west. It is, perhaps, the land of the future; a land in which
opportunity awaits for courageous youths, strong men, and good women....
This land is called _The Rosebud Indian Reservation_. It lays in
southern South Dakota, and <DW72>s back from the banks of the 'Big
Muddy', stretching for many miles into the interior beyond. It is a
prairie country. No trees, stumps, rocks or stones mar the progress of
civilization. So the white men and only a few blacks unloaded at a town
on or near the frontier. I think it is called Bonesteel. And then the
mighty herd of human beings flocked and settled over all that broad
expanse, claiming it by the right of conquest.

"Among these many, conspicuous at the front, was the hero of this
narrative. He came into a share, a creditable share, and, although far
removed from the haunts of his own, and surrounded on all sides by a
white race, he was duly inoculated with that spirit which makes men
successful.

"Time went on, and in a few years there was no more reservation, but it
became _The Rosebud Country_, the land of the optimist.

"Then, of course, came to him that longing, that dream, the greatest of
all desires, the love of a woman. But of his own race there were none,
and he did not feel it right to wed a white wife. But at last, he found
one of his own blood. She was kind, good and refined, but in conviction
she was weak, without strength of her own. She loved him--as such women
love, but to her father, a preacher, she was obedient,--subservient.
They lived for some months in happiness, until that other--her
father--came to visit them. These two, her father and her husband,
differed, both in thought and action, and, naturally out of sympathy. In
short, they disagreed upon all points, including the daughter, the wife,
and at last the mother, for in time such she became. And that, strange
to say, instead of being the birth of a new freedom, was the end of all
things.

"So o'er this land of the free there came a change, a sad change, that
led to the end, the end of _The Tempest_." She paused, and allowed her
eyes to remain upon the rug before her, while the other listened for
more. Presently she said:

"And was it her father--who stooped to _this_?"

The other nodded and remained silent, with downcast eyes.

Mildred Latham could not have said more had she wished--just then. A
peculiar feeling came over her, and her mind went back to a night not
long before.




CHAPTER SEVEN

_The Office of the Grand Secretary_


When Sidney Wyeth walked into the office of B.J. Dickson that Sunday
morning, he found him alone, engaged in reading. When a step sounded at
the door, he laid the paper aside and glanced searchingly at the
intruder. Wyeth saw before him, the man of determination: the square
jaw, the determined set of the neck; otherwise he would not attract any
particular attention in a crowd. But this was B.J. Dickson, of whom he
had heard much since coming to Attalia, and even before.

"Mr. Dickson?" he inquired, respectfully. The other nodded, and pointed
to a chair.

"You have charge of the renting here, so I understand?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to get desk space for the present, and later on perhaps I
might require an office."

"I see," mused the other, surveying him meditatively. "Well, we have
nothing left in this building; but I think there are two or three rooms
not yet rented in the building you have observed in course of
construction. What kind of business are you engaged in?"

"Books," replied Sidney, simply.

"M-m. Well, I can't give you any information as to desk space. You can,
however, see Morton tomorrow. His office is on the second floor, the
board of trade. He can enlighten you on that score."

"What do you receive for the rooms?"

"$12.50 a month."

"That is quite reasonable," said Wyeth. The other looked up with a
pleased expression.

"You're one of the few who have made such a remark," he commented.

"Indeed! That would be considered cheap in my section of the country,"
said Wyeth.

"Where is that?"

Wyeth told him.

"Oh well, you come from a place where the people are accustomed to
something. These down here have been used to nothing but an attic or an
old frame shack, a fireplace with wind blowing in at the cracks, and, of
course, cannot appreciate steam heat, electric lights, first class
janitor service, and other modern conveniences that go with such a
building."

At this point, several men entered the room, most of whom were
distinguished looking, compared with the average <DW64>. Wyeth was
introduced to them, and learned that two were physicians, one a dentist,
another a lawyer, and still another was a letter carrier. The stranger
was soon the object of their many questions. They were answered
deliberately, for Sidney Wyeth was well informed.

"What do you think of the <DW52> people in the south, now that you see
them yourself?" he was asked. He noted the pride and air of dignity
along with the question.

"I am considerably impressed with what I have seen, I am sure," Wyeth
began cautiously. "It is unnecessary to say that this is probably the
most commodious structure owned and occupied by our people, in any city.
And, I have noted with a great deal of pride that you have in the
building, also, some half a dozen large insurance companies, owned and
conducted successfully by members of this race. All of this and other
creditable things, too numerous to mention, count for much in the
solution of the race problem. Much more could be said in praise, but I
do not consider it necessary. And still, with so much to their credit,
there is much also to their discredit--very much. I refer to this, since
it is a thing that can be remedied, and positively should be. To begin
with, the people as a whole, do not read nearly as much as in the north,
and are poorly informed in matters of grave concern and of general
interest." He paused, and saw that they were puzzled. They were, all of
them, taken aback. They looked at each other, and then began to gather
color and heat as well.

Sidney Wyeth had stirred, by his last words, his criticism, the hornet's
nest.

"And what, may I ask," inquired one of the physicians icily, "has given
you that impression?"

"Well, many things," Sidney resumed calmly. "For instance: I am in the
habit of buying _The Climax_, which is, as you know, published in New
York, and edited by a man who used to be professor of sociology in one
of your colleges. Now, in all the places I have been" (he didn't refer
to the north, realizing that it would cause more argument not bearing on
the discussion), "I have found this magazine much in circulation among
our people; but here, at only one place have I found it. You appreciate
that the <DW64> population of this town is to exceed, without doubt,
sixty thousand. It receives but fifty copies a month, and does not sell
all of _them_--of course there are annual subscribers; but, so there are
everywhere else as well."

"Now--" all began with upraised hand, but Sidney stopped them with:

"I've made this remark, so hear me out, that I may show that I am
justified in making it."

They were quiet, but impatient.

"You have several large drug stores, doing a creditable business in the
city. Omitting a few operated by white men in <DW64> neighborhoods, you
will hardly find one that does not carry a goodly stock of magazines for
his trade. Not a  drug store carries one. Tompkins, other than
_The Climax_, does not sell any. Now, gentlemen, with such a population
as you have," (he was very serious now), "is it consistent to believe
that these black people read in proportion to what they should, when
there is so little current demand for literature?"

The outburst that followed this was too intense to describe. The
composure that was in keeping with their appearance and training was,
for the time, lost. Everybody had something to say to the contrary, and,
at the same time.

"I have five hundred dollars worth of books in my house," cried Dickson.

"I take _The Climax_, and have since it began publication," cried still
another.

"Derwin, its editor, is a traitor to his race, and I can prove it,"
persisted another.

"Theah ain' nothin' in it, nohow," yelled another whose English was not
the best.

"It's the only magazine edited by, and in the interest of this race,"
retorted Wyeth; "and has a circulation more than double that of any
other publication by <DW64>s since freedom."

"You northern <DW64>s think a whole lot of Derwin, and are imbued with
his point of view," cried Dickson; "but we had him down here before he
went north, and we know him for what he is," and he looked about him
meaningly.

The others gave sanction.

"He's the author of the only book in sociology, that stands out as a
mark of <DW64> literature. The book is a classic, and is one of possibly
two or three from the pen of a <DW64> since Dumas."

It is difficult to foretell where the argument may have ended, but
Sidney slipped out. As the door closed behind him, a mighty roar of
indignation came over the transom. "He's a liar." "He's crazy!" "Like
all from that section!"

When these men met Wyeth afterward, and for some time, they did not
recognize him. He was not surprised. They are, and the best of them, in
a measure, still incapable of accepting criticism as it is meant. Our
story will go to prove this more conclusively later on; but for the
present, Sidney Wyeth had made friends....




CHAPTER EIGHT

_Henry Hugh Hodder_


Weeks had passed, and a touch of spring time was in the Dixie air.
Sidney Wyeth's canvass was now assisted by another, while from over the
country he had secured, here and there, an agent to sell the book. He
found desk space in an office on the second floor, hired a stenographer,
and filled the country with circular letters. Perhaps fifty or more
replies were received, a few with a money order and requests for further
information.

Although most of the letters were sent to preachers and teachers
throughout the south, two-thirds of the replies came from the north.
From Boston, New York, Chicago, and centers where literature is
obtainable from the libraries which are open to <DW64>s, more letters by
far came, than from the south where such is not always available. And
out of these, a few agents were secured. But it seemed almost an
impossibility to interest those at the south in a subject of literature.

One day, there came a letter from a small town in Florida that amused
Wyeth. It was from the secretary of the board of trade. In reply to the
circular inquiry, requesting the names of the <DW64> preachers in that
city, it ran thus:

     MY DEAR SIR: Replying to your favor of recent date relative to the
     names of <DW64> preachers of this city. In regard to this, I am
     compelled to say, that I cannot fully enlighten you, for this
     reason: Everything with trousers appears to be a preacher, or, any
     one who can spell "ligon."

     My gardener is a preacher, although he finds my work more
     remunerative, apparently; but you could, however, write to him, and
     he would, I feel sure, give you the desired information.

When Sidney appraised Tompkins of his failure to get the cooperation of
southern preachers, in his exploit, he was advised that the preachers
were working that "side of the street."

       *       *       *       *       *

We cannot appreciatively continue this story, without including a
character that is very conspicuous in <DW64> enterprise. That is the
undertaker. He is always in evidence. Mortality among <DW64>s exceeds,
by far, that among whites. This is due to conditions that we will not
dwell upon, since they will develop during the course of the story; but
in Attalia, there was one undertaker who was particularly successful. He
had the reputation of burying more <DW64>s than any man in the world. He
had a son, a ne'er-do-well, to say the least, and they called him
"Spoon."

Sidney, who at this time shared a room with Thurman, became acquainted
with "Spoon" one Sunday night. It was at a "tiger," of which, as we now
know, there were plenty.

Spoon had a reputation in local  circles, as well as his father;
but Spoon's reputation was not enviable. He was booziogically inclined,
and reputed by those who knew him, to be able to consume more liquor
than any other ordinary society man. Moreover, Spoon was "some" sport,
too; could play the piano, in ragtime tune, and could also "ball the
jack." He would lean back upon the stool, play the latest rag, as no
other could, and at the end, cry: "Give me some more of that 'Sparrow
Gin!'"

Wyeth and Spoon became close friends following their first meeting, and
Sunday nights, they would roam until one or two in the morning. Spoon
knew where every "tiger" in town was; and, moreover, he proved it.

Thurman, although two and fifty, was no "poke;" but was a sport too. His
began early Sunday morning. One Sunday morn, as they lay abed, after the
light of the world had come back and claimed its own, Thurman called to
Sidney where the other lay reposing in the pages of a "best seller."
"Say, kid! how 'bout a little toddy this mawnin'?"

"I'm there," came the reply.

"Good!" exclaimed Thurman. "Guess, tho' I'll haf to go after it, 's see
you lost in a book all time. Gee! Looks lak you'd lose your mind
a-readin' so much." No comment. "Guess that's why you got all these
nigga's a-argun' 'roun' heah though; cause you read and they don't. M-m;
yeh, yeh; that makes a diff'nce. M-m."

"Wull, reckon' ah'll haf t' git in muh breeches and crawl ou' and git
dat stuff t' make it wid. M-m. Old Mis' 'roun' the conah 'll be glad t'
git dis twenty cents dis mawnin'. M-m. Wull, kid, be back t'rectly."

He was, sooner than expected. He didn't get outside. He peeped out. What
met his gaze would send any southern rheumatic <DW64> back.

It was snow.

"Jesus Chr-i-s-t!" he exclaimed, returning hastily from the hallway.
"Hell has sho turned on dis' mawnin out dare. K-whew! 'f the's anything
in this world I hates, it's snow."

Sidney stopped reading long enough for a good laugh, as Thurman skinned
off his trousers and clambered back into bed.

"Aw, shucks, Thur, this is a morning for toddies."

"A mawnin' fo' Hell, yes, hu! hu! Wow!"

After a spell, he peeped from beneath the coverlets. "Say! since ah come
t' think uv't, we c'n have them toddies wid-out get'n froze out in doin'
it."

"How's that?" asked the other.

"I'll get dat liquah from John."

"And who is John?"

"John? Wull, did'n' you git 'quainted wi'im when I brung you heah?
John's the man we room with. He sells liquah."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Say Spoon," said Sidney one day, "I'm going to cut the tiger kitin'
out."

"Aw, gwan, kid, what you talkin' 'bout?"

"I'm going to church in the mornings, and in the evenings, I hope to
find a place that will be more in keeping with respectable people,"
announced Sidney.

"Come on, let's go up here to old lady Macks, and get some of that
'Sparrow Gin,'" Spoon suggested, temptingly.

"To prove that I am not likely to keep my resolution."

"You've none to keep as I can particular see. I have never seen you
drink anything stronger than beer when you've been with me. You seem to
go along with me, to see me and the others act a fool. Sometimes you
impress me as being a strange person.... I wonder. Now I wonder...."

"Where is a church that would be likely to appeal to you and myself?"

"Up on Herald Street is one that I think will appeal to _you_. You're
serious. Me--I'm quite unfit for any; but I'll take you up there, and
sit through one of Hodder's sermons if you care to go. My people are
members of that church, and it is a progressive one."

"We will attend services there--Sunday morning."

Wyeth became a regular visitor.

The following Sunday, the pastor appraised the congregation of the fact,
that on the following Sunday, they would have with them the Reverend W.
Jacobs, the energetic young man who was doing such great work for the
training of wayward children. And this takes our story into a matter of
grave human interest.

Coincident with better educational facilities, and the more careful
training of the children, time had brought a change that was slowly but
surely being felt by these black people in the south. It has already
been stated, that the Baptist church required little literary training
in order to preach; but, in this church, it is quite different, and no
man would be tolerated as a minister, who had not a great amount of
theological, as well as literary training.

Henry Hugh Hodder was a man, not only prepared in the lines of theology
and literature, but was fully supplied with practical knowledge as well.
He had, at the time Sidney Wyeth became acquainted with him, gathered to
his church, a majority of Attalia's best black people. His popularity
was, moreover, on the increase, and his church was filled regularly
with a class of people who listened, studied and applied to their
welfare, what he said each Sunday in the pulpit.

His church stood on a corner to the edge of the black belt, and near a
fashionable white neighborhood. And it had, at the time it was
constructed, caused considerable agitation. When Sidney and Spoon came
to the door, prayer was being offered, and when it was over, they
entered, taking seats near the door.

It was a nicely ventilated church, with large  windows, arranged
to allow air to pass in without coming directly upon the congregation.
At the front, a small rostrum rose to the level of the rear, and
contained, in addition to the altar, only four chairs. Sidney was told
afterwards, that, due to a practice always followed in other churches,
particularly the Baptist, of allowing journeymen preachers to put
themselves before the congregation uninvited, Hodder had removed the
chairs in order to discourage such practice.

Apparently he had succeeded, for, on the Sundays that followed, Sidney
saw only those who were invited, facing the congregation.

Directly over the rostrum hung a small balcony, which contained the
choir and a pipe organ. Following a song, the pastor came forward. He
was a tall man, with width in proportion, perhaps two hundred and twenty
pounds. Not unlike the average <DW64> of today, he was brown-skinned. His
hair, a curly mass of blackness, was brushed back from a high forehead.
His voice, as he opened the sermon, was deep and resonant. And for his
text that day, he took "Does It Pay!"

Not since Sidney Wyeth had attended church and heard sermons, had he
been so stirred by a discourse! Back into the ancient times; to the
history of Judea and Caesar, he took the listener, and then subtly
applied it to the life of today. Never had he heard one whose eloquence
could so blend with everyday issues, and cause them to react as moral
uplift. For he knew the black Oman's need. Pen cannot describe its
effect upon Sidney Wyeth. It seemed, as the words of the pastor came to
him, revealing a thousand moral truths, which he had felt, but could
not express, that he had come from afar for a great thing, that sermon.
It lifted him out of the chaos of the present, and brought him to
appreciate what life, and the duty of existence really meant.

Having, in a sense, drifted away from the pious training he had received
as a youth, Sidney Wyeth was suddenly jerked back to the past, and
enjoyed the experience. On account of his progressive ideas, he had been
accused, by some of his people, since his return to live among them, of
being an unbeliever. He was often told that he was not a Christian; they
meant, of course, that he was not a member of a church, which, to most
<DW52> people, is equivalent to disbelief. Sidney Wyeth saw the life,
the instance of Christ as a moral lesson.

When the sermon closed, Wyeth had one desire, and fulfilled it, and that
was to shake Henry Hugh Hodder's hand; moreover, to tell him, in the
only way he knew how, what the sermon had been to him.

He did so, and was received very simply.

As he approached the rostrum, at the foot of which stood the pastor,
shaking hands with many others who had come forward in the meantime, he
was like one walking on air. He recalled the many sermons preached to
satisfy the emotion of an ignorant mass, and which, in hundreds of
instances, went wide of the mark, causing a large portion of the
congregation to rise in their seats, and give utterance to emotional
discordance, the same being often forgotten by the morrow.

Hodder was not only as he was just described, but he proved to Sidney
Wyeth to be a practical, informed, and observing man as well. When he
had received the card, he inquired of the country from whence Sidney
came, and related briefly the notices he had followed, regarding its
opening a few years previous.

At that moment, a large man, almost white--that is, he was white,
although a <DW52> man--was introduced to him as Mr. Herman. He proved
to be the proprietor of the large barber shop on Plum Street, which had
caught Sidney's attention the day he came. After Mr. Herman's
introduction, he met many others prominent in <DW64> circles, including
the president and cashier of the local <DW64> bank. And thus it came that
Sidney Wyeth met these, the new <DW64>, and the leaders of a new
dispensation.

Two hours after the services had closed, he passed a big church on
Audubon Avenue; a church of the "old style religion" and, which most
<DW64>s still like. It was then after two o'clock. Morning service was
still in order--no, the sermon had closed, but collection hadn't. Out of
curiosity, he entered. The pastor had, during this period, concentrated
his arts on the collection table. He was just relating the instance of
people who put their dollar over one eye, so closely, that it was liable
to freeze to the eye and bring about utter blindness. "So now," he
roared, brandishing his arms in a rally call, "_We jes' need a few
dollahs mo' to make the collection fo'ty-fo'. I'll put in a quata',
who'll do the rest_," whereupon the choir gave forth a mighty tune, that
filled the church with a strain which made some feel like dancing.

The following Tuesday, an editorial appeared in one of the leading
dailies, concerning the sermon and the instance of Henry Hugh Hodder. It
dwelt at some length on his work for the evolution of his people, and
concluded by praying that (among the black population) great would be
the day when such men and such sermons were an established order.

Sidney, now in an office to himself, read it to a man next door.
Whereupon the other said:

"Oh, that is nothing unusual. They often speak of him and his work in
the editorial columns. Which might account for his having such a fine
church." ...

Wyeth was silent, apparently at a loss what to say. The silence had
reached a point which was becoming strained, when another, who happened
to be in the office, relieved it by spitting out sneeringly:

"White fo'kes'll give any nigga plenty money, when he says what they
want him too." He was a deacon in the big church referred to. This was
not investigated.

Wyeth called him a liar then and there.




CHAPTER NINE

"_Sweet Genevieve_"


"Wilson, dear," said Constance Jacobs to her brother, the pastor, on his
return from Attalia, Effingham, and other places where he was required
to go in the interest of his work. Coming up to him in her usual manner,
she kissed him fondly, for she was not only fond of this, her only
brother, but she was proud of him. Well she could be, for Wilson Jacobs
was a hard, conscientious worker in the moral uplift of his people. "I
have a surprise in store for you," she said, "and if you are comfortable
I will tell you."

"Little sister," he said, as he kissed her fondly in return, and gave
her his undivided attention.

"I hardly know how to tell you, but I have with me, someone who came
during your absence; the most unusual to be a usual girl I have ever
known." She then related the instance of Mildred Latham's coming, and
the circumstance, including the book. "I have read the book that she is
selling, and with which she seems to be very successful, in fact, she is
so successful that I am almost persuaded to take up the work myself. The
story is interesting; but it is not that which has caused me much
thought, it is the girl herself.

"She is a beautiful girl, intelligent, kind and winning, although she
does not, as I can see, practice or exercise any arts to be winning. She
is single, and does not appear to have any interest in the opposite sex,
nor does she appear to care for any society. In fact, besides being nice
and kind to all whom she chances to meet, she does not have any interest
beyond the book. She is simply foolish about it, just as much so as
though the author were her lover, and depended upon her for its success.

"There is something peculiar, that is, oh, Wilson, there is something,
just something that I cannot understand about her, that's all." She gave
up trying to express herself for a time, and then he spoke:

"In love, no doubt, and has had trouble."

"Yes," she said, then shook her head. "It might be that; but if it is,
it is an extraordinary love affair; but I am confident it is deeper than
that. I catch her at times looking into space as though her mind were
far away. And at these times, I have taken notice that she is sad, very
sad. My heart goes out to her when I see her like this, because, for
some peculiar reason, I have fallen in love with her. She found a place
to stay, and was going to move, but I could not think of it. She is the
sweetest companion I ever had.

"I wish you would become interested in her, dear. I want you to. Perhaps
you can get at the bottom of the mystery that surrounds her. I cannot,
and it worries me, because I want to help her, and it hurts me when I
feel that I cannot. She has become very much interested in your work,
and has been helping me in the correspondence relative to the same."

"When can I meet this strange person you speak of, Constance? I am
curious, from what you have said. I gather already that she may be able
to help us in some way in our work."

"She went down the street for a walk, but will return shortly, since she
never goes far." At that moment, steps sounded on the porch, and a
moment later, Mildred entered quietly, and was on the way to her room,
when Constance met her with: "Oh, Miss Latham. Please meet my brother
who came since you went out. Miss Latham, my brother, Wilson Jacobs."

"My sister has just been speaking of you, Miss Latham," said he, after
the exchange had been made.

"Indeed!" cried Mildred, smiling pleasantly upon Constance. "Your sister
does me too much honor."

"Not a bit. I am glad to know you, and shall be pleased to become better
acquainted as time goes on. I am told that you are selling a good book.
I have observed advertisements of the same some time ago, and will be
delighted to read it."

Mildred smiled pleasantly, hesitated, and then said: "Every one I sell
to report that they love the book. I do myself. I think it is such a
frank and unbiased story, and told so simply, that anyone can understand
it; yet with a touching human interest that is, in a measure, vital to
us all. Even persons more highly gifted can learn something from it, and
be entertained as well."

"She has sold over a hundred copies in three weeks, which I think is
extraordinary, don't you?" said Constance at this point, whereupon
Mildred looked slightly embarrassed. She always did when anyone spoke in
praise of her.

"Extraordinary, excellent, I should say," her brother smiled. "Where
does she find such good customers?"

"I work among the women in domestic service," Mildred explained. Wilson
looked surprised.

"Indeed! And do you find many readers among them? You have not been to
many of the teachers?"

"I have, yes; but they do not seem to take much interest in work by
<DW64>s, so far as I have been able to gather. I could not say for sure,
of course not; but I _do_ find the women in service, in great numbers,
to be fond of reading and full of race pride. Of course, there are
multitudes of ignorant ones who are not capable of appreciating
literature and its value as moral uplift, but, as a whole, I am highly
successful."

Wilson Jacobs was greatly moved by his first conversation with Mildred,
and found himself thinking about her more than once in the days that
followed. His sister became so deeply interested in her, that after a
week had passed, she had taken up the work also.

"Do you ever play, Miss Latham?" inquired Constance a few days
afterward, and late one afternoon, when they had returned from their
work.

"A little," Mildred admitted. "But it has been so long since I have
touched a key, that I am sure I should be very awkward if I attempted
it. I think you play nicely."

The other laughed. "I only play when I am quite sure no one is likely to
hear me. There is one piece I can play, and of which I am very fond. I
heard you humming it the other day. As soon as the parlor is 'comfy,' I
shall ask you to condescend to listen to me play it."

"What piece is that? Please tell me," Mildred inquired.

"Sweet Genevieve."

"Oh, yes...."

"Why, what is the matter, dearest?" cried Constance, hurrying toward
her.

"Nothing, nothing!" said the other, hastily mopping her nose and eyes.

"Well, I'm relieved, but I thought I heard you sob, but of course you
didn't. Of course not. Really, I begin to feel that if I don't get
married soon, I'll become a nervous, cranky old maid."

"Please don't say such things about yourself," entreated Mildred. "You
were not mistaken. I did--ah--I sobbed--I mean I coughed. I had
something in my throat," she concluded nervously.

"I'm relieved," smiled the other, and, going to the piano, she struck
the keys, and sang in a high contralto voice:

    "O, Genevieve, I'd give the world
       To live again the lovely past!
     The rose of youth was dew-impearled;
       But now it withers in the blast.
     I see thy face in every dream,
       My waking thoughts are full of thee;
     Thy glance is in the starry beam
       That falls along the summer sea."

It was in the small hours of the morning when Mildred Latham's eyes
closed in sleep. All the night through, the strains of _Sweet Genevieve_
and what it recalled, tortured her memory, until it was from sheer
fatigue that she did at last fall asleep.

She hoped Constance would play _Sweet Genevieve_ no more.




CHAPTER TEN

"_Do Something and You'll Find Out_"


In Attalia, there is a street which includes all that goes with
Ethiopian. It is called Dalton street, and along its narrow way--for it
is narrow, and one of the oldest streets in the city--occurs much that
is deplorable.

On this selfsame street, an incident took place, in which Sidney Wyeth
happened to figure as more than the casual observer.

It was in late afternoon of a cold wet day. He had been delivering
books, and had a considerable amount of the proceeds of the delivery in
his pockets, when, while on the way to the office, he chanced to be
passing down this street. He looked up, and found himself before a
large, odd appearing structure. A uniformed man stood at the front, and,
in passing, Wyeth paused a moment, took in the proportions of the
building with a critical gaze, and inquired of the man what it was.

The other looked at him with an expression which seemed to say: "You
ought to know!" But grinning, he replied:

"Do something and you'll damn quick find out! It's the police station."

"M-m-m-m! You wouldn't be likely to find out if you didn't, I suppose,"
he laughed, as he continued on his way.

During Sidney Wyeth's bachelor life on the _Rosebud_, he had been a
victim of the habit of going to town, and loafing the night through,
occasionally. There had, in the beginning, been a great deal of gambling
there, and to watch this was an absorbing pastime. It served, also, as
he then felt, as a diversion to break the monotony of his lonesome life.

Now there were places--if not gambling dens--in Attalia also, where one
could loaf at night. When his correspondence was completed that evening,
he felt a "Call of the Wild" in his blood, and went forth on a
pilgrimage of this kind. In company with a chauffeur, he left for his
room about one thirty A.M. the following morning. They had not, however,
gone far before the clouds had gathered. They didn't see the clouds--at
first--but the clouds saw them. They happened to be a pair of meddlesome
bull-cops. It has been stated that the hour was about one thirty, but
the cops said two. Moreover, they wished to know what business
occasioned two young men to be out at such an hour.

Sidney felt slightly insulted, and stepped aside to let them by, thereby
wishing to avoid any argument. The cops stepped aside also, but to see
that they did not get too far out of the way. Said one--and he was the
burliest--"Well, boys, where have you been?" "Where have we been?" said
Wyeth, to himself. "Now wouldn't that frost you!" What business of these
men was it? They had positively not been acting suspicious, nor were
they seen fighting, and neither were they drunk. So, then, what right
had two burley cops to get in the way, and ask such impertinent
questions. Sidney felt like making an indignant reply, he felt like
fighting; then he did some quick thinking, and decided to be patient,
answering the questions in an offhand way, and so be on his way, for he
felt sleepy. And then, again, he observed that they wore great big
sticks, with which they toyed idly, as they waited for reply.

"Aw, knocking around." It was Wyeth who made this reply.

"Aw, knockin' 'roun'," said the big cop, who had now grown ugly in the
sight of Wyeth, and he repeated this mockingly. And now spoke the
chauffeur, who had grown up in those parts. He was diplomatic. Said he:

"I'm jes' gettin' off frum we'k, cap'n," and despite his look of truth
and sincerity, he trembled perceptibly.

Sidney observed him with a touch of disgust.

"Is that so-o?" said the cop, more sneeringly now than ever. Sidney had
enough, and started to go by, but the blue-coat blocked his way
roughly, and cried out, with club grasped: "Where yu' been, <DW65>?"

Wyeth was shocked beyond speech. Evidently, he had not as yet come to
appreciate that he was otherwise than on the _Rosebud_. "Where you been,
<DW65>?" came the terrible voice once more.

Wyeth woke up. Moreover, he became obviously frightened. He replied--and
lo! He was trembling also, as he cried:

"What do you mean, Mr. Policeman!" He was now wild-eyed. "I'm not
breaking the law; I have done nothing; I am on the way to my room and to
bed. Why do you hold me up this way. I don't think I am obliged to
answer such questions as you ask; but I have been calling, I cannot see
that it matters where, since--"

"Aw don't talk to the man lak dat," whimpered the chauffeur.

"I'll knock your damned head off, <DW65>! What'n Hell's got int' you to
talk to a white man like that!" He turned his face to the other who had
not, up to then, said anything, and said: "Let's arrest them!" The other
acquiesced. "Come on!" he roared, grabbing the chauffeur by the belt of
his trousers, and whirling him about. The other caught Sidney likewise,
but was more civil in the act.

"Good Lord, Mister," said he to his cop, "why are you arresting us? We
have done nothing!"

"Got orders to pick up everybody after one o'clock who looks
_suspicious_, and cannot give good accounts of themselves," he replied
soberly.

"I wish I had known it," Wyeth sighed wearily; "but I'm at least glad
that I didn't have him lead me," he said, pointing to the cop who had
the chauffeur.

"You made him mad," grinned the patrolman. "You must not live here?"

"No, Lord, and I wish at this moment I had never come."

"When a white man speaks to you down here, always answer him 'sir!'" he
advised.

"I most assuredly will, if I meet any more like him," said Sidney
meekly. After a moment of silence as they stumbled along, he said
thoughtfully: "I hate this. I've never been arrested before in my life.
Will they lock us up?"

"Oh, sure!" the other laughed.

"M-m-m-m--m!"

"Jes' lemme go this time, Mister," whined the chauffeur ahead, "'n' I
won' neve' be out late no mo'."

"I'm sorry, son," said the bull-cop a little kindly, "but it's
impossible. I o'n' think you are bad 'tall, but that other <DW65>'s
crooked, 'n' I know he is," he said, pointing back at Wyeth. He was
overheard, and despite the precarious condition Wyeth realized he was
in, he smiled.

"He's sho got a bad 'pinion a-you, son," laughed Wyeth's cop.

"I'll go t' bed eve' night at nine 'clock--eight 'f you say so," begged
the chauffeur, as they neared the patrol box.

While they were waiting for the "wagon," the copper with the chauffeur
in charge turned that worthy over to the other cop, and ran across the
street to intercept another <DW64>. That one happened to be a waiter who
worked at night, and was, accordingly, allowed to go his way; but he had
been off work since ten o'clock. Wyeth and the chauffeur had left him at
the palm garden when they departed, but that was no argument now. The
other went his way, whistling cheerfully, while they stood prisoners of
the law.

It was a dreadful experience for Sidney Wyeth.

A mighty but familiar jingling of bells proclaimed that the "wagon" was
on the way, and in an incredibly short time they were pushed inside. As
the door closed, with a bigger cop than the others between the culprits
(?) and the door, these words came to Wyeth's ears: "Idling and
Loitering!"

"Youse the cause a-this," accused the chauffeur angrily.

Wyeth laughed outright.

"How c'n you laf 'n' us on the way t' the lock-up!"

Wyeth laughed in earnest now, while the bull smiled naively.

"I wish I'd a-neve' seen you," said the other wearily.

"It's vain to make such wishes now;" and then something occurred to him.
He had been to the bank, but had, fortunately, not deposited all he had.
"Say, Governor," he cried, "if a man should put up money when he is
taken before the clerk, or whoever it is that receives us, would they
allow him to return without locking him up?" His inquiry was eager. The
other replied:

"Most assuredly."

"Good! How much will I have to put up to keep from being locked up?"

"About ten dollars and seventy-five cents."

Wyeth did some counting. "I have ten fifty. Will they let me out on
that?"

"I think so."

"What you goin' do 'bout me?" put in the chauffeur.

"Do about you!" said Wyeth. "What you going to do about yourself? I'm
not your guardian."

"But I ain' got bu' fifty cents," he wailed despairingly.

"Then methinks you will sleep on Dalton street tonight."

They had arrived at the station by this time. Wyeth recalled a few hours
before with a feeling of awe, as he recognized the place and the words
the man had used.

"What's your name?" demanded the clerk of the chauffeur.

"Boise Demon."

"Yours!"

Wyeth gave it, and as the clerk made a record of it, he made inquiry
regarding a bond.

"All right. Ten seventy-five."

"I have but ten fifty."

"See the sargent."

"What's the charge?" inquired that orderly, coming forward.

"Id'ling and loitering."

"Let him off for ten."

"Pay me out, pay me out!" trembled the chauffeur.

"Shut up!" commanded Sidney. "Haven't you heard me say I had but ten
fifty?"

"Then do'n go, do'n go; stay with me!"

"Like Hell, I will!" exclaimed Wyeth with a laugh. The officers standing
about, laughed also, and said:

"Don't be 'fraid, honey. You'll have lots a-company."

Wyeth handed over ten dollars, and a moment later passed into the street
where a soft rain was falling. "Jesus," he muttered; "I'm sure glad I
kept that money." And then, ere he had got far, he heard a cell door
clang, and thought about Demon. At the same moment, there came to his
ears the music of many throats singing: "Don't you leave me here!"




CHAPTER ELEVEN

"_Jedge L'yles' Co't_"


Wyeth sneaked into the room without waking Thurman that morning. Nor did
he inform him of his good fortune, when the other arose two hours later
to go to work. He did not sleep any that night, and, since he had to be
to the court at eight-thirty or forfeit his bond, he arose early,
dressed, and in due time, he sat in the large theatre.

Perhaps if Sidney Wyeth had suspected what would come to pass that
morning, he would have forfeited the bond by not putting in his
appearance; but when he put up the collateral the night before, he had
observed a mark of respect in the officers. He was sufficiently
acquainted with the courts from a distance, to realize that the average
<DW64> brought before that tribunal--with the possible exception of a
boot-legger--seldom brought any money or had any at home, and invariably
went in great numbers to the stockade. Moreover, the sargent and the
clerk, too, had advised him that he might not possibly be fined at all.
Therefore, when he left for the court, he had no thought other than that
he would go free, and have his money returned.

"It will, of course," they had said, "depend upon how Judge Loyal feels
when you appear."

He had heard something regarding this "feeling" before. He meditated as
he made his way in that direction. And still he recalled more of what he
had heard, which was to the effect that if "his stomach was upset, look
out!"

He hoped Judge Loyal didn't suffer with dyspepsia or indigestion....

As he neared that place he now remembered so well, he was overwhelmed
with memories. He recalled this same court, more than ten years before.
It was in a leading magazine. It was, moreover, he recalled, an
interesting story, too. "Wonder if it will prove so today," he mused
silently....

And now he was inside the court room. He was early, and so were many
others. He recalled, with another twitch of the memory, that Judge Loyal
had presided ten years before. He would see him today. "There he is
now," he said to himself, as an old man with white hair came upon the
platform, and took a seat behind the bench.

But it was the clerk. Judge Loyal came later, so did others, many
others.

And now all that he had read in that article many years before, suddenly
came back to him clearly. It overwhelmed him. The article concerned that
court--and <DW64>s--<DW64>s--<DW64>s--a court of <DW64>s. And now he was
a part of them. Although on the outside, he felt guilty. He was supposed
to answer when his name was called.

The court room was filling rapidly. They were herded behind huge doors,
to the left of the room. Black men and a few whites. A mass of criminal
humanity. He shuddered. He wished now to be over and out of it as soon
as possible. And then he experienced a cold fear. It became stronger. It
developed until it became a chilly premonition that Judge Loyal (Jedge
L'yles, as these <DW64>s called him) would be feeling badly that day.
This feeling persisted until it became a reality.

It was now eight-forty. In ten minutes court would begin. But still
others came, and came, and came. Women and men, boys and girls--even
children. And eighty per cent of them were <DW64>s, his people. Would
they never quit coming? What manner of business did these people conduct
that brought so many into court? And at last came the judge. He was, in
all appearance, a young man. Evidently he was not, because Sidney had
been told that he had been on that bench for twenty-five years.

Court was then opened. Inside a fencing, many white people sat in
chairs. Who they were, or what part of the proceeding they represented,
he could not tell. Prisoners were then being arraigned. From somewhere,
he did not see, but it was not from the detention room where the
"_great_" herd was, a young <DW64> of striking appearance was led
forward. He was tall and slender, and what caught the attention of
Sidney Wyeth was, that there was nothing criminal in his appearance. He
was about twenty-five years of age, and wore shackles about his ankles,
as well as upon his wrists. He made a pathetic picture. Sidney listened
carefully, as he stood before the judge, while talking in an undertone.
He could not hear what was said, but, presently, the prisoner was led
outside and away. He never learned what charge was made against this
young man, although he would have liked to know.

On a table that stood to one side of the bench, behind which the judge
and clerk sat, were several cases of liquor.

Evidence against some poor devil was strong, thought Wyeth.

The gavel fell.

The first prisoner brought forward and placed before the judge, was a
<DW64> of medium size and height, and about middle age. He did not
possess the look of a criminal either. In fact, not all of these people,
or any great part of them, appeared to be criminal, if Sidney Wyeth had
observed criminology correctly. Yet there was a charge, himself for
instance. This one was charged with having been drunk and making a big
noise.

He admitted the charge.

"Where did you get it," demanded Judge Loyal.

"On Dalton street."

"Who from?"

"A nigga."

"Who was he?"

"A nigga."

"I don't mean that. What was his name?"

"Dunno."

"You don't know, yet you purchased enough liquor of him to get drunk,
whoop it up and disturb the peace of the populace."

"Yassar."

"Did you ever see him before?"

"Nawsar."

"Was it corn whiskey or rye?"

"Niedda."

"Well--what was it?"

"Gin."

"Oh! Gin...."

"Sparrow Gin."

"Ten dollars and cost. Next!"

There was some delay before the next ones were brought forward. When
they came, there was some anxiety. They were white men from one of the
suburbs. As to how they happened to be in this court was a matter for
conjecture; but the charge was fighting.

A witness mounted the stand by request.

"Your name is?--"

"Bill Sykes."

"William Sykes. Very well, William Sykes, what do you know about this
affair? Tell it to the court."

"Yer' 'onah, Judge," began Sykes, drawing his jeans coat sleeve across
his mouth. "Yistidy I left home 'bout four a-clock 'n' come dawn to Abe
Thomas' store, as I usually do for some t'baccer."

"State what you know about this disturbance," cut in the recorder's
voice. "The court has nothing to do about your tobacco."

"Well, 's I started to say. I come down after some t'baccer.----"

"Witness ordered removed from the stand. Put up the next," commanded the
judge.

Bill Sykes was summarily removed, as he muttered: "This is shore an all
fired place to tell somethin'."

"Your name is?"

"Silas Harris."

"Silas Harris, state briefly to the court what you know about this
case."

"Well, sir, Judge, yer 'onah. It was sho'tly afta' fo' er-clock when I
came down to Abe Thomas' store, 's I always do to get a chaw t'baccer."

The judge looked disgusted. Silas resumed.

"'N' I wa'nt no morn' inside before Chris Tuttle says, says he t' me,
'ah Si', says he t' me, ah gimme a chaw t'baccer. Then I says to him,
says I t' him, 'ah Chris,' says I t' him, 'I ain' got no t'baccer, 'n' I
jes' come down t' see 'f I couldn't get a chaw of'n you!' says I t' him;
'but,' says I, says I t' him. 'I ain' got no t'baccer, Chris,' says I t'
him; 'but I God, I got some a 's good-a ole rosin as yer ever broke a
tooth on.'"

"Case Nolle-prossed."

Several <DW64>s were brought before the bar for various misdemeanors,
were fined and few dismissed, while a great many were bound over. The
next case to arouse any special attention, pertained to two white girls
who were brought forward with drooped heads, and made a picture that
attracted the attention of the crowd. The recorder frowned, as he
observed then questioningly.

"What's the charge?" he inquired of the officer, who presented himself
as prosecutor.

"Soliciting."

"All right, prefer it."

"Your honor, Judge. I found these young women hanging around Dewitt and
Carlton streets this morning about one o'clock, and advised them to
'beat' it. They disappeared for a spell, but at a quarter past two they
were out again, and I heard them and saw them accost several men who
happened to be coming from work. Presently a couple halted, and a few
minutes later the four disappeared within a rooming house. I had been
watching this house, and was positive it was crooked. I followed them a
little later, and when I was inside, I looked about for a clerk and
register that I did not find. Then I overheard talking in low tones in a
couple of the rooms. When I knocked on the door, all was quiet and the
doors were not opened. I then demanded the doors be opened in the name
of the law. A scrambling followed, I heard windows go up, and a little
later men hit the ground below. When I entered the rooms I found these
young women alone, and put them under arrest."

The court room was very silent. All eyes were upon the prisoners. The
fact that the girls were both beautiful seemed to provoke the judge, and
he was very cold of demeanor.

"What excuse have you to offer for such acts of indiscretion?" he
inquired presently, and eyed them severely.

They both burst out crying and clung to each other, which made a very
pathetic picture. "We wasn't doing anything, Mr. Judge. Not anything. We
lived there and the men were our husbands," said one, while the other
cried woefully. The recorder eyed them critically, before speaking in a
tone of extreme severity:

"Why, then, did they jump out the windows and run away.... Don't you
think that was very cowardly for _husbands_?"

"O-oh," they cried now like two poor souls about to enter purgatory.
They almost made others cry, too. But the judge was unbending. He looked
forbidding, and as cold as steel as he said:

"Young women like you two should exercise more discretion. If you _must_
conduct yourselves to the disgrace of the community in such manner, you
should keep off the streets with your _men_ at such ungodly hours. I am,
therefore, going to impose a fine of $10 and costs upon each of you for
delinquency. Next!"

"Boise Demon and Sidney Wyeth!" called the clerk with his eyes on the
docket.

The pair now stood facing the court.

"Your Honor," began the officer, who had Wyeth in charge the night
before, preferring the charge, "we found these fellows at two o'clock
this morning, going in the direction of Warren street. And since, as you
know, we have orders to intercept all people whose appearance is
suspicious, and since they failed to give an account of themselves that
was satisfactory, we considered it expedient to place them under
arrest."

The recorder nodded his acquiescence.

"Your name?" he inquired of the chauffeur.

"Boise Demon."

"And yours?" of Wyeth.

"What's your occupation, Demon?"

"I'm a chauffeur 'n' wo'ks fo' Mr. Baron Ciders. You know him. 'Es mah
boss. 'Es got a office in the--"

"Why weren't you at home in bed ten hours before you were charged with
being on the street?" he demanded.

Demon's jaw fell. Sidney looked discouraged.

It was a self-evident fact now that Judge Loyal's stomach was out of
order....

Demon's excuse was a variation that failed to impress the judge as being
the truth. Wyeth languidly resigned himself to the inevitable.

"What is your occupation, Wyeth?" he now turned his gaze upon Sidney.

He was told.

"What's your excuse for being upon the streets at two A.M.?"

"Nothing!" calmly.

The judge regarded him in silence, while the pair waited for the
sentence. Still the judge paused. As he did so, Wyeth heard him belch
slightly, as if decided. A moment later came the words:

"Fine you fellows $5 and costs. You must keep off the street loafing
about all night. Next!"

They were turned about automatically, and then Wyeth found himself
looking down on a low, deformed creature. He had been told about him
also, and why he was deformed.

It had come about during a terrific race riot of a few years before, and
the incident will ever live in the history of Attalia. It was then this
creature became crippled. He was, at the time, one of the strongest and
most capable officers on the force. But, upon being sent to make an
arrest, he happened onto a "bad" <DW64>, run amuck. He was, to say the
least, however, far more fortunate than a dozen others, for they had
been sent to their happy hunting ground before the riot was quelled.
Since then, he had acted as a sort of bailiff.

Peeping up at Wyeth he said: "You have up collateral, do you not?"

"Pay me out, pay me out!" cried Demon, at this point.

Wyeth nodded.

"Then you step aside, and follow the officer downstairs to the clerk's
office," he instructed.

"Pay me out, pay me out!" from Demon again.

Wyeth frowned and pinched him good. "I wish to confer in regard to this
fellow," said he to hunchy, as they were being waited for.

In the detention room, Demon secured a loan of fifty cents from another
miscreant, and a moment later, they stood before the clerk.

When the fines had been paid, the officer said: "Now Demon, you can go,
but I am ordered to hold Wyeth as a suspicious character."

"Well I'll be damned!" was all Wyeth said.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Take me at once before him," he cried, when they were again in the
court room, at the same time flashing his check book which he had placed
in his pocket for precautionary measures. Demon had followed them
gratefully back up the stairs, and now stood about muttering in a low
tone: "Ain' that Hell, _ain' that Hell_!" Wyeth motioned him aside,
resolutely.

Once more he stood before his Honor. Upon recognizing him, the recorder
looked at the officer with a question. His face had cleared of the frown
it wore some time before, and Wyeth concluded his stomach was better.

The officer preferred the charge, whereupon he looked at Wyeth keenly.
Wyeth made a motion. It was granted.

"I dislike, very much, your Honor, to be kept in this court room so
unceremoniously. I am no criminal, and my time is worth something. Now
if I may be permitted to put up more money, I have just paid a fine for
being out late for myself, as well as for another, and go my way until
this thing is done with, I'll appreciate it."

"Very well. Twenty-five dollars."

Wyeth paid it, and never returned to take it down.

When he got back to his room after it was all over, thirty-six dollars
to the bad, he opened the book of resolutions and recorded therein:

"Resolved! That to give heed to the 'Call of the Wild' in Attalia, is a
very expensive diversion, albeit a lesson; therefore, henceforth, twelve
o'clock will find me in the land of nod."




CHAPTER TWELVE

_A Jew_; _a Gentile_; _a Murder_--_and Some More_


"Look here, kid, they tell me they had you," jollied Spoon, when he saw
Wyeth that evening at Hatfield's ice cream parlor.

"You're breaking into print," laughed "Bubber" Hatfield, unfolding a
green sheet, _The Searchlight_, a sensational four-page afternoon
affair, which made a specialty of court news, and which most <DW52>
people read. They are fond of such news.

Frowning, while all those standing about laughed, he took the sheet and
read:

     <DW64> FROM THE NORTH WAS SURPRISED

In a few  paragraphs, it described his appearance before the
recorder. And in conclusion, it had these trite words, purported to have
been said by him: "Dey don' have dem kind of laws up norf."

       *       *       *       *       *

The following Saturday, he dropped into Tompkins' and was introduced to
a man who impressed him considerably. At the first glance, he could see
he was not a southerner. Before he made his acquaintance, he overheard
him discussing books with Tompkins, and when he heard him speaking of
the latest works of fiction, he opened his ears. To hear a <DW64> in
Attalia discussing novels, the late ones, was something new to him; in
fact, he had heard the most of those he met discuss but one, a salacious
one from the pen of a noted English author and playwright, and which
cannot be had at the libraries, but is, nevertheless, a masterpiece.

He grasped his hand cordially, and they at once entered into
conversation. His name was Edwards. "This gentleman," explained
Tompkins, "is the author of the book you and your friend were looking
at this afternoon." Edwards' eyebrows went up with considerable
pleasure, as he cried in a voice that was, to say the least, cordial:

"Indeed! I am honored to meet a real author." Sidney, however, was much
embarrassed. He disliked to be pointed out as an author among his
people. The most of those he met had impressed him with the feeling that
an author must be something extraordinary, and were usually disappointed
to find them only human beings like themselves. Edwards, however, was
not only an individual of good breeding, but one with perspective, and
quite capable of appreciating an effort, regardless of what the
attainment might be.

Sidney had met few of his race, but who seemed to feel that to write was
to be graduated from a school, with a name that was a fetish, and to be
likewise a professor in some college. In order to get material and color
for a work, they had not yet come to realize that it was best, and much
more original as well, to come in contact with the people and observe
their manner of living.

This may account, in a large degree, for the fact that so many whom he
met were impractical, even badly informed.

Edwards and he became agreeable acquaintances at once. "Come take dinner
with me this evening," Edwards invited, grasping Wyeth's arm, and
leading him into the restaurant next door, where he had already ordered
dinner. And such a meal! Wyeth had not realized that it was in the range
of possibilities for the little place to prepare such a one. Moreover,
to say that Edwards knew how to order would be putting it mildly. He
spared no cost obviously, since the meal came to $3.75. Wyeth felt
guilty, when he recalled that he ate three times a day at the same
place, the kind termed "half meals," and which came to fifteen cents
per.

Before they had sat long, Edwards' friend came to the table. And of all
the <DW64>s Sidney had met, this one was the most extraordinary. The son
of a Japanese mother and a <DW64> father, he had been educated abroad.
He spent his youth in Asia, lived a portion of his life in Japan, the
remainder in America and was a Buddhist. One <DW64> at least who didn't
spell "ligon."

History and science, from the beginning of time--before Adam whom he
scorned, astronomy, astrology, meteorology, the zodiac and the
constellations, in fact, he seemed to know everything. Sidney, anxious
always to learn what he did not know, could only sit with mouth wide
open, while the other declared Jesus of Nazareth, Noah, the flood, Adam
and Eve, and all the rest, the biggest liars the world ever knew.

When Sidney had occasion to speak of him to religious <DW64>s in
after-months, they would say: "Shucks! He couldn't a-convinced me
'gainst mah Jaysus." And he would then be sorry. Sidney "believed" as
much as any one else of moderate intelligence, and his acquaintance with
the unusual <DW64> had no effect whatever upon him as a believer; but he
knew that many of those who professed so much faith in "Jaysus" and
cried: "We is God fearin' fo'kes," were mere "feelers" who had no
thought of God whatever, in the sense he should be regarded and
respected. Indeed, they did not fear him. They feared but one thing,
these black people, and that was the white man, which belongs to another
chapter.

"I grant all you say to be quite possible, my dear sir," said he, when
the other paused in his serious discourse; "but, having been raised to
the Christian faith, I am, therefore, a hopeless believer. I do,
nevertheless, respect your point of view and your faith, and am glad
indeed to have met you," which ended it.

Edwards proved to be a graduate of Yale, and was well informed in every
way, as Sidney suspected.

He had always found it this way. The great fault he was finding daily
with those of his race, was that they did not read, did not observe, and
were not informed in the many things they could just as well have known.

As the days went by, Sidney's friendship with Edwards developed to the
point, where Edwards insisted upon paying half the rent for the
privilege of loafing in the office whenever he was at leisure. Sidney
did not inquire his business, or what he was engaged in; but his
curiosity was aroused nevertheless. His friend always had plenty of
money and spent it not foolishly, but freely. He never permitted Wyeth
to pay for anything, and he never ate a meal that came to less than two
dollars.

After a few days, another fellow joined him, who, while surrounded with
an air of mystery, did not happen to possess so much apparent education.
His name was Smyles, and he purported to be from Boston. At the same
time acknowledged Alabama to be his birth place. He still carried the
accent. He was dark of visage, had long legs, and wore trousers around
them, which appeared never to have been pressed. (Wyeth wondered why
some of the many pressing clubs did not kidnap him alive.) His head was
small and obviously hard, and he wore his top hair so closely cropped,
that no one could quite describe what kind it was.

Now Smyles was a sport, likewise a spender, and, moreover, with money
a-plenty to spend. And, as the days passed and Wyeth became better
acquainted with him, he learned that he was "mashed" on the girls to a
considerable degree. For instance: There was Lucy, who waited on them at
Miss Payne's cafe, who got "crazy" about him. He did about her, too, for
awhile, at least he pretended to. Then he became interested likewise in
another who had "better hair" than Lucy. Thereupon Lucy became "mad"
with jealousy, and threatened to do something "awful." She didn't, so we
leave her to her fate, and go on with Smyles who becomes, for the
present, the hero of this story.

"Smyles is a great fellow," remarked Sidney humorously to Edwards, one
day.

"Isn't he the limit?" said Edwards, with a touch of disgust.

"All the girls are liking him," resumed Sidney, enjoying the
conversation and discussion.

"Takes with all the kitchen mechanics, and anything else that wears a
skirt." Edwards had dignity, a great deal of it, Wyeth had come now to
know. He was plainly disgusted. Sidney went on.

"Has lots of money to spend, which makes it exceedingly convenient."

"He's the luckiest <DW53> in town," said Edwards thoughtfully.

"Indeed!"

"Shoots craps I think."

"And wins, evidently."

That Wyeth might not gather an adverse opinion of him--or rather, a
questionable one, Edwards had informed him that he was connected with a
northern philanthropic organization. Wyeth assumed that he was connected
with something of the kind, and that he was actually the recipient of
plenty of the dispensation. Every Monday he would go uptown, and return
with a roll. Most of this would be spent by the next Monday, which was
unusual.

He didn't gamble, but better light will be thrown on this later.

       *       *       *       *       *

About a year before, there had been committed in Attalia, a most
dastardly murder. A man, a Jew he was, had killed a little girl, a
gentile. This murder had occasioned more comment in those sections, than
had anything in the way of crime for a decade. We stated that the Jew
had killed the girl; it should have been said that he was _accused_ of
having killed her.

This was the state of affairs in regard to the murder at the time of our
story. Notwithstanding the fact that the Jew was accused of the murder,
the charge against him, and the public sentiment in particular, had
reached a very serious stage. It would have been very serious for any
one to be accused of such a crime in those parts, be she gentile,
Jewess, or anyone with a white face.

The body of this girl had been found in the basement of a factory, at
which she was employed at a very small wage, foully murdered. It was a
mystery at first, as to who was the murderer. A <DW64> had been arrested
and charged with the crime. It appeared that he was surely guilty; but
he wasn't--at least so it was decided shortly afterwards. It was
confidentially whispered about town to this day, and may be for all
time, that he was a lucky <DW64>, too. Because, with the way they treat
<DW64>s accused of doing much less serious things in a part of this
country, he was fortunate to have been accused in Attalia, where
protection is quite ample now, and not in some of the smaller
places--but we are digressing.

Evidently he was not felt to be guilty, and, moreover, since suspicion
was quickly diverted to the Jew. And yet he, the <DW64>, had been
discovered in the back yard of the factory, washing a bloody shirt. Such
incriminating evidence! For some reason, the people could not seem to
bring themselves to feel that the <DW64> had sense enough to kill the
girl, had he wished to. He was put through a severe examination of some
length, and finally confessed to having helped the real murderer
dispose, or try to dispose of the body after it was all over. It was, of
course, duly found and as duly buried. It was, thereafter, exhumed two
or three times, as evidence for the state. The Jew was discovered acting
very peculiarly a few days after the murder. So they had taken him into
custody to ascertain the cause of these actions. Accusations followed,
and he was in time brought before the high tribunal on a charge of
murder, convicted and sentenced to be hanged until dead, however long
that might be. The date of execution was set for a day, which happened
to be the same day a year later, than that upon which he was supposed to
have committed the deed.

Thus our story found it.

Sentencing a man to be hanged, and hanging him, however, are two very
different things. Yet the court persisted. It was determined to carry
out the decision of the jury of "twelve good men and true,"[A] this Jew,
scion of Jacob, of Israel, of Solomon, and Job, and others, had money at
his back, plenty of it, as we shall see presently; and they were
spending it lavishly, to save his neck, which was long. Perhaps that
explains what came to pass later.

    [A] Author's Note: The usual term applied to juries is, "Twelve good
    men and true."

The counsel for the defense hired a detective, _A Great Detective_. The
greatest detective in all the world. No one can deny this, since he said
so himself, at least this is how he was quoted by a paper, which, for
the purpose of this story, we shall call the "Big Noise." It was a
"noise," too. But, to get back to the detective, _The Great Detective_.

The leading papers corroborated the fact that he was the greatest in the
world, and so he shall be, in this story, as well. We are compelled to
quote the "Big Noise" again. It claimed, very urgently, that these
papers were paid to corroborate the detective. So be it.

The leading dailies and the greatest detective in the world got
together, with a view to obtaining a new trial for the Jew, after which
they hoped, of course, in some subtle manner, to extricate him from his
very embarrassing predicament.

The detective did the posing, and he was _some_ poser, and the papers
did the rest. The most obstinate proposition which they were up against,
was that the people believed the Jew to be guilty, but naturally read
the papers.

Now The Great Detective's picture had been seen by almost everybody who
read, or ever had read anything, so we must appreciate that he was a
familiar figure. But, in addition to what had occurred in regard to the
detective, more came to pass. Pages of the Sunday edition were devoted
to his cut, and other pages to his ability as a mystery solver. From the
way the papers wrote of him and reproduced his pose, he made Sherlock
Holmes, Raffles, Arsene Lupin, and even Nick Carter, look like thirty
cents with the three invisible.

He began, in opening the case, a series of angles. At first, of course,
he viewed it from an Attalia angle. Forthwith, after this, he went to
Chicago and viewed it from a windy angle. From St. Louis, he viewed it
from a "show me" angle; and while he was out that way, he chased across
to Kansas City, and saw it from that angle. And 'ere anyone was aware of
it, he had crossed the prairies to Denver, and viewed it from a mountain
angle. Behold then, upon picking up the morning paper, where the great
detective has reached New York, and was viewing the case from that
angle; but space will not permit of recording further these many angles
indulged in by _the greatest detective in the world_, for the defendant
in the case of the state versus the Jew.

All of these angles were followed with much color by the Attalia papers.
Moreover, papers elsewhere mysteriously took up the Jew's cause, by
following the angles of the detective. All except the "Big Noise." It
was busy viewing the detective from its angle. But it was not, of
course, endowed with such an abundance of readers, therefore, for the
time, it was not noticed much. It was later, however.

Now we come to the most extraordinary phase of the case, leaving the
prisoner in his cell for the present.

While all this angling was going on, witnesses who had testified for the
state, and whose testimony had resulted disasterously for the defendant,
began to come up mysteriously, with affidavits to the effect that what
they had sworn to was a falsehood, no, a lie! Many of them declared, in
these affidavits, that they were inspired to make these statements, that
they might face their God with the truth on their lips! The city became
chaotic. No one had even suspected that the city possessed such people.
This renouncing of testimony developed into an almost everyday affair.
"Everybody was doin' it". So it came to pass, in an incredibly short
time, that almost every one who had supplied damaging testimony against
the Jew, had renounced it.

The newspapers were the most interesting things to read in Attalia
during this spell. But more mysteries followed in due order. Every one
who produced, or had produced an affidavit, renouncing his or her
previous testimony, became automatically prosperous, no, we'll have to
change this statement. They did, and again they didn't. Alas! Some had
not received all they had been mysteriously promised, it seems. And
still others, unaccustomed to wealth, and feeling that money is
rightfully the medium for the good things they had never been able to
enjoy, including liquor, proceeded to fulfill this long felt desire. So,
many got drunk. And, trust John Barleycorn to do the rest, they imparted
secrets to their near friends. And then, of course, the friends imparted
such illuminating information to their friends, whereupon it was duly
imparted, in time, to the people through the paper.

Truth combined with a conscience, is always a danger, a menace to
falsity. And, of course, not every one possesses the strength to stand
on a falsehood, therefore--and in an incredibly short time--affidavits
began to be voluntarily offered by these many, to the effect that the
renunciation was a falsehood; the original testimony was true, quite
true. Accompanying many of these latter affidavits, was money.

We are reminded at this point of Judas and the thirty pieces of silver.

Conspicuous throughout the trial, and conducting the prosecution, was
one Doray, the solicitor, and he was there, very much so. Doray became
quite busy about this time. He had ambition, and was being mentioned for
the governorship. So the state, with its many poor people and slim
treasury, labored relentlessly in the prosecution, while the purse of
the Jew seemed to have no limit.

We return to _The Great Detective_, the greatest one in all the world.

Naturally, when he began, with the reputation he possessed, with the
notorious angling, with hundreds of newspapers all over the country
supporting him, and from the fact that he had uncovered many dark plots,
many people took notice. A half dozen extra editions was the average per
day, but some days they reached a dozen, all replete with subtle
mystery. The populace lived in an ecstacy of expectation. They were
hurdled between so many conflictions, until they knew not what they were
expecting. But, as the days went by and the mystery deepened, they
glared dry-eyed at the headlines of the many extras, expecting at last
that the greatest detective in the world would lead forth a diabolical
creature otherwise than the Jew, declaring, and subsequently proving him
to be the murderer.

He did, but he was not a man of mystery.

The announcement came in a blazing morning extra. Shops were forgotten,
people gathered upon the streets, blocked the corners, and everything
became a medley of excitement, as the news became general.

"The real murderer of a little innocent girl has been found!"

The population waited in abated breath. In the order in which he had
reported, or as had been reported by the papers, the detective set a day
upon which he would point, with the forefinger of his right hand,
straight to the murderer.

The day would never come, everybody seemed to feel. All the anxiety
attendant during the trial, before as well as after, for it must be
understood that the Jew had not been seen to kill the girl, was lived
over again during this spell. But at last the mighty day came. It was a
dark, drizzly, gloomy, forlorn day. Just the kind for what was now the
order in Attalia. On this day, the people now felt, the real murderer
would be placed in the lime light. The detective had declared, a few
days after he had been retained and put on the case, that the Jew was
innocent. Moreover, he declared that the prosecution, abetted by public
sentiment, had been affected in its decision, by the worst of all that
is inherent in our advanced society, race prejudice. He lied here--and
knew it. There is no prejudice in Attalia against any race but one, of
which we will pass. In addition, he flaunted in the face of the people,
the idea of perversion on the part of the Jew, of which the latter had
been accused. This accusation had been advanced as the only excuse for
the murder, of which he stood accused. But the real murderer was that
day announced as per reports.

"Jim Dawkins," cried the detective, "killed that girl! So now, free this
poor man thou hast persecuted these many months, and hang that murderer,
that beast, that pervert, for he is guilty!"

It was some time before the people recovered. Many of them had to pinch
themselves to be quite sure they were awake; for it was positively
incredible, after all this waiting, after all this angling, after all
the mystery, that this detective, the greatest one in all the world, by
his own admission and that of the press, should come right back to where
the case had begun.

Jim Dawkins was the <DW64> accused in the first instance.

And now we hear from the "Big Noise"--and it made some noise now.
Moreover, the public, with a relief from their long tension, began to
hear it. Its editor had once run for president, on a ticket we cannot
recall; moreover, he had the reputation of being opposed to every man
elected to anything in the state and the United States. This included
the democrats, of whom he, although a southerner, was not one.

The people now bought and read his paper with as much eagerness as they
had the others, in the beginning.

_The Great Detective_ was absent for a week following his sensational
discovery. (?) Then he returned, but alas! The day of angles had become
contagious, as we shall see presently.

Following his return, he happened to go to a nearby town to view the
case from that angle. This town happened to have been the home of the
murdered girl. So, when the great detective whirled into town, seated in
the tonneau of a huge automobile, they proceeded at once to entertain
him with true southern chivalry. (?)

A night extra told all about it, before he had returned to Attalia,
which was marvelous, when one considers this place was only twenty miles
away, and from reports, the car took its highest speed on the return, at
least it did in leaving the other town. But, lest we forget, the eggs
used at this entertainment could not all have been guaranteed as the
freshest. And with a few more words, we leave this story.

Shortly after this, Edwards and Smyles took their leave. Wyeth missed
them considerably, for he had grown very fond of them about the office.
When they were far, far away, the mystery connected with their
occupation was still unsolved. Then, one day while Sidney was folding up
an old newspaper, his eye happened to fall upon an article of two
paragraphs. It related to an incident that cleared up the whole thing,
and was to the effect that, while doing some sleuthing on the ground
floor, Smyles had, after refusing to explain the occasion of his
mysterious action, been arrested and locked up for an hour, at the end
of which the great detective had come forward and got him out.

"Well, I'll be blowed!" exclaimed Sidney, for it revealed that his two
friends were detectives, in the employ of the noted chief, and hired, no
doubt, to view the case from a "dark" angle. But the most extraordinary
part of it all, was that their names were not Smyles nor Edwards either,
but--I guess it doesn't matter.




CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"_Cause Nigga's 's Gittin' so Rich_"


In the building to the furthest end from where Wyeth's office was now
located, he observed a man one day. He was standing in front of the
bank. He was a white man, and was tall and slender, while his complexion
was sandy, his hair red and awry. His eyes were keen and piercing. "A
collector," thought Sidney, for there were so many about the building,
especially on Monday, and this was the day. He lurked in the entry on
Tuesday, when Wyeth passed that way. "Must be a contractor, the way he
is studying the inside of the bank," mumbled Wyeth, as he took the
elevator upward.

Wednesday came, gray and gloomy, and then it rained. It was four o'clock
and thirty minutes in the afternoon. Sidney passed through the entry to
the elevator on his way to the office of Dickson, and again the man
stood there. He had drawn no conclusion as to what was the occasion of
this presence, when from behind came a sound. He did something else
then. So did others about him.

"Throw up your hands, <DW65>, and get into that vault!" came a command.

It was from the man he had seen, and he was holding up the bank.

There was a silence, followed by a scuffle, then a lull, and a shot, and
still later,--for the shot went wild, landing in the ceiling where it
cracked the plastering, and made bits of it fall upon a score of
frightened <DW64>s--a thud. This had not gone amiss. There was a groan
and a dull sound, as some one sank to the floor. This part was witnessed
by Wyeth and others. It was the teller, and the son of the bank's
president. On the floor he lay bleeding, while the other was standing
frightened over him. Then he looked up. Open-mouthed like dumb
creatures, <DW64>s of all shades, including the green, stood about. And
then the man seemed to awaken to the emergency, and the danger.

Those <DW64>s would not be dumb for all time. He sensed this aright. And
then he took initiative, action. With a flash, he fired off the huge
gun, and with a leap and a bound, he came forth, while <DW64>s, black
and brown, yellow and green, and some white, fell back upon each other,
in a hurry. He had plenty of room, for a time, and made use of it. Out
into the hallway he must perforce come on his way to the street, and
freedom. He started, but one little moment he hesitated. Then, firing
again, he made his great rush. Through the hallway he dashed, and
entered the street through a side door that was open before him. A
moment later he was gone.

But so were the others.

They were led by a barber, who shaved black faces next door. He was a
mulatto with a flat nose, which made his appearance grotesque. With a
roar like that of a mad guerilla, he ran in hot pursuit. Away they went,
all of them now, including Wyeth.

The barber led the others by far, and in his hand, open for action, was
a razor. It seemed quite large to Wyeth as it glistened in the sunlight,
for the day had cleared. Perhaps he was seeing double, but he followed
while the "victim"--which we shall call the other--preceded the other
only slightly. The barber was breaking wind now, but gaining
nevertheless.

As Wyeth followed in that dark pursuit, a picture of the possible
consequences rose before him. This <DW64>, scion of two races, embittered
by an instance in our history that will never die, was wild. Blood, blue
blood, it was he thirsted. All the hatred of a thousand or more years
was now privileged, by the unwritten law, to give vent. This other has
attempted crime--the robbery of the people's where-with-all. To kill him
now was to get revenge, revenge upon those who have long since died--and
go scott free!

Perhaps the other appreciated this point of view.

He rushed pellmell, wildly through the street he came into, and turned
at the end up another that led, whither, he did not take time to think
or to consider. It seemed impossible for the man to escape dire
consequences, as Sidney Wyeth saw him now. He wished he could save him,
but he did not know how. Only a few steps ahead, the culprit led the
other. It was only a question of minutes--a minute. And then--horrors!

Up this new street, which happened to be Herald, they went, and closer
and closer the <DW64> came to the victim. He was breaking wind fearfully.
A block had been covered, when, ahead to the left stood a laundry with
doors wide open. Then, suddenly, when abreast of it, the victim plunged
into it, but so did the barber. Others followed, and workers fell back
amazed. To the rear the chase led, and then, lo! A brick wall faced the
victim, with a closed door only. This door could not be opened in time!
That appeared to settle it! The poor creature, frightened out of his
wits, fell to the floor, and then rose to one knee, with hands stretched
Heavenward. At last the end had come. The <DW64> now, the picture of
which our pen cannot describe, stood over him with razor upraised, and
eyes dancing with murder like huge coals of fire. "Don't cut me with
that razor, Mister," the victim whimpered. He pushed the other back
until he was against the door. For the first time in his life, Sidney
Wyeth was to see a man killed. One moment he looked. The sunlight played
through a transom window, falling strangely upon the blade of that
poised razor. He closed his eyes to shut out the fearful sight. The next
moment, he opened them as he heard a noise--a momentous instant. It was
the opening of the door, against which the victim had been pushed.

A moment later, the two went over the steps a-tumble, below; but the
razor had flown in a direction which they had not gone, and the tension
was relieved.

Soon, the victim emerged from the rear, and another chase began; but the
razored <DW64> was then far to the rear. He eluded his pursuers for a
moment during the mix-up. But suddenly in chorus they cried:

"Dere 'e goes, cetch 'im!"

The crowd had now grown to a mob, a sullen mob. They cried out in loud
tones for blood, blue blood; but the culprit was illusive. A street car
was passing, and into it he vaulted. "I've shot a <DW53>," he cried; "and
the <DW65>s are after me!" The car lunged forward as the mob reached the
door, whereupon they looked into the muzzle of a revolver held in the
hand of the conductor, as he commanded: "Stand back!" They did, but 'ere
he had gone far, there came to his ears from the crowd in the rear:

"'S robbed d' bank! 'Es robbed d' bank!"

The conductor immediately rang to stop. The victim rang to go forward.
The motorman obeyed the former, and the car slowed down. The victim
leaped off before it came to a halt, while at the rear, the mob, howling
like a bunch of savages, came on in mad fury.

Then he tore across the street to where an old man, with bent shoulders
and flowing white beard, sat half asleep in a buggy. He rushed to the
side of this, and permitted the old relic to smell the muzzle, as he
cried: "Unload!" The old man did, in a pile. The victim jumped in, and,
jerking the whip from the socket, brought the old horse, half asleep
also, to appreciate the state of affairs, by dealing him a blow that
made his tail stick out, as his legs speeded up the street. The crowd
roared diabolically, as they saw themselves being left to the rear; but
many on bicycles gave chase, and followed in close pursuit. He suddenly
drew his revolver, and let go the trigger, which made a flash, point
blank in their midst. That settled it. One fell to the street with a
sad, sickening cry, an arm limp at his side. The others gave up, turned
back, and quickly went the other way.

And then he disappeared.

Wyeth had returned to the scene of the opening--so had the rest. And the
crowd, combined with those who had gathered about the bank in the
meantime, filled Audubon Avenue the entire length of the building, a
block and a half on the side. All was uproar. Report followed report,
and each flashed through the crowd with much comment. He had, so the
news ran, been captured here, and everywhere. As it stood, he had not
been captured at all. Opinions, expressions, conclusions and rejections
were in order on all sides. One was to the effect that the big banks
uptown, conducted by "whi' fo'kes," had conspired the deal on account of
fear, "'cause nigga's 's a-gittin so rich 'n 'a-posit'n they money in
the cullud bank, ontell dem whi' fo'kes done 'trigued' and got dat low
down po' whi' man t' come and tri' t' frustrate us 'spectable cullud
fo'kes." And again there came to the ears of Sidney another report, and
this was one of graver concern.

"Robbers 'roun' a-stealin' d' money, go'n be fus' one dare in d' mawnin'
t' draw mine out!"

"Gwan, you fool nigga! Yu' ain' got nothin' in dere; 'n' yu' aut a-be
run outta town fo' talkin' lak dat!"

"Who dat obber dare, da' whi' man dressed so 'maculete wi' du soft hat?"

"Dat's Judson, d' 'porter on d' Jou'nal."

"Who dat udder one wi' a big nose 'n' dark 'plection!"

"Ain' you ebber been 'rested, nigga, 'n' up a-fo' Jedge Ly'l's, 'n' seen
'im a-hangin' 'roun'? Dat's Jempsy, d' putective."

"Lis'n! lis'n! Wha' dat! Dey has captured 'im!" Forthwith, to another
point they rushed, through a bunch collected around the barber, who was
then telling and retelling "'Ow close ah come t' gittin' 'im."

It was not a report this time, but the ambulance that was taking the
wounded teller to his home. The sight of him, with bandaged head as a
result of the attempt, served to renew the local race animosity.

"Ah sho 's go'n kill me a whi' man, so 'elp me Jaysus!" muttered a
dinge, as the carriage passed him by, while all about dark faces scowled
ominously.

Darkness was approaching, when an authentic report came at last, to the
ears of the crowd. The would-be robber had really been captured, and it
was the papers that gave forth the news.

His name, so he said, was Rhynata, a "vaudevillian," who hailed from
Denver. His capture had been thus:

When he had eluded the mob, by holding up the old man for his horse and
buggy, he followed that street for only a block, when he turned into
another. After the crowd was lost, he left the buggy, and walked
hurriedly up the street, turned a corner, and disappeared in the
basement of a house.

A plainclothes man, some while later, happened to pass that way in
trying to locate him, and followed him therein. When he got to the
second story, he came into a room where a woman was bathing, with a damp
towel, the head of a man in bed. He backed up, begging pardon, and
turned to leave. As he was passing a dresser, in a half open drawer, his
eye espied a revolver which his hand forthwith touched. The barrel was
warm, which told the rest of the story.

The settlement began the next day before Judge Loyal. His court room was
filled that day, but the greatest crowd was outside. The man was duly
identified as the culprit, by many, including the <DW64> with the razor,
was as duly bound over under a bond that no one cared to go, and a few
months later was brought to trial, convicted on two charges, and
subsequently sent to the chain gang for five years.

He should have much of that yet to serve, but he escaped--rather, he
walked away a few months later, and has not been intercepted at the time
of this writing--but this is not our story.




CHAPTER FOURTEEN

_And Then Came Slim_


Wintertime had flown, and over all the country, springtime had
blossomed. On one of those beautiful days, Slim came to the office of
Sidney Wyeth. His real name was V.R. Coleman, but, since he was so tall
and slender, to Wyeth, "Slim" seemed more appropriate, particularly when
the other did not object. This name, however, was applied sometime
later, and not on this particular day.

In Dixie there are many original characters, and this has made it the
source of humor. Undoubtedly, the <DW64> is the background of most of it,
and justly plays the part. Conspicuous among these original characters,
there is a particular class of men who will work from the time frost
falls in November, until the birds sing again in the last days of March.
When the smell of the honeysuckle, and the buzz of the bee become a part
of the day, they succumb to an inevitable longing to mingle, and become
"human" bees themselves. So, by the time May has arrived, and spring
chickens are large enough to fry, they go forth to the open, choosing
many varied ways--but always an easy one--of living until the leaves
begin to fall again.

Most of these men preach; for, since the beginning of the present order,
this has been the easiest way. No learning, of course, is required, so
long as they can spell "ligon" and preach "dry bones." Of course, if the
character is a good "feeler," with the magnetism, sufficient eloquence,
and a severe frown with it, he "gets by" much easier. Conditions, it
must be observed, are changing, even in Dixie. And, it is a fact that a
<DW64> preacher is beginning to pay for a meal occasionally.

But there were other ways of "gettin' by" as well, though not nearly so
prevalent as preaching. It was in quest of such a way, no doubt, that
Slim came to the office that day. Wyeth had become acquainted with him
while canvassing during the winter. He was, at that time, employed in a
grocery store as man of much work, a part of which consisted in driving
a little black mule about the streets, before a wagon in which he
delivered groceries.

They had become friends, and Slim was, in the opinion of Wyeth, an
original and sociable being also. He had informed Wyeth that music was
his line; singing schools he claimed to have conducted with great
success. So, during the summer and spring months, and some time into the
fall, he carried the title of professor. And it was as such, that Wyeth
welcomed him that day.

"Hello, Professor," he greeted him cordially, arising from his chair,
and grasping the other's hand, with much ostentation. "Professor" was
ushered into a seat, where he crossed his long legs with much dignity,
and gazed out the window for a moment, without saying other than the
return of the greeting.

As he sat by the window at that time, it was hard to even _fancy_ his
driving a mule in front of a load of groceries.

"Ah, my friend," he began, after he had swept the street below with a
careful gaze. "I am glad indeed to see you, and to find you occupying
such a delightful office." He scanned the office now, with an admiring
gaze, and went on: "You are sure fixed up in great style, just grand,
grand!"

"Oh, fair," Sidney admitted carelessly. "I am, however, glad you dropped
in, for I have been thinking about you for some time."

"I am honored," said the other, with an elevation of the eyebrows.

"Yes," resumed Sidney, with a serious and thoughtful expression, "it has
always been my opinion, that a man with the bearing and dignity you
obviously possess, could be much more in keeping with society, in a
position that would employ such a wealth of ability."

Slim did not make immediate answer to this, for the simple reason that
he was too flushed with vanity by the words, to do other than color to
the roots of his hair, and swallow.

"When I see a man like you carrying groceries up the back way of a
house, let me tell you, Professor," Wyeth said flatteringly, "I can't
help, in a measure, but feel despair for our race; but I was told by a
very responsible party, that your health required such an expedient."
Slim was then in the seventh Heaven of vanity, and looked away to hide
the tears of gratitude, he felt toward the man who had courage
sufficiently to admit what he himself felt. He admired Sidney Wyeth on
the spot.

Wyeth went on to say, "Now, for instance, I am in the book business,
which was never better. I have been anxious to enlist a good man's
service." As he said this, he looked in Slim's direction, and went on:
"But I did not wish to place this matter before you, until a time I felt
you would be in a position to consider it, possibly, favorably." He
paused long enough for his words to take effect, then continued, "So
Professor, I should like to have you consider this matter with a view to
taking it up."

"Well, sir, Mr. Wyeth," his honor began, "I confess that I have been
thinking of that myself." He was silent a minute, then proceeded again:
"My health is improved to such an extent, that I have, of course,
emancipated myself from a position of drudgery," and here he drew
himself up, with more ostentation than ever. "I shall be glad to tell
you, when it is more convenient, and we have the time, of my career as a
business man back where I came from. You can, I see, appreciate a man
that is possessed of ability," and he looked down at himself at this
point, before continuing. Directly he said: "I shall be glad to have you
explain this matter in regard to the book."

"Well," said Wyeth, slowly, "you should have some idea of the work,
since, with your years back in South Carolina, you were so successful;
but more so, since you have been over a territory I have worked."

"You certainly did fill Brookville with it, I must say," he admitted.

Wyeth smiled.

"Wish you hadn't worked that neighborhood, though," he said regretfully.

"Others are yet to be worked...."

"But I know everybody in that neighborhood."

"So do I--now."

Slim laughed a low, sorrowful laugh, and then was thoughtful. Then he
inquired: "What commission do you pay?"

"Forty per cent. Sixty cents the book."

"Do I have to pay for the books before I can have them to deliver?"

"I can, of course, trust you, Professor," Wyeth replied; "but the last
one I trusted, and who took eighteen copies out for the purpose of
delivery, has not shown up since."

"Indeed! Did he send the books back, or leave them somewhere?"

"He left them somewhere--several where's."

"Then you--ah--got them back?"

"Not yet."

"But you will?"

"Not likely. The people he left them with paid him $1.50 a copy
therefor, but I have charged that to the dust, and it has rained since.
You think over this proposition and come back tomorrow morning, and we
will get down to business. Should you decide to take it up, I shall be
glad to have you accompany me an afternoon, and hear me spiel it."

The following morning, full of book selling, Slim was on hand. Moreover,
he wished to begin that morning, but, as Sidney had made no arrangement
to that end, he was compelled to wait until the afternoon.

"I used to sell books in South Carolina," he said later, as he was
looking through the book.

"You have had some experience then," commented Wyeth.

"Wait until I commence. I'll show you a thing or two."

"Oh, I have a 'hunch' you'll 'clean up,'" said Wyeth with feigned
admiration.

"You sold a book to somebody I know on Fourteenth Street....," he
smiled.

"I thought you said I sold to many you know. I think I did," said Wyeth
innocently.

"I know this one a little _better_ than the rest," he admitted, now
showing his teeth, despite his effort to keep his upper lip stiff.

"Oh--ho, I see now," laughed Wyeth, good naturedly. After a pause he
said:

"Who is she? Come, 'fess up. At what number does she work?" But at this
Slim only laughed, and left his friend curious.

That afternoon, at two o'clock sharp, they sallied forth. Going to
Dalton street, they entered a cafe conducted by some people in the last
stage of hook-worm hustle.

"What'll you genamens have?" asked the waitress, who looked so tired and
sleepy.

Sidney scanned the greasy bill-of-fare, while Slim inquired: "What have
you?" As she drawled out the list, Sidney's ears came attentive to the
orders being given by others.

"Snout."

"Yo's, mistah!"

"Pig tail 'n' swee' taters."

"'N' yo's?"

"Stewed haid."

"Ah wan' some magetti," sang a small boy on a stool, with papers under
his arm.

"Gimme a yeah sanrich," from one with a very loud mouth.

Slim was very hard to please, as it now appeared, and was having some
difficulty in being satisfied.

"What is your specialty here?"

"Ah don' tole you du' ohdahs already. We has hog year, 'n' hog snoot,
'n' pig tail, 'n' collap greens, 'n'--"

"Give us a pair of feet," interposed Wyeth.

After the meal, they turned into a side street, crossed a back yard and
entered a house from the rear. Ahead, a flight of steps led up through
the basement, to the kitchen. Up this they went, and rapped on the
kitchen door. It was opened by a woman, presumably the cook. Wyeth
raised his hat, while Slim did likewise; whereupon she was very much
flattered. Said Wyeth: "Yes, ma'am! How-do-you-do. You will pardon our
interrupting you, but I suppose you are the lady employed herein," and
gazed into the kitchen before him.

"Yes," she replied embarrassed. "I work here."

"Very well, thank you." Then turning, he revealed his honor, bending
almost to the floor. "This is Professor Coleman!" Their prospective
customer was very profuse as she accepted the introduction, and then was
curious to know to whom she was indebted. Presently, unable to withstand
the wait, she inquired:

"Are you preachers?"

Wyeth looked at Slim who had his hat rolled up, and was showing his
teeth, then turned back to the lady and replied that they were not. He
then, without further ado, began his spiel, putting more dynamite into
it than usual, since he wished to make an impression upon Slim as well.

"I presume from your English, madam, that you are literarily inclined,
in fact, I feel certain you are." He bestowed upon her a hypnotic smile,
which he had cultivated for the purpose of impression, and then went on,
with eloquence:

"This is _The Tempest_, a tale of the great northwest, in which we
follow the fortunes of this young man," and he showed his picture on the
frontispiece. In this same picture, people seldom recognized himself as
the hero. Before long, he had her order, and a half dozen more, and Slim
was enthusiastic. When they were on the street for a time again, Slim
said, with much admiration:

"_Man_, but you are _a_ salesman! The spiel and look you turn on these
cooks and maids and house girls, and everybody, is guaranteed to make
the dead take notice. I can never get over laughing when I think of the
old lady back there, the one who said: 'I am not decided yet as to
whether I shall take it,' Then you said, and as serious as she was: 'Let
me decide for you in this,'" and then he gave up to laughter for some
minutes.

"Think you can learn it?" said Sidney.

"I want you to let me take this house," said Slim, halting before an
imposing structure.

"All right," said Wyeth. "I'll wait for you. Don't get struck on the
house girl and stay too long."

Slim disappeared. A moment later, a noise and the barking of a vicious
dog came to Wyeth's ears, accompanied immediately by a scuffling. A
moment later, Slim emerged from the back way in very much of a hurry,
with a bull dog in close pursuit. When he was safe outside once more, he
looked about him dubiously. "I don't like this neighborhood!" he said.

"You mean _that_ neighborhood," laughed Wyeth. "Did you make a sale?"

"Make Hell!" cried Slim, still breathing heavily from his nervousness.
"Talk about making a sale with a bull dog barking at my heels!" They
had, by then, reached a street that led across town, and they turned
into this. Wyeth took a few orders, but Slim decided to dispense with
further canvassing until the morrow. Several times, Wyeth tried to steer
him into a yard, but always he observed that his eye wandered around
toward the rear, and since nearly every one kept some kind of a dog--the
most of which would rather play than anything else--it was hard to
reconcile Slim.

At last he managed to get him through a gate that was close to the rear
door, and, while he explained his mission to the cook, Slim gave the
house girl a good talk, but she smiled on him and said: "I purchased one
from the other gentleman already."

This served to relieve him at least, and also encouraged him to a more
concentrated effort later.

When they returned to the office, Slim was again full of the book
business. The next day he went out for himself. After a few houses had
been made, however, he must have met another "sociable" dog, for,
shortly afterward, Wyeth saw him depart.

That afternoon, when they met again at the office, he was surprised to
learn that Slim had taken several names, and was in the highest of
spirits. Wyeth was too, but from other causes. He had taken about eight
orders, when he came into a back yard from an alley. Through a screen,
he caught a glimpse of a girl working in the kitchen. He approached the
house, and presently knocked on the door. She opened it with an inquiry.
He looked up into her face from where he stood on the ground. She looked
down into his, and blushed as she looked away. She made an impression,
and he was, for a moment, lost in a maze of delight. Soon he was
serious, however, and said he wished to speak with her on important
business. This was his style. He had observed that agents, the minute a
door was opened, began a spiel without getting the attention of the
prospective customer, so he made it a practice to get their attention
first, and leave them in doubt until he did, before disclosing his
business. If he failed to do this, he usually went his way, without
letting them know what he was selling. But, to get back to the girl.

She declared that she was very busy at the time, but would be glad if
he'd come back shortly. "In about an hour," she advised, as she watched
him walk toward the gate. He went his way with a subtle swimming of the
head.

He passed the next hour mechanically, made several sales, of which he
was hardly aware, and at the end of the hour, he returned. She was
waiting for him. He smothered his interest, and told her the story in
brief.

"Oh, that's fine!" she exclaimed, in an ecstasy of delight, when he had
finished. "When do you deliver?"

"Any time," he replied; "but I have several in this neighborhood for the
first. Could you take yours then?" As he finished, he looked at her
strangely. His thoughts went back to a place and a person he had almost
forgotten. (?)

She looked back at him, smiled, became uneasy, apparently she did not
know how to take him. Then she asked softly: "Why do you look at me like
that?" And then he came out of it, and replied candidly:

"I don't know," he started to say, "because you remind me of one I once
knew--and loved." The very thought of it, however, now pained him.
However, he dismissed these thoughts from his mind, and was normal
again.

She appeared as though she would like to say more on the subject, but
instead she added: "Have you been selling the book long?"

"Ever since publication," he admitted frankly.

The past lingered with him for some time, but it was temporarily
forgotten, when he had returned to the office, and noted Slim's success.

"You're there, Professor," he beamed, while the other assumed an air of
modesty.

A few days later--and he was apparently successful in the meantime--Slim
said to Wyeth: "I want you to go with me tomorrow. I've found a 'nest.'"

"A hornet nest?" asked Wyeth humorously. Slim looked uncomfortable. He
had a good memory.

"I'm serious. Out there around the colleges, man, are some of the finest
people you ever met, and rich! They own homes that will open your eyes."

"M-m. Are _these_ orders from them, or have they told you they would
'_think_' it over and you could drop in when you were in the
neighborhood again?" Slim's face fell for a moment, then he said, while
Wyeth thought he detected something.

"These orders are from _good_ people in and around that neighborhood."
He paused for a spell, and resumed, with a frown: "I have been thinking
very seriously, that you could do much better among the people in their
homes, and wouldn't need to go snoopin' around to the rear. I must
confess, Mr. Wyeth, that I have never been overly anxious to confine the
most of my work to domestics, as you seem to choose."

Again Sidney smiled, while Slim paused, disconcertedly.

"Now this list I have here, should convince you that you have simply
been over-looking the best people, for the kitchens. So, if you will go
along with me tomorrow, I will convince you to your own satisfaction."

Wyeth kept out of going with Slim in different ways, and 'ere long, the
day of Slim's first big delivery came.

Only about forty copies of the book were on hand in the office, but more
were at the freight house, with the bill-of-lading at the bank, and a
sight draft attached for the cost of the books. Sidney did not have the
amount available to pay it on that day. He reckoned, however, that the
number on hand should have been sufficient, but Slim didn't think so. He
was, moreover, insistent to a point that moved Sidney to make effort to
get the others out.

"I think we have books sufficient for today's delivery, Slim," he
argued. "And then Monday, we will get those at the freight office."

"It isn't business, it isn't business. I have taken these people's
orders for this book to be delivered today. There are fifty. I have
promised faithfully to bring the book this day, and when I was in
business, I did a thing when I promised. So I wish you would get the
books you have at the freight office down here at once, so that I can
fill every order and have no disappointments."

Wyeth looked distressed, but smiled all to himself. If he had learned
anything about selling books to <DW52> people, and had forty copies to
fill fifty orders, he could figure on having a goodly supply left. But
Slim must have fifty copies, or a book for each order.

The books he had at the freight office would cost a pretty sum to get,
and he did not have the amount convenient. He went to the bank and
borrowed it. Slim went with him to the freight office to be sure there
would be no failure; he must have fifty books.

When they arrived, Sidney was chagrined to find he had one dollar less
than it took to get them. It was only fifteen minutes before the office
would close, its being Saturday. Sidney was up against it. Slim was in a
stew. He deluged the other with, "Why didn't you get them yesterday?"
or, "You should have known this office closes at twelve o'clock today."
And in the end he gave up entirely. Wyeth employed his mind vigorously,
hoping to raise a dollar in fifteen minutes.

"There's no use," deplored Slim hopelessly. "I will lose $7 or $8
through your business carelessness." Just then, Sidney observed a
drayman coming toward the freight house. A thought struck him, and he
hailed the drayman. In a few words, he explained the circumstances,
while the other nodded acquiescence, pulled out a dollar, and a half
hour later, the books were unloaded at the office.

Slim breathed a sigh of intense relief. He was a business man, and told
Wyeth so.

Wyeth admitted it. "Glad to be affiliated with a gentleman of your
ability, and you know it, Professor."

"You will always find me right up to the point in business, Mr. Wyeth.
That's always been my reputation, and if you don't believe me, you can
go over in South Carolina, and find out from the people there yourself,"
he said, very serious of demeanor.

"That's all right, Professor. I'll take your word for it."

At one o'clock P.M. Slim was ready. He had a cab hired for the occasion,
and with fifty nice, clean copies, wrapped deftly at the publishing
house before shipment, he sallied forth.

Wyeth was nodding in the office, when, about ten o'clock that night, he
heard some one coming up the stair. From the way he halted at intervals,
and set something down, he judged he must be carrying a load.

He was.

Presently the person reached the landing, and, halting again, dropped
something heavy, then breathed long and deeply. A moment later, he heard
him pick up whatever it was, and come on toward his door. It was burst
open in a moment, and some one stumbled in behind a big package.

It was Slim. He dropped the package as soon as he was inside, with an
air of disgust, and fell, apparently exhausted, into a chair. He was
silent, while he got his breath. When this had become regular, he got up
and moved to the desk, where he figured for some time. Wyeth remained
silent, but quietly expectant. It came presently.

"Liars! Dirty liars! Stinking, low down, dirty lying niggas. Damn all of
them, damn them!"

Wyeth was still silent. Slim looked about himself wearily, and then did
some more figuring. Presently Wyeth heard him again.

"Lying nigga's, o'nry nigga's, dog-gone the bunch!"

Wyeth was impatient. He wanted to ask very innocently what the matter
was. Suddenly he saw Slim looking at him savagely. Wyeth made an effort
to look innocent, and not burst out laughing. After awhile he heard Slim
again.

"I'm done! I'm through selling books to <DW64>s _now_!" He then arose,
and strode back and forth across the room in a terrible temper.

Wyeth started to say: "You mean you are through getting orders." But he
waited.

"The first old nigga I come up to, looked up when he saw me, and then
just laffed, 'ke-ha!' Then, when I held the book toward him, he said:
'Yu' betta' gwan 'way frum heh wi' dat book!' And then just laffed
again, like it was something so funny. I got mad right then, but kept my
temper and said:

"'What's the matter with you! Didn't you order this book from me two
weeks ago?'" He paused at this stage, and looked at Wyeth again with a
savage glare. "But that old devil just kept on laffing like a vaudeville
show was before him, instead of me with the book he had ordered, and
which he told me to be sure, _sure_ to bring today. My nigga was rising
now; but just then I heard a little half-naked kid: 'Uh! Misteh! 'oo
might's well ferget it. 'Cause th' ole man there,' pointing to the old
sinner, 'orders sumpin' from eve' agent what comes 'long; puvidin' i'
do'n cos' nuthin' t' give th' odah.' And all the time that old <DW53> was
just laffing, 'ke-ha!'" He gave Wyeth another glare, and went on:

"The next one I come onto looked at the book as though it was something
dangerous. And then he squints up at me--I think he must have been
near-sighted--and says: 'Sah, I decided since I give you that odah, that
I wa'n't go'n' take th' book.' When he saw my eyes, he could see I was
mad enough to kill him on the spot. He saw danger in them too, because,
near-sighted or not, he began edging away, but again I held back my
nigga and says: 'What in Hell you mean by making up your mind like
that!'"

"He must have been drinking Sparrow Gin when he gave you that order,"
suggested Wyeth, with a twinkle of the eye.

"What?" inquired Slim, listening.

"I'd advise you to take along a little corn liquor the next time you go
to deliver; pour a little juice into them; get them drunk. They'll take
their books then."

Slim kicked a piece of paper on the floor before him viciously, and
said: "I'll take along a club and knock their lying heads off their
shoulders, 's what I'll do."

"Did you have enough books?" inquired Wyeth, ignoring the big package
Slim had brought in.

"You seem possessed with no sympathy, Mr. Wyeth," he complained, and
then grew thoughtful. Presently, seeming anxious to tell more of his
experiences, he went on. "One woman I had an order from, when I knocked
on the door, she opened it and said: 'I'm so sorry, but my husband won't
let me take that book,' and then she handed me a nickel, saying, 'so I'm
going to give you this for your trouble.' I could not, of course, be
ugly, as much as I felt like it, but I had to say something. So I
inquired, as kind as I could under the circumstances, 'What am I to do
with this?' She looked distressed at first, then brightened with a
thought, and replied, as though she were doing something wonderful:
'Why, you can use it for car fare. You won't have to walk back.'"




CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"_Shoo Fly_"


Wyeth had not been able, as yet, to awaken much literary interest among
his people in the south, but he had a great many agents working all over
the north. Of those he had secured in Dixie, he was deluged with
complaints to the effect that so many people failed to take the books
they ordered; so, he began shipping only fifteen when an agent sent in
an order for thirty books. This worked better, and the office was not
the recipient of so many complaints thereafter.

As for Slim, he went with the cook on Fourteenth Street, ate two meals
there out of every three, and canvassed whenever he felt so disposed. He
had some cards made, only one hundred. Four hundred more would have cost
but little additional. He handed them about, advertising that he would
conduct a singing class at his residence, beginning any time any one
wished lessons. He was successful in delivering more books, when he
returned to work among the domestics, but not so many that, at any time
afterwards, was Wyeth put to such strenuous efforts to secure books, in
order that he might have one for every customer.

When the colleges had closed for vacation, Wyeth hired the matron to
work in the office, and, upon finding her very interesting, Slim became
more in evidence about the office.

Just about this time, the auditorium was completed which was begun two
years before, by the lodge of which B.J. Dickson was the secretary. It
was decided to ask the head of Tuscola, the great <DW64> educator, to
speak at the dedication services. He was secured, and this fact caused
thousands to gather for the occasion. It gave Wyeth an opportunity to
hear the noted <DW64> for the second time in his life, the first being
twelve years before, in Chicago.

The day came at last. It rained in the forenoon, but was calm and clear
in the afternoon. The night was fit, and the mammoth place was filled to
overflowing, while thousands, unable to gain admittance, loafed outside,
where they were entertained by a band, that served to keep them quiet.
For Dickson, fully acquainted with his own race, was aware that they
would disturb the speaker, if some diversion was not resorted to, for
their amusement.

The speaker looked very tired and worn, and Wyeth felt a pang at his
heart when he saw him. His years of service were beginning to tell upon
him. He had returned recently from the west, where he had gone for the
purpose of raising $150,000 for his school, and had, as he did in
everything else, succeeded beyond requirements. He was not only an
educator, but a practical business man as well. To one who sat near him,
Sidney Wyeth said that evening: "And no one of these odd ten millions is
competent, in the public's favor, to take that old man's place, when
eventually he will be called." The other sighed as he made reply: "There
are many, though, who feel that they and not he should be in the
confidence of the world, and have wasted themselves in uselessness and
inactivity, as a result of their imagination." The speaker's eyes, at
the distance Wyeth saw them, seemed dazed, and his voice was strained;
but he did not soon forget the words he spoke to those black people, in
dedication of an instant that had been inspired by his work. B.J.
Dickson came in for a worthy praise, which Wyeth knew he justly
deserved.

It was some two weeks afterwards, that a convention was held, which
brought together a class of men, who were largely leaders of this race.
They were the doctors, the dentists, the pharmacists, and all men
connected with physical and surgical dispensation; and they came from
two adjoining states also. Sidney Wyeth had, therefore, opportunity to
see his own people from a professional point of view, and was cheered to
observe the most refined set of men of his own kin, that he had ever
seen. Dickson thought so too, and wrote as much in _The Independent_,
the following week; but he wrote of something else connected with the
same men, and served to show Sidney Wyeth something he did not know,
could not have believed; but Dickson made it plain to the thousands of
readers of _The Independent_, of which Wyeth was a constant reader.

In the building, conspicuously located on the best corner, was a drug
store, acknowledged to be the finest drug store operated by black people
in the south. The new building included a street front on another side
street, the drug store and many other trades on the ground space, with a
row of offices to the number of about twenty-five, especially fitted for
physicians and dentists. All these encircled the auditorium, and were
regarded as the most artistic arrangement in the building. Moreover,
this was advantageous in many ways. At all events, it happened to be
convenient for the men gathered on the occasion referred to. In addition
to being used as a gathering place, this auditorium could be
conveniently cleared for the purpose of dancing, and was employed for
that purpose, on the night the convention closed. And this was what B.J.
Dickson wrote in the following week's issue of _The Independent_:

     "COLOR LINE DRAWN AT THE PHYSICIAN'S BALL

     "Last week there was held in Attalia, the annual convention of the
     Tri-State Medical Association, as was stated in last week's issue
     of _The Independent_. Never before has this city been graced by a
     more refined, and obviously intelligent class of <DW52> men. From
     all over the state, and the two states adjoining, which are members
     of the league, came physicians, surgeons, dentists and pharmacists,
     representing the highest body of men in the <DW64> race. They were
     entertained in sumptuous splendor, by the same profession of men in
     Attalia. This was facilitated by the fact, that the new buildings
     and the auditorium were employed for the occasion, and the members
     were not compelled, as they had been in the past, to house their
     social function in some old deserted hall, in a deserted part of
     the city.

     "It is, therefore, with deep regret, that we are called, by the
     bond of common sense and race appreciation, to mention a narrowness
     that pervaded this great occasion.

     "It may be recalled, when the leader of our race spoke at the
     dedication, a few weeks past, that, on the committee were numerous
     doctors, some of them successful leaders, and some who were not.
     Yet it is and always has been the custom of our people, to honor
     these men in the best way we can, for we have long since come to
     appreciate that they are a part, and an important part of this new
     dispensation. Surely it is in order and keeping with the uplift of
     black people, to help men whose training has fitted them for such
     an important place. That, perhaps, is why their conduct of last
     week has constrained us to make this mention.

     "They drew the color line. Plainly, and irrevocably. At the ball,
     at the stag party, and during the entire proceedings of the
     convention. Not a black person save one--the wife of one of the
     local physicians who married her for money--was invited. Such an
     example shocks us, so to speak. It seems incredible, in view of the
     condition of our race, both morally and mentally. And still, though
     we have forced our pen to ignore it, it has been, and is shown,
     right along. At the ball, not only was the color line drawn, but a
     white orchestra gave the music. Imagine such a spectacle! In the
     bourbon and always democratic south, our people hiring a white
     orchestra, at a fabulous sum; for, since long before we were free,
     <DW64>s have made music for the richest white people to dance by.

     "Surely the old order changeth!

     "<DW64> doctors live by the patronage of their race, positively; the
     white people would not hire one to doctor a dog. In the dark ages,
     when it was felt that a <DW64> was incompetent for anything else but
     to act as a slave, some excuse could be given for <DW64>s to hire
     white doctors. But today, all race loving people give their
     practice to their own, except those who are nearly white, and wish
     they were. But more than half of those at the ball have white
     doctors, and wouldn't hire one of those with whom they danced. But
     <DW64> doctors expect <DW64> practice, and deplore it terribly when
     <DW64>s hire white physicians! On the heels of this, too, they say
     "Shoo fly!" to <DW64> musicians who are competent to play for the
     whites, but not for <DW64> doctors. Like everything else that
     relates to our people--except their money--our professionals
     wrinkle their faces, and conclude without trial, that no <DW64>
     orchestra is properly trained to play for their balls; and <DW64>s
     who conduct newspapers do not know enough to write a part of what
     they read; books of <DW64> authors are not read by them, because
     they don't know enough--in the minds of these hypocrites--and so it
     goes in everything. They could not have held their convention in
     the white auditorium, even if permitted to, because that would have
     cost more than they were able to pay.

     "Now, if <DW64> orchestras are incompetent as musicians and are,
     therefore, relegated to the rear, and a white orchestra is hired to
     give music, and if <DW64>s as authors and editors, do not know
     enough to write a part of what they should read, and, moreover, if
     <DW64>s who happen not to be the scion of some white man, and,
     therefore, possessed of a yellow face, are not good enough to
     mingle and associate with them, then the <DW64> doctors are not fit
     to 'kill' us. Why not let the white man do this? Admitting that the
     white orchestra and the white editor and author have more
     advantages than do the <DW64>s in the same vocation, is it not
     credible that the same applies in regard to the doctors? Is it not
     to be appreciated that, while the white man, often and mostly the
     son of a rich parent, is taking a post-graduate course abroad, the
     poor <DW64> boy is slinging hash in a cheap hotel--most of the best
     ones hire white help now--to get the wherewith to go back and
     finish school?

     "Oh, we have thought this brave in our people these many years, and
     our very hearts and souls and sympathies have been with them in
     this great effort!

     "And we are repaid in these terms!

     "The black-skinned people who pay them their hard-earned money,
     that we might have a representative set of men as our leaders, have
     been scorned for their pains!

     "They, the doctors, set up what they silently look upon as society,
     "blue-veined people." How they must deplore that they are ,
     in a literal sense! "We are the best people!" they cry. The
     insurance companies, started and led to their present position of
     success by black men, use every means, subtle and otherwise, to
     throw business to these men. Likewise do the lodges. And with all
     that, not more than a dozen or so are making a decent living in
     Attalia. We are still very poor people. Yet when society comes
     before us, the black ones are not good enough to play for. We must
     close. It makes us sick!"




CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"_Why Do You Look At Me So Strangely?_"


The first books came, and among the many orders to be delivered, was one
for the girl who had reminded Wyeth of a person who now belonged to a
closed chapter of his life. He carried her the book.

"My madam has not paid me yet," she said regretfully, "but if you can
bring it back next week, I will be delighted to take it."

He did so, and she was as good as her word. "I hope I shall enjoy it,"
she said, as she paid him.

"I hope so too," said he. "Practically all I have sold to told me that
they liked it," he added. He looked at her, and while he was not aware
of it, in that moment he had an insane desire. The past and the one
connected with it, rose for one brief second before him, as he had known
it. She noted the strange look, and was embarrassed. Presently she
recovered from the effect it had, and said:

"Why do you look at me so strangely?"

"I don't know," he replied, non-committally.

She did not understand it, but blushed as she said: "You are indeed a
strange person.... I have thought about it more than once, since you
were here and took my order. Do you look at all your lady customers like
that?" She looked full into his eyes as she said this, but what she saw
there made her hastily retract.

"I was only joking. You are singular--strange, and--I do not know what
to think of you; but you are more than an ordinary agent for the book.
I'm sure of that." He remained silent. She looked keenly at the picture,
and then at him. A small mustache and a different style in the trimming
of his hair; but she inquired suddenly:

"Did you write this book? The picture resembles you." He looked innocent
and said:

"Do you think so?"

"Indeed I do," she insisted. '"Then you wrote it?"

"Oh no, indeed," he lied, earnestly.

She appeared dubious, and then said, thoughtfully: "Maybe you have some
private reasons for not wishing to be identified as the author, but I
feel positive that you are." She smiled appreciatively for a moment, as
she surveyed him carefully. "I think you must be smart and know a great
deal, to be able to write such a big book. I shall always recall with
pleasure, that I had the honor--though he did not acknowledge the
fact--of meeting a real author." She extended her hand, which he took,
as she said: "I am glad to have met you; and if you write another book,
please try to remember that I would like to have a copy of it. Goodbye."

Slim was lolling in the office when Sidney returned. Mrs. Lautier, the
clerk and ex-matron, found him very much to her humor, as did Sidney,
and he was appreciated in the capacity of mirth.

"Well," he said cheerfully, "I'm doing a little better now. Delivered
six copies today," and almost took Wyeth's breath away by handing him
$5.40.

"Say," he cried suddenly, when they had settled up. "I happened upon
something today in which I am deeply interested, and have been very
anxious to tell you." He lowered his voice to a whisper, while Sidney
looked surprised, but listened.

"It's a grocery stock that can be bought at a bargain."

"Well?..."

"A chance for you and me to get in right...."

"What do you mean?"

"We'll buy it?"

"But I am not in the grocery business. Books!"

"But you are out to make money?"

"I don't gather what you want or expect me to do."

"Well, I'll explain." He seated himself comfortably, and then went on in
that low tone of voice. "A fellow is in partnership with another who is
up against it for cash, and offers to sell his share, which is a half
interest, at a bargain." He paused again briefly, and then went on. "I,
as you know, having recently quit working in a grocery, naturally know
all about the conducting of one."

Wyeth nodded understandingly, and remained silent and patient.

"I see in this thing the chance I have been waiting for, and am ready to
consider it favorably. Big money is to be made, can be made out of it
for me, and I can, at the same time and in the same enterprise, become a
man of affairs."

"M-m," breathed his listener, "How do you propose to conduct it?"

"Well," artfully, "first, it should, of course, be incorporated. And
then a competent manager and treasurer are necessary."

"M-m. Do you propose to increase the present stock?"

"Not at once. I think the stock as it stands at the present, is quite
sufficient to care for the trade which, I have observed, is good."

"M-m."

"I thought as a favor, I would tell you and give you a chance. You could
put in an equal share along with myself, which would give you a fourth
interest, and you could become vice president."

"I suppose you will, of course, quit selling books, should you take over
the affairs of this--er--corporation?" said Wyeth, with well feigned
regret.

"Well," said the other, meditatively; "I have not fully decided as yet.
It depends largely upon whether you can be brought to see the great
advantage you would gain by coming in."

"But what little I represent--which surely isn't much--is tied up in the
book business. How much will this thing cost?" Slim winked wisely, held
his head low, and whispered it into his ear.

"Twenty-five dollars."

"I'll think it over," said Wyeth, feigning seriousness.

The next day, Slim had forgotten all about the grocery business, but
tore into the office in an ecstasy of delight and secrecy. He had
discovered something else. It was a soda fountain, rather, it was some
old fixtures. When the drug store below had been moved into the new
building, they had stored their old fixtures in an empty store room
near. The same had been vacant for ten years, but Slim happened by, and
saw a grand opportunity at a glance.

He told this to Sidney, with much feeling. "It's the greatest
proposition of a decade! We can buy those fixtures for a song, rent the
place they are in cheap, move the office up there, and conduct a book
store and soda fountain in connection." His eyes opened wide, as he
revealed the magnitude of the proposition.

"Can't do it, Slim. It's too big. Guess I'll have to stick to books."
The other took on a disappointed expression.

"It's the chance of a life time," he said, with plain regret, and
continued to look the part. "I thought you were down here to make money,
and when I go out and find something that's an Eldorado, I cannot enlist
you. You are making a serious mistake, and will regret it some day."

That was all for that day, but the next day he was mysterious. He
didn't, however, "put" Wyeth next to this, but, on the quiet, he met
others on the street below, where, at some length, they discussed a
restaurant and hotel business, to be duly incorporated, and an office
and a management to be appointed. Mrs. Lautier made known to Wyeth the
inner secrets of this the next day.

"I'm certainly disappointed in you, Mr. Wyeth," said Slim, one day soon
after, very grievously.

"How's that, Professor?" inquired the other, with assumed concern.

"You never seem to consider seriously, the many good propositions I have
discovered, and have offered to you for investment."

"Do you yourself?"

"I could make a bunch of money if you would come in," he repeated
artfully, but ignored the direct question.

The next day, he was more artful than ever. He was, indeed, full of
another proposition. He smiled as he told his friend.

"I'm going to marry that woman out there," he said, low and
confidentially.

"On Fourteenth?" the other echoed cheerfully, returning a sincere smile.
"That's where you're a man. That'll sure be dandy. When?"

"Oh, not yet a-while, not until I get a divorce from the last one."

"Oh--then. M-m. So you've been married already, rather, you are."

"I have never told you much of my past life, except from a business
point, have I?" He smiled naively, and, taking a chair, he became
seated, placed his feet in the window, and proceeded to narrate a part
of his past.

"I've been married twice," he began.

"Oh, twice...."

"Yes. My first wife died. We lived on a farm in South Carolina, and were
as happy a couple as you ever knew. I owned a two-horse farm, and raised
plenty of cotton and corn and some hogs, while my wife raised plenty of
chickens and garden truck. We had two boys, whom I kept in school in
town during the winter. And then, after my crops were laid by, my wife
looked after the place, while I went out and sold song books and
pictures, and preached."

"Then you're a preacher, too," said Wyeth, when he paused a moment. "I
didn't think you were a preacher," he continued, looking him over.

"Well, not altogether. I preach sometimes, but not much since I married
the last woman."

"How's that?"

"To tell you the truth, that woman almost made me lose my religion, she
was such a devil."

Wyeth was silent, but attentive. Slim went on.

"Didn't you meet my brother? He was here not long ago. I had him up here
in the office. You might have seen him about the building here. You
could not have mistaken him for any one else, if you had seen him."

"Does he look like you?"

"Lord, no!" Slim exclaimed, with a laugh. "Not at all. And you would not
have believed it; but ten years ago he was as spare as I am. Then he
went to preaching, and since then he has become the fattest thing you
ever saw."

Wyeth smiled naively. Coleman proceeded with his interrupted narrative.

"Well, getting back to that _woman_; I married her four months after my
first wife died, and took her to live in the same house. We got along
less than three weeks in peace. Then things began to warm up. She was a
devil, if there ever was one on top of the earth, but I persisted
faithfully." His appearance was now very pious. "The first big row we
had was on Sunday. It was in the morning, and I, with my Bible under my
arm, was starting to church. She didn't want to go that day, and had
tried to keep me from going; but I always led the prayer, and preached
during the pastor's absence, so, as I was saying, I was starting for
church. When I passed a room in which she had enclosed herself to pout,
she suddenly opened it, and hit me in the side with a big rock. If it
had not struck the Bible, I think I would have been hurt seriously; but
it hit the book and my arm, and rolled upon the floor.

"Well, after that, the devil was to pay. She kept me in Hell and hot
water, and we got along like a cat and a dog. Each day, from sunrise
until long after it had set, I asked Jesus whether I could hold out to
the end. I had declared to his Holy Name, that I had taken that woman to
live with for better or for worse; but surely I was getting the worst of
it. And then, at last, it came to the point when it was beyond human
endurance. She took to shooting at me for the fun of it."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Wyeth. "You don't mean to say that she shot at
you!"

"No," he replied calmly, "she didn't _shoot_ at me; she _shot_ at me,
and not once, but any old time she felt like it, which was more than
once, by many, many times," he soliloquized, grimly.

"Good night!"

"Yes; she shot at me as though it were no more than throwing hot water
on a bunch of rats."

"Save me Jesus!"

"Then one day I shot at her."

"Hush!"

"Yes, I shot at her and tried to hit, but I am thankful the good Lord
was with us both against ourselves, I missed. I think I was too much
excited."

"Deliver me!"

"It was a few days after we had had a big row for sure, and she had
declared she would kill me."

Wyeth looked helpless. Slim smiled grimly, and went on:

"It was about my first wife. I had an enlarged picture of her that hung
on the wall, and this devil had been eyeing it with apparent disfavor.
That day, she stood directly under it, looking up at it with a double ax
concealed in her skirt. I knew she had the ax, and watched her. I swore
to myself that the day of Pentecost had come. If she touched my dead
wife's picture, I would kill her on the spot."

"Be merciful, Coleman!"

"Yes, yes," he said, in a terrible voice. "I would have done so too, you
can bet your last dollar on that.

"She kept looking up at it, and muttering in a low tone. I heard her
say: 'I've a notion to tear you to pieces!' I decided that I would tell
her, and in so doing give her one chance, a last chance to continue life
in this world. So I said: 'Woman, woman, if you touch that picture, get
ready to die, for, just as sure as I'm a nigga, I'm going to put your
lights out!' Those were terrible days, terrible days," he sighed
wearily, and for the first time since Wyeth had known him, he felt a
pang of sorrow for him. He was serious. Presently he resumed:

"She went out without a word--she was always dangerous when she said
nothing--and returned presently, with a brand new, great big pistol,
and, without a word she began shooting. She and I then had it. She with
the gun and me a-running, while she pulled the trigger, and run me all
over that farm.

"After this, I armed myself and got ready. I took the children to my
mother, sold off the stock and everything else but the furniture. I
asked the Lord to spare my life, and not let one of those bullets from
that gun she always carried, push daylight through me, and I would try
to fulfill my promise, God's will be done. I offered her half if she
wanted to quit, but she didn't. No, after she had shot at me and scared
me out of my wits, she was ready for me to take her in my arms.

"For awhile, things became a little better, but suddenly she went off
half-cock, and pulled the trigger of that big gun on me again. Then she
got her surprise. I had a gun too. She had a Smith and Wesson, and I had
a left-hand Wheeler. 'Ki-doi! Ki-doi!' my old gun barked, and the
magazine would whirl around cleverly, automatically. She stood frozen to
the spot for a minute, then, taking fright, she dropped hers, and flew
with me right after her, shooting that old cannon at every leap. Across
the country we went. I loaded and emptied it a half dozen times, and
shot away twenty-five shells. I shot at everything in sight!

"After that, I finished selling out and went to Arkansas, where I was
getting along all right, until I was fool enough to let her come to me.
Again we got along very well for a time, but she got to cocking her
pistol where and when I could hear it, so I set out again. Just lately
she came to Brookville, and went to raising cain, trying to force me to
take care of her. So, as you see, she made me quit there, and thus you
see me."

For a long time, both were silent. The noise outside came to their ears,
clearly and distinctly, while the ticking of the clock seemed louder
than ever before. Presently, Sidney, to relieve his own emotions, arose
from his chair and went outside.

Slim spoke of marrying the woman on Fourteenth street, every day for the
next week. One morning he came in, his face beaming all over with
smiles, and pleasant anticipation was plainly evident.

"Well," he began, "we talked it over last night, and she thinks it will
be all right. So I want you to write a letter to my brother who owes me
some money, and tell him I must have it, since I am engaged to be
married, and must have it to use in paying for my divorce."

Wyeth did so.

"That's fine," he cried gratefully, when it was handed to him. "You
certainly can say a whole lot in a few words."

"When I get married to this woman, I think I will have a mate like my
first one," said Coleman. Wyeth tendered his sympathy.

"Well," he said, as one put to a task he would like to avoid, "I must
get around, and see a lawyer about a divorce." He was thoughtful for a
moment, and then resumed: "Wonder what they charge for divorces in this
town?"

"Depends upon the attorney and the case," said Wyeth. "I think
twenty-five dollars is the usual fee, or amount of cost." Slim hesitated
thoughtfully, and then said:

"I'll go down here and see this nigga lawyer. He ought to be willing to
get one cheaper than a white lawyer. Don't you think so?"

"Possibly."

He went out. About a half hour later he returned, looking downcast and
sullen. He was silent for some minutes, and then said, as if addressing
himself: "That nigga's crazy."

"Who's crazy?" Sidney inquired, looking up.

"That nigga lawyer."

"How do you figure that out?"

"I went in there, and spoke to him in regard to the divorce, and what do
you think he wants for getting me one?"

"I haven't the faintest idea."

"Fifty dollars! What do you think of that for highway robbery?"

"Perhaps your case is a bit more complicated than the average, and,
therefore, justifies a larger fee," Wyeth suggested.

"Aw, that what he said, too, but he's a blood sucker. He can't gouge
me."

"Oh, well," said Wyeth in an off-hand manner, "you won't quibble on a
matter of twenty-five dollars additional, when you are getting a good
wife. Consider that as a treasure."

"Well, I don't care. If she's willing to pay half, I'll give the sucker
fifty." Wyeth bestowed a terrible look upon him, whereupon Slim
withered:

"Well, she'd be getting as much as I. So what's the difference?" he
tried to argue. Wyeth continued to glare at him.

"The idea!" he declared presently, with undisguised contempt. "To wish a
woman to pay for your release from another! I'm too shocked to say how
ashamed I am of you!"

Slim laughed sheepishly.

"Twenty-five dollars for a pair of legs like you! If I were a woman, I
wouldn't give twenty-five cents for you as you sit there now," Wyeth
added, with subdued mirth.

The next day, his atmosphere had changed perceptibly. He was in an ugly
humor. Presently he gave words to its cause.

"That nigga woman's fooling me, and I know it."

"What's the stew today?"

"She's got another nigga a-hangin' around her. I've been suspicioning it
for some time."

"You're the limit."

"I gave her a ballin' out last night about it too."

Mrs. Lautier came in at this moment, and that was the end of it for
awhile.




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"_I'll Never be Anything But a Vagabond_"


Sidney Wyeth had about filled Attalia with _The Tempest_ by this time,
and had anticipated going to another city almost as large, about one
hundred seventy miles west. He made known the fact to Slim, and
suggested that he might leave him in charge of the office, if he did so.
As a precaution, or rather, to get some idea of his ability to dictate
letters, he had him compose a few. When the typist handed them to him to
be read, and he had done so, he decided to allow him to continue his
canvass, and to hire some one more proficient.

"Say," he cried the next day. "I've been thinking it over, and maybe
I'll be going along with you."

"That so? Well, I do not see any reason in particular why you should not
go."

"There's only one reason," he said thoughtfully.

"What is it?"

"Mrs. King."

"Oh! yes; that's so. When's the wedding going to be?"

He glared at Wyeth a second, and then exclaimed doggedly: "I'm not going
to marry. I wouldn't marry the best woman in the world."

"From what you have told me, it seems that you _did_ marry the worst,"
laughed the other.

"I'll stay single henceforth, and be safe," he growled, and busied
himself through some papers.

"Stay single, eh! And let the nice lady go without a husband. It's
incredible that you can be so regardless!"

"I do not care to discuss marrying today," he muttered. "I've something
better. It's a business proposition."

"Oh, I see. What is it this time? Going to buy the First National Bank
or the Southern Railway?"

"Oh, you needn't try to kid me. Besides I have not asked you to come in,
though if you did, you could pick up some big, quick money, if you were
of a mind to be serious."

"Oh, well, if it doesn't take more than a million, I might be brought to
consider it," Wyeth smiled, with assumed seriousness.

"I can see you laffing in your sleeve, so I don't tell you anything, you
see!" He ended it angrily, and left the office.

It was too good though to keep to himself, so he told Mrs. Lautier, who
in turn told it to Wyeth.

"Mr. Coleman had me write to Ames today, in regard to some song books,
which he says he used to sell lots of," she said, when it was
convenient.

Wyeth grunted.

"He is very much provoked at the way you treat him. He says, if you
would go in with him, you and he could both make lots of money; but that
you only laugh in your sleeve at everything he proposes," she went on,
replete with gossip.

"He proposes many things," said Wyeth.

She giggled.

"He's going out to Liberty Street Baptist Church to sing and sell them
Sunday, providing he gets them in time." She typed a few letters, and
then said:

"He says he would like to go to Effingham with you and sell books, but
that you want too much for it. That the book is too high, and you want
to make too much. He says the book ought to sell for a dollar, and he
should be paid seventy-five cents for selling it."

"He wouldn't make a living selling it then," retorted Wyeth, somewhat
impatiently. Then he thought of Mrs. King, who fed him most of the time.

The following Monday, Wyeth thought he had fallen heir to a fortune. He
passed him in the hallway, with head high, and as serious as zero.

Mrs. Lautier imparted the reason for it, when Sidney had taken out the
letters.

"Mr. Coleman had a great day yesterday, so he informed me," she smiled.
"He said you should have been out to Liberty Street Baptist Church, and
heard him sing and sell song books afterwards. He said you were not a
Christian, however, which made it bad."

"How many song books did he sell, and what did he receive a copy for
them?"

"I think six, and he received fifteen cents apiece," she replied. He
entered at this moment, his face wreathed in triumphant smiles.

"Well, my doubting friend, if you would have taken the trouble to come
out to Liberty Street Baptist Church yesterday, I think you would have
been convinced that I am something of a salesman after all."

"I've just been told that you 'mopped' up," said Wyeth, heartily. Slim
swelled perceptibly. He seated himself, crossed his legs, and resumed:

"When I used to live in South Carolina, I was considered one of the best
salesman in the country."

"You must have been a great man in South Carolina," said Wyeth. Slim
observed him a moment sharply. Presently he went on:

"I would go to the camp meetings and festivals, sing a few songs, get
the people warmed up with a good sermon, and then sell hundreds of song
books in the end."

"Wonderful!" from Sidney.

"I am going to the HNRTYU convention at Timberdale Thursday, and I
thought you'd like to go along," he said, artfully.

"Couldn't very well do it, unless you got them to hold the convention
over until next week."

"You _will_ not take me seriously, regardless of my success," he
complained. "Now yesterday I sold a pile of song books, and today I am
sending the man his share of the money. I could do you some good with
the book you are general agent for, if you would increase my commission
to seventy-five cents a copy, and lower the price to a dollar."

"If you wrote the publishers, they might give you the books free of
charge, providing you agreed to pay the freight on arrival, and not let
the railroad company come back on them later for it," soliloquized
Sidney.

He went to Timberdale the next day, and the office saw no more of him
for a week.

"When will Mr. Coleman return?" Mrs. Lautier would inquire every day. "I
certainly do miss him."

"He's our mascot, our jest. I miss him also," said Sidney, and they both
spoke of him at some length.

Mrs. Lautier was also a sociable person about the office, Sidney was
coming to appreciate more each day. She was from New Orleans, and a
creole. She had personality, and a way that won all who were near her.
She was slender and very dark, and, although only thirty-nine, was
almost white-haired, which contrasted beautifully with her dark skin.
Her eyes were small and bead-like, while she was affectionate by nature.
Her make-up was in keeping with the position she held as matron at one
of the local <DW64> colleges. When she spoke, her voice struck the ear
musically. She was a widow.

"Why have you never remarried, Mrs. Lautier?" Wyeth ventured, one day.
She  unseen for a moment, before she answered:

"Perhaps there's a reason."

"What reason? You are charming--very charming, I think," said he
earnestly, although he smiled.

She hid her face. For a woman of her age, she was most extraordinary. "I
have been told that creole people have a most frightful temper," pursued
Wyeth, enjoying her manner. "Is that quite true?"

"Yes," She admitted, surveying him now.

"And do you happen to be endowed with such an asset, also?"

"I wouldn't be a creole if I were not," she advised, still smiling.

"That's too bad," said he, a trifle sadly. "You seem too kind and sweet
of manner, to be liable to those angry, wild fits they tell me they
have."

"Perhaps you will see New Orleans while you are in the south, and the
creoles; and then, you can be better prepared to understand them in the
future," she said.

"Perhaps I will," he said, after some thinking. "Yes, perhaps I will. I
had not thought of it before."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Mr. Coleman will be back tomorrow," cried Mrs. Lautier, entering the
office a day or so later. "I received a postal from him announcing the
fact, so we will not be so lonesome now."

"I am anxious to see what he did in Timberdale. I guess he succeeded in
turning it upside down, and covering the whole town with song books."

The next morning, early, he was back. He entered the office and sat
around in silence, seeming to be in an introspective mood. Wyeth waited
for what he knew would eventually come. It did not as early as it
usually did, in fact, he sighed wearily and looked so peculiar, until
Wyeth, to break the impatience he was laboring under, presently turned
his gaze upon him, and said: "Well, I see you are back...." The other
sat up and looked about him suddenly, as though awakened from a trance.

"I suppose you have more money now than you can conveniently use for a
while," Wyeth tested. "Made a bunch in Timberdale?"

"Like Hell!" spat the other grumblingly. "Lucky to be back here alive."

"M-m! What did you run up against? A freight train, or the madam?"

"I left the day she arrived," he said in a heavy tone, then added, after
a pause: "They've been lynching and driving nigga's out of that town
this week, so the convention was a fizzle."

"I suppose you sold out before they got after you? How many song books
did you sell?"

"Didn't I tell you the white people was raising Hell, and a-killing and
burning <DW64>s like barbecue out there!" he exclaimed impatiently. "I
never sold any song books, but I sold one copy of _The Tempest_."

"How many song books of the amount you received have you still on hand?"

"All but six."

"I thought you had sold them all but a dozen when you left for
Timberdale."

"Aw, that old nigga that I left them with, and who claimed he could sell
them at his church and more, slipped them back into my room while I was
away. He didn't sell any."

"You don't seem to be getting back into your old-time selling form very
rapidly," suggested Wyeth. Ignoring him, Slim said suddenly:

"When you all going to Effin'ham?"

"Next week."

"I don't know whether I'll get to go with you or not. Mrs. King thinks
I'd better stay here this summer. What do you think about it?"

"I agree with her."

Just then Mrs. Lautier came in, and, greeting Coleman very cordially,
Wyeth left them and went out on business.

He happened to have a delivery on Fourteenth street, and when he had
filled it, he stood talking with the girl a moment. "Are you acquainted
with Mr. V.R. Coleman?" she inquired.

"Sure. He is a "_sort_" of agent for this book," Sidney replied.

"I thought so," said she; "and I was wondering what kind of an agent he
must make, when he spends so much time in this neighborhood. He goes
with a certain party next door, and he was there all last week. I think
he scarcely went outside."

"Good morning," said Sidney.

"Goodbye," said she. "I hope I'll enjoy the book."

       *       *       *       *       *

The week arrived in which Wyeth was to depart, and preparations were
made to that end. He decided to leave the office in charge of Mrs.
Lautier. Slim came in the day before he was to leave, looking frightened
and terribly upset. Always given to joking with him, Wyeth hardly knew
how to accept him, as he apparently was that day. He was trembling in
every limb as he cried:

"That woman! She's after me! Great God! I wish she would leave me alone,
I wish she would leave me alone! She's followed me all over the country.
She's like a ghost on my trail! And now she is at this moment down in
the street looking for me again!" Wyeth's sympathy went out to him, and
he cried:

"Quiet yourself! You'll surely go to pieces trembling like that. After
all, why should you become so excited? You say you have advised her that
you are not going to live with her again."

"Aw, but you don't know; you don't understand. She's got it on me, on me
so strong until I dasn't make a crooked move, or resort to the law. The
only chance I have is to keep out of her sight." He paused a spell now,
and his appearance was that of a man under sentence of death. Then he
said: "She has vowed to kill me, and I know if she gets a chance she
will!"

"I will go with you fellows to Effin'ham," he said more calmly. "I've
got to get away from where she can see me, if I hope to live. Every
moment I stay where I know her to be near, will be moments of fear. I
don't want to kill her, even in self-defense. God, no! I don't want
murder on my hands!" He paced the floor at some length, pausing at
intervals to peep into the street, in evident fright.

"She was out to Mrs. King's, night before last. Mrs. King was not in, so
she walked up to the front door of the white people, and rang the bell.
When the door was opened by the man of the house, the expression he wore
got her goat. She made some excuse to the effect that it was the wrong
house, and went her way. Then, yesterday, or last night rather, she came
back. We were eating supper, and it happened that my seat was so I could
look out the window, and up the alley. I saw her slipping up this alley,
near the side of the board fence, with a big gun and it cocked. I rushed
out the front way and avoided her; but she is bent upon forcing me
either to live with her and submit to her tyranny, or she'll kill me,
and prevent me from living or being friendly with any other."

"You seem certainly up against a bad proposition, V.R.," said Wyeth,
helplessly.

"If it wasn't for a certain little deal back in South Carolina, I
wouldn't be so afraid; but, owing to that, I dare not do anything but
keep out of her way," he trembled on, woefully. "I'm going to try and
slip out of town unbeknown to her, and go along with you fellows to
Effin'ham. I'll be safe there for a while; but as soon as she learns I
am there, she'll take up the trail and I'll have to 'beat' it
elsewhere."

"Gee! It must be dreadful to live in the fear that somebody is thirsting
for your blood," said Wyeth, shuddering.

"I'll never be anything but a vagabond; a rover, drifting over the face
of the earth until death comes," he cried despairingly.

He was calmed presently, with the prospect of going to Effingham. Wyeth
went uptown, attending to considerable business in connection with the
office, preparatory to leaving. When this was completed, he went to a
movie, and returned to the office about six o'clock. He went to another
show that evening, and after that had closed, strolled about the town
until ten-thirty. There appeared to be a gathering of women for some
occasion at the auditorium, which was breaking up when he returned. Mrs.
King and Coleman were leaving the building when Wyeth came up. They
started up the street with the crowd. As they reached the corner, there
was a sudden commotion. Wyeth ran up, and was just in time to see a
woman dash after Coleman from around the corner. He saw her before she
got near him, and, jerking free of his escort, he tore into the street.
She was a dark woman with coarse black hair, and of an Indian
appearance. With a cry she flew after him, as she cried in a diabolical
voice:

"At last, Vance Coleman, I have found you, and in another's company. I
am forced to stand aside, although your wife!" Down the street his steps
could be heard, as he tore along in mad haste. She stopped when she saw
that she could not catch him, and, drawing from some invisible
direction, a gun, she levelled it, with deliberate aim, at the flying
figure. The crowd stood frozen creatures.

And then suddenly, a terrible cry rent the still night air, just as the
gun went off; but the cry had disconcerted her aim, and, with a cry she
turned toward the crowd, but Wyeth had the arm of the hand that held the
revolver, which he twisted and made the weapon fall to the ground. She
was led away presently by an officer, while still, far down a street,
the sound of hurriedly retreating footsteps came to Wyeth's ears. He
listened until they died away in the night. Wyeth turned, and
disappeared in the direction of his room.

He never saw Slim again.

END OF BOOK ONE




BOOK II.




CHAPTER ONE

_Effingham_


"I'll take that change now," whispered the porter, nudging Wyeth, as he
lay trying to sleep, as the train roared westward toward Effingham, the
iron city, and greatest industrial southern center.

Raising up, he reached in his pocket while yet half asleep, and handed
the porter two dollars. "I paid fifty cents for the ticket to
Spruceville, as you know, and the charge was to be two fifty?" The other
nodded, and pocketing the money, he melted away noiselessly.

A few hours later, Wyeth raised the shade and peered out. The train was
flying through a valley, that spread away from either side of the single
track, smooth and unobstructed, except for comfortable farm homes, set
back from the roads. He looked back in the seat behind him, observed
young Hatfield, whom he was bringing with him, dozing peacefully. Then
he looked toward the front of the car for the first time, and observed
another with whom he had become acquainted in Attalia. He had never
learned his name, in fact, he had never inquired it; but, since the
other possessed such long legs, and was tall and good-natured into the
bargain, he had called him Legs, which had brought no objection on the
part of the other. And it is by that name we shall follow him in this
story.

"Hello, there!" he greeted cordially, when their eyes met. "And where
did you get on and call yourself going?"

"Hello, Books!" the other returned, as cordially. He rose from his seat,
shook himself as if to start the blood, jumped about for a moment,
rubbed his face, and then came back to where Wyeth was and sat down.
"Say," he cried, "a little liquah'd go good right now, wouldn't it? I
had some, but like a pig I emptied the bottle last night. Oh, yes," he
cried suddenly, "I'm going to Chicago. Where are you going?"

"To Effingham; but I wish I were on the way for old Chi' along with
you," said Wyeth. The other smiled blandly, stretched his long legs in
the isle, then got up, went to the end of the car and looked around for
a cup out of which to drink; and, of course, not finding any, he lifted
the lid of the cooler, turned it over, and finding it had a disk, drew
it full and drank from it. Replacing it, he came back and reseated
himself. Since we shall become quite familiar with him, and very
shortly, a description is quite necessary.

He was tall, over six feet, and a mulatto. His shoulders were broad,
while his chest was thin and flat. His head was small, and straight up
from his back, while he possessed a pair of small ears that fitted
closely and oddly against his head--so oddly that, when one observed him
at a glance, he reminded one of an elf. He appeared to be smiling
always, although there was no great depth in the same. His eyes were
small, and danced about playfully in his head, while his hips were
arched and broad, between which was a full stomach which made him
resemble a pickaninny.

"You see, it's like this," he began confidentially. He lowered his voice
almost to a whisper, and held his mouth close to Wyeth's ear. "The
reason you did not see me when we left Attalia last night, was because I
had the porter lock me in the lavatory. I didn't come through the gate
at the station, but went out to the yards where he concealed me. When
the train was out of the town, I came out; but you were reading and
didn't look up, when I came out and took that seat."

Wyeth observed him now wonderingly. He could not understand this
unconventional manner of boarding a passenger train. He was not,
however, left long in doubt. In fact, before he could give words to the
question his eyes asked, the other enlightened him:

"I's havin' a little game Sunday night, and the bulls run in on me." It
was now all clear to Wyeth. He recalled the other's occupation. He had
become acquainted with him through "Spoon," and recalled that he kept a
rooming house for questionable purposes. In addition to this, he sold
liquor, and ran a game on Saturday nights and Sundays--or any time a
crowd gathered with enough money to start.

"M-m. Did they arrest you?"

"No; that is what I's goin' t' tell. I got away; but they got the rest
of the bunch, every damn last one of them, the fools! You see," he
explained, warming to the narrative, "it was not altogether my fault. It
was like this: I had a nigga watching, that is, I had him hired to
watch, but the d----n fool was a whiskey head, and had t' have a drink
eve' ten minutes, claiming, of course, that it was necessary that he
have plenty of booze t' keep himself awake."

Wyeth laughed quietly.

"Well, I was 'head a the game and winning right along, and didn't give a
damn; so I fed him all he could pour down. The result of this was that
he got good and full by and by, went off t' sleep, and the bulls walked
right in on us without a word of warning.

"We were shooting craps on the bed, and the game was going along nicely.
I was sitting at the head holding the lamp, and getting the cuts. At
least fifteen dollars was in the betting, when, on hearing a slight
noise to my back like some one creeping, I looked around--and, man! The
room was full of bulls with dark lanterns, which they at that moment
flashed upon us!

"I didn't know what to do for a moment. 'Up with yu' hands, <DW65>s!'
they cried. All the shines looked then into the barrels of a bunch
a-guns. 'Don't try no monkey business there, you big <DW65>,' the
sargent cried, as he observed me shifting about. All the time, though, I
was edging toward a place I knew none ov'm didn't see. Suddenly, I drops
the lamp, and there is some tall cussin'. A little pup--I think he was a
sup'--put a star on the back of my head"--he turned and Wyeth saw it.
"I staggered about now like I was knocked out. They were all over us
now, a-hand cuffin' the nigga's like a lot of cattle with halters. By
this time I see's my way clear t' make this break. One sucker spots me
and cries: 'Look out! That big nigga!' But they were too late. I had my
hand on the knob of a door that none ov'm have seen; and, swinging it
open quickly, I ducked out. As I did so, one of the bulls takes a shot
at me, but missed. He was determined to have me, though, if possible, so
he comes after me in a hurry. That's where I am wise and he wasn't.
There is a fence a few feet from the door, that he didn't see. Out he
came after me in a blind fury, and, 'bing!' He ran full into the fence,
and knocked the wind out of himself. I saw my chance. I was mad and
scared now, too; so I rushed upon him while he was staggering about and
'bingo!' I landed on him, and knocked him cold. Then I 'beat' it. I had
his gun and club and 'peeper,' and I flew. Out the back way I went like
a race horse. In the rear, two or three bulls were a-workin' over this
bull that I done knocked stiff. I entered the alley, and ran until I
reached Bell street. An onry bunch of dogs kept barking away at me as I
hurried along, and kept me scared, because I's afraid I'd be located by
other bulls. I ran down one, a little pug-nosed bull. He was game and
tried to bite. I reached down and got'm by the head, whirled him over my
shoulder three or four times, and when I turned him loose, he landed
beside a second story window, and fell to the ground a dead dog, I
didn't try to see. I then began to jump fences. I bet I jumped a dozen
fences, and then got hung on the last one, which held my shirt. I fell
off at last, and liked to have bust open. My face was bleeding, and my
head, while my shirt was soaked. I looked like the devil. I at last tore
off the shirt, and tried to tie up my head, then went to my
brother-in-law's."

"Gee!" exclaimed Sidney, "but you certainly had some experience!"

"Aw, man, I done some runnin', believe me!" he declared, and looked
grim.

"They had plenty a-liquah--the bootlegs, too--, so's soon's I's cleaned
up with my head bathed and a clean shirt, I took a few drinks, and went
to bed, feeling all right.

"I laid around town hid away, until he could slip me my clothes and a
few dollars. So I happened to know this porter, and arranged to come
over tonight, and here I am," and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"How did those they arrested come out, and how come the cops to be next
to your little game?" Wyeth inquired, casually.

"Oh, yes," cried Legs. "I forget to tell you that part of it. You see,
there was a guy in the crowd--or had been, rather, whose wife didn't
want him to gamble. Now he came down there and lost what little he had,
and went home drunk. His wife, of course, learned that he had lost his
money, and got sore. He was a damned tramp, and told her the whole
story, with tears, perhaps, and you know a nigga with tears, so she went
and put the cops next.

"Now 'bout them other shines--the ones who got arrested--they came
before Judge Loyal's the next morning, and got ten seventy-five each."

"I thought it was fifteen seventy-five for gaming."

"They were let off lighter, owing to the fact that I was not brought. If
they'd a caught me, it would have been fifteen seventy-five for them,
and about a hundred for me."

Wyeth laughed amusedly.

"You don't gamble or drink liquah, either, do you?" he asked, and then
answered his own question. "No, I know you don't. You're lucky for using
such common sense. It doesn't pay, even if four nigga's out-a five do.
Yeh," he went on wearily, "only the straight and narrow path leads to
happiness in the long run," and with that he turned on his side, and
went to sleep.

"Say," he cried suddenly, raising up, "what did you pay?" Then looked
around quickly to see if he had been overheard.

"Two and a half," the other replied. "How much did you?"

Legs held up two fingers. "I told'm 't'was all I had, and I didn't have
but a precious little more."

"Are you acquainted with any one in Chicago?" Wyeth inquired.

"Aw, yeh, a plenty; but I am not going on through now. I'm going to stop
in Effingham for a while, it depends."

"Hello, Red," cried young Hatfield, coming up now, rubbing his half
closed eyes. "I see you got out all right."

"Say, man!" cried Legs. "Didn't I get out of that thing in luck?"

"Bet your life on that you did," commented Hatfield. "If they'd have
gotten you, the devil would have been to pay." He laughed a low, hard
laugh, and then added: "Those church people have had their eyes on your
place for some time, and the chances are if you had been caught, they'd
have appeared against you."

"They certainly put old Jack Bell out of business proper," Legs
commented, thoughtfully. "That old nigga conducted such a rotten dump
and tiger, though; and all those dirty little girls around on top of it,
I don't wonder."

"Wonder whether he had any money left when they got through with him?"
Hatfield inquired.

"Hard to tell," said Legs. "They fined him out of hundreds, that I _do_
know."

By this time, the train was entering the city. From the car could be
seen an incomplete mass of varied buildings, little shacks that faced
alleys, and at the front of which played dozens of little unbleached
pickaninnies. Wyeth viewed the city as the train crept slowly along, and
his impression did not agree with what he had gathered from reading of
it. It was not, he felt positive, the city Attalia was, although
claiming almost an equal number of people.

"You see those two brick cupola's extending into the air?" he heard
Hatfield saying. "That's a <DW64> Baptist church." He was mistaken,
however, for the same proved to be the large, new station, the pride of
the city.

Soon the train rolled into this, and a few minutes later, they stood in
the waiting room.

"It's going to cost like the dickens to get all these grips of your
hauled," said Hatfield, with a frown.

"Only had to pay thirty-five cents to get them to the depot in Attalia."
He walked to the lower end of the platform, and began a series of
inquiries relative to the hauling of the same. He soon came upon an
express man, who agreed to unload them for fifty cents, at where-ever
they found a room.

The three walked down a level street, paved with brick. On either side a
lot of houses appeared behind a row of trees, dense with foliage. It was
a calm, soft morning, and the sun, red and glorious, was just peeping
out of the east. The street they followed led from the depot into the
business section. Perhaps eight blocks ahead of them, several buildings
of extraordinary height, stood outlined far above those about them.
Wyeth counted the windows of two, and found them to total sixteen.

"There are two or three buildings here higher than any in Attalia," said
Hatfield, following his gaze. "I think the ones you have been noticing,
are twenty-five stories high."

The other whistled. "That's going some!"

Soon they were well into the business section. "Let's go by and look at
that hotel they have just completed and opened," suggested Legs; for,
just then, a little to the right, the outline of that beautiful
structure arose. It was a grand affair, to say the least, and stood as a
monument to the enterprise of the populace. It was claimed, by them, to
be the swellest in the south.

"I think I can get on there after a bit," said Legs. "I'm a head waiter
by trade, but I haven't done any hotel work for some little time now."

"I hear they brought all the waiters from the north," said Hatfield.

"Well," said Legs, "I'll _be_ from the north when the time comes, so I
can make a fit if there is an opening."

"You'll pass, Red," laughed Hatfield, as they walked onward now in a
different direction.

As Wyeth saw Effingham, he observed that it lay very differently from
Attalia. It had been built up recently, so to speak, and had, therefore,
broad, spacious streets, unusually so, he thought, as he now found
himself in the heart of the business district. Perhaps they may have
seemed wider, because he had become accustomed to the narrow highways of
Attalia. In addition to the wide streets, the sidewalks stretched back
from the buildings they fronted, from twelve to twenty feet, giving
pedestrians plenty of room to walk unconcernedly along. As they
continued on their way, he further observed that the business section
covered an unusually large area, and it was hard to tell which might be
called the main street. As the street cars clanged by him, he noticed
another feature, also. The position occupied by the <DW64> passengers.
They entered and left the car from the front instead of from the rear,
as was the custom in Attalia.

"<DW64>s do lots of business in this town," said Hatfield, as they came
abreast of a large, new building, that reached five stories into the
air. "This, now," said he, pausing and surveying the structure, "is the
Dime Savings Bank building." Wyeth, having read much about the bank,
observed the building carefully. To one side, through the street door,
there was no entry, or, rather, the small entry was to one side of the
building, and not in the middle, and one elevator was in operation.
Straight back from where they stood, the open doors of the bank (which
the janitor was now sweeping) revealed the inside of the institution.

A few hours later, their wanderings brought them back again before the
bank, which they entered. It proved to be a busy place, and at that
hour, was filled with black people, depositing and withdrawing money,
and attending to other business in connection therewith. He observed, in
the first glance, that the furnishing was elegant. Behind the first
desk, enclosed by an oak office fence, sat a black man, the cashier he
thought, since the insignia was plated conspicuously before him. And
still to the left of him, behind a grating with the insignia of
_Collections_ before it, was another man, and he was blacker still. And
then, in the next cage, over which was labeled boldly, _Receiving
Teller_, worked still another black man. He was younger, and he worked
rapidly, counting the money that was continually being thrust to him.
There was another cage to the right of him, and this was marked
_Paying_. Behind this worked another black man, young and intelligent,
and seeming perfectly efficient, as had the others. In the rear, working
over books, he saw the first mulatto. Another, brown-skinned this time,
worked near him, and these made up the active members of the bank. No
blue veins held sway here. It was truly a black man's bank. It was, as
he had long since learned, the largest in the country conducted by black
people, and the footing exceeded a half million by almost a hundred
thousand dollars.

Young Hatfield, who was a student in one of the colleges of Attalia, had
been to the city before, was well acquainted, and pointed out the many
places of interest, and, in particular, those conducted by black people.

"The president of this bank, Dr. Jerauld," he explained, "is in failing
health, and is substituted by the vice, Dr. Dearford."

"I see," acknowledged the other. "So the president, then, is a
physician."

"No," corrected the other, "a minister."

Wyeth recalled now, that "Reverend" or "Elder" was almost a thing of the
past among <DW64> preachers. They were all called, and called themselves
"doctors." But he did not then realize to what extent this title was
usurped. Beyond the instant of medicine and dentistry, he had noted that
"doctor" was an honorary term, conferred upon men who had done something
notable in the evolution of mankind; but he was soon to learn that the
title had become a fetish with his people, sought after and preempted by
any and everyone without even the remotest right to claim it.

"Everything that has ever been started down south has been done by the
preachers. A <DW64> preacher down here, in the past in particular, has
headed everything. Of course, that would be natural, granting that
almost every man with ambition to be before the public has been a
preacher," Hatfield explained. "Now, for example, the largest insurance
company in Attalia--that is, with offices there and conducted by our
people--has for its president, a preacher located in this town."

"I've heard of him. His name is--"

"Dr. Walden," he explained. "He's the pastor of a big church on the
other side of town. Dr. Jerauld, before he retired, was pastor of the
Sixth Avenue church."

"And what denomination do these preacher business men represent?"

"Oh, Baptist, of course. As I said, they are at the head of everything,
including," and he smiled humorously, "a great many wives of other men."
They both laughed, and Legs, who was almost forgotten, joined in.

By this time, they were wandering aimlessly down a street that finally
came to an end, and ran abruptly into a brick wall. Changing their
course into another street, they continued their indefinite pilgrimage.
Presently, they paused before one or two neat looking houses, and
inquired regarding rooms. Both were full. A convention of preachers was
still in session, which explained the state of circumstances. So, on
again they went, until they paused at a corner. A middle-aged woman sat
on the front porch of a house that rose to two stories, and was
decorated with two vine-laden porches. The house appeared to contain
possibly seven or eight rooms.

"Hello, Mis'!" exclaimed Legs, in greeting so familiar that Wyeth felt
he surely must know her.

"How-do," she answered as familiarly and smiling.

"Three tramps we are from Attalia, and without a place to roost. Do you
happen to have a spare pole or two?"

"Sho has. Come upon the po'ch and be seated," she invited.

"A-hem. That's when you said something," smiled Legs, "eh, Mis'?" She
joined in the humor.

"Well, boys," said Legs, when they were comfortably seated, "this looks
good to me. Supposing we just hang up here, and send for our stuff?"

It was agreeable to the other two, and they were, therefore, duly
installed, three in a room. Legs, being the longest, was given a bed to
himself, while Hatfield and Wyeth agreed to share another together. It
was fortunate for both that it was arranged thus, since Legs proved to
be a dreadful night man, and, from his apparently restless way of
tossing, required a halter.

"Any saloons around here, Mis'?" he inquired shortly, when she
reappeared on the porch a few minutes later.

"Sho is!" she exclaimed. "Yeh, most sho. Go right down this street, turn
the corner, and across the street near the other corner, is what you
want," she laughed, taking them all for granted. Wyeth and Hatfield
followed Legs to the inevitable fountain he now sought energetically.

"Got t' have a little liquah before I c'n feel like myself," he grinned,
as they sauntered along.

"Hello!" called some one from the rear. Turning, they observed a medium
sized <DW64> walking rapidly in their direction, and beckoning to them.
They halted, and presently he stood before them, introducing himself.

"Pardon me, gentlemen," he began very properly; "but the Mis' back
there," pointing in the direction of the house they had just left, "was
telling me that you have just taken a room with her, and, since I am the
man of the house, I wish to offer my name and make you welcome."

He was very cordial. His name was Moore, John Moore, he said, and to
describe him, our pen fails to a degree. He had, however, an odd looking
face. His cheek bones were high, slightly Indian-like, while his face
was broad. His nose was not flat, nor was it high or medium, it
was--just a nose, that's all. He held his head forward aggressively, his
eyes were twinkling, and possessed a cordiality that, to a careful
observer, was distrustful. And still, his appearance in general, was
that of a <DW64> who might be expected to bluff, but not to fight; to
steal when the opportunity was ripe, with enough cunningness to keep
from being caught. Otherwise, he was apparently harmless.

They acknowledged his welcome, and, joining them, they all went toward
the place of happiness by proxy.

"I'm buyin' this," said Moore, as they lined the bar, four abreast.

"Let me do the buying this time," insisted Legs, who proved himself a
sport, and a good mixer.

"I've paid him already," said Moore, as if in dismissal, shoving at the
same time, a half dollar across the bar.

"Whiskey," nodded Legs familiarly, to the bartender.

"Little liquah, too," from Moore.

"Beer."

"Beer."

"Drink whiskey!" insisted Legs and Moore, of the other two. "Something
that has the kick."

"These are my sons," said Legs, teasingly.

"Hold on heh', George," argued Moore with the bartender, "you know how I
take mine. A half-a-pint 'n' two glasses." The bartender obeyed.

Here Wyeth observed, was diplomacy, albeit economy. Moore paid
twenty-five cents for the half pint, wherein he and Legs had six
sociable drinks, three a-piece; whereas, the same would have totalled
sixty cents otherwise.

"How's this town for gettin' hold a-something?" inquired Legs of Moore,
when John Barleycorn was doing his duty.

"Best town in the south to get it, if you're wise," Moore winked.

Legs responded with a big wink. "I'm the man that put 'w' in whiskey,"
he smiled. "I'n get mine when it's in the gettin'."

"What's your line?" from Moore, pouring more whiskey.

"Anything from heavin' coal to sellin' liquah and operatin' a crap game,
and a little 'skin' when the crowd's right."

"I see," said the other thoughtfully, then added: "And your friends?"

"This lad here is going to school to learn how to get 'his without
workin'; while the other boy," pointing to Wyeth, "is already doin'
it."

"Well, men," began Moore, as he opened a fresh half pint that Legs paid
for, "as I said, 'f you're _wise_, Effingham is the best town in the
country for pickin's. It is, as you should know, the greatest industrial
center in the south."

"So I have understood," interposed Wyeth, waiving the bartender's
invitation aside; "I am anxious to learn something, everything about the
town, and the <DW52> people."

"Are they employed in considerable numbers at the mines, steel mills and
furnaces about here, of which the city possesses so many?"

"Thousands upon thousands," he was informed.

"And how are they paid? From a personal standpoint, I'd be glad to
know?" went on Wyeth.

"All kinds of wages, and at various times. Some receive as low as a
dollar and a quarter, while others make as high as seven and eight; but
the average wage runs from a dollar fifty, to three dollars."

"How's the crap games?" from Legs, with the usual smile.

"Nigga's will shoot craps, yu' know," grinned Moore. "I shoot a little
myself when the moon's right," he winked.

"I want t' find a good game as soon as possible, and win about a
hundred," said Legs, beginning to show the effects of liquor. Hatfield
and Wyeth left them to their cheerful diversion, which was now, to all
appearance, warming to the superlative.

The former went toward town, looking for certain friends. Wyeth went
back to the place where he was going to stay, and retired. They had
called up for their luggage before they went to the saloon. Wyeth was
sleeping peacefully, when he was aroused by an argument on the porch. He
tried to close his ears, but the same was persistent. It was between the
landlady and the expressman, who had arrived with the stuff.

"That little trunk is as heavy as lead," he heard that worthy saying.

"That has nothing to do with it," from the landlady. "They left fifty
cents here to pay for it, and you must have agreed to that amount, or
they would have left more."

"Seventy-five cents, seventy-five cents. That little trunk is like
something filled with bricks."

"My trunk," mumbled Wyeth, coming to himself, and listening to the
argument. "And that sucker is trying to work her. The dirty cur!" he now
cried, angry for two reasons. One for being disturbed when he was
sleeping so peacefully, and another for being worked, or trying to be.
With a bound he was on the floor, and in a jiffy he was in his trousers
and upon the porch.

"Well, 'f' y' ain' go'n pay it, I'll haf t' take th' stuff back," the
expressman said, as Wyeth came up. The other did not see him until he
mounted the porch. Then he looked into his eyes which were fighting, and
recoiled.

"What's this you are going to do!" he demanded, filling the doorway, and
bestowing upon the other, a look that corresponded with his feelings.

"Well, stuff I brung down heah's mor'n I thought 't'was, so I'll haf t'
have a quarter mo'!"

"What kind of a proposition did we make with you in regard to hauling it
at the depot awhile ago?"

"You said yu'd give me a haf a-dollah fo' haulin' it, but I didn't say
I'd do it fo' a haf," he sulked, evasively.

Wyeth glared at him, but the other refused to meet his eye. "Then," he
began, "when you took hold of it and loaded it into your wagon, you
subsequently agreed to my offer, and now I want to see you get more."

"I'll haf t' take the stuff," argued the other, shifting about, but
keeping at a safe distance. Something in the eye of the other did not
offer welcome.

"Give him a quater more," called Legs, who had returned in the meantime,
and had been trying to catch a little sleep.

"I don't intend to pay him one little dime more!" exclaimed Wyeth
stubbornly.

"Then I'll haf t' see 'n' officer," bluffed the other, and turning, he
started briskly down the street. Wyeth learned later, he was sure he
could not have found one. He was not looking for any, but the landlady
and Legs made up the quarter, and calling him back, paid him.

"Books is stubborn when he thinks he's been worked. M-m," said Legs,
going back to bed. "Yeh, comes down to a show, believe he'd fight."




CHAPTER TWO

"_These <DW64>s in Effingham Are Nigga's Proper_"


The next day dawned calm and beautiful, and Sidney made preparations to
begin his canvassing. In one city in Ohio, and which was also a great
industrial center, he had found much success in selling his book to the
multitude of workers employed there. Therefore, with what Moore had
already told him, he was anxious to get his work under way.

The first thing necessary, of course, would be to secure agents. School
had closed recently, and he had intended coming to the city, to enlist
some of the teachers for that work. Securing a number of names and
addresses, he began calling on them, but without any immediate success.
Late that afternoon, however, a teacher, a settled woman, gave him the
name and address of one whom she felt, she assured him, would take up
the work. "At least," she said, "she always does something during
vacation. Her name is Miss Palmer," so thither he went.

She lived not far away, and near the center of a block in a small two
story house, rusty and somewhat ramshackle. He mounted the steps, which
were perhaps a half dozen, and asked for her. She was out, they informed
him, but was expected to return shortly. Before they were through
telling him, she came. She was a brown-skinned woman, although in the
fading twilight, she struck him as being a mulatto. Of medium height and
size, she gave a welcome that played about the corners of her small
mouth. Her chin was long and tapered to a small point, which made her
appearance unusual; her eyes were small, very small, and playful.

They were very soon in conversation, and he was pleased to learn, after
he had talked with her a few minutes, that she was a woman with the
strength of her convictions, although there was something about her he
did not, and was not likely, he felt, to understand for some time to
come, and he didn't.

Presently he stated the object of his visit, and suggested that she take
up the work during her vacation. She shook her head dubiously, and said:

"I don't mind canvassing; but I don't want to sell books."

"Why not books?" he inquired, in a tone of surprise, and then added: "It
would seem that, being a teacher, selling a nice book would be
preferable to something else."

"Yes, that may be," said she, thoughtfully now, "but nigga's here don't
read. At least they won't buy and pay for books. Sell them toilet
articles or hair goods, something to straighten their kinks or rub on
their faces, anything guaranteed to make their hair grow soft and curly,
or their black faces brighter."

He laughed long. She now observed him with something akin to admiration.
"Then the people of your community--the black people--don't consider
feeding the mind an essential to moral welfare," he suggested
mirthfully.

"Naw, Lord," she replied flatly. "These <DW64>s in Effingham are nigga's
proper. They think nothing about reading and trying to learn something,
they only care for dressing up and having a good time."

He was silent and resigned for a time. They now sat together in a swing
that hung suspended from the porch. Directly, when he had said nothing
for some time, she looked again at him, and with something in her
demeanor that was anxious.

"What book is it?" she inquired.

He told her.

"That's a good title, and should take if anything will," she said, a
little more serious now than before. She did not impress Wyeth as being
much of a literary person, as he now observed her. For a moment, he felt
the interest wane, that he had experienced the moment she came up. She
was speaking.

"I sold books one summer, 'Up From Bondage,' by the greatest <DW64> the
race has ever known, and I had a time! I never want such another
experience! They told me a thousand lies, and had me trotting after them
all summer," whereupon, she shrugged her shoulders disgustedly.

"Well," said he, "I'm confident there are people, and plenty, who _do_
care to read, and will likewise buy when the book is properly presented.
So, of course, the duty of a distributer, will be to find these people,
and it is for this purpose, I am here. I do not, of course, know what
kind of a black population you have; but it is reasonable to suppose
that, if I could and did, personally sell twelve hundred copies in
Attalia in a matter of five months, I should be able to find a few
readers here. Do you not agree with me?"

"Oh, of course," said she; "but you cannot as yet appreciate the fact
that Effingham has the orneriest <DW64>s in the world. I am frank when I
say that I do not have any confidence in them, but wait," she
admonished, "you'll find out."

They sat together now, and conversed on topics otherwise than books and
literature, which he observed, could be engaged in with more success.
Moreover, as the minutes wore on, he also came to see that Miss Palmer
was somewhat sentimental. She smiled freely, moved close at times, and
then away, artfully; saw him at moments out of liquid eyes, and said her
words with a coquetishness that came by careful practice.

And so, Sidney Wyeth, a man free to practice the arts of coquetry--if a
man may do so--accepted Miss Palmer's attention, and to that end he soon
became a friend.

When he departed that evening, she had taken the agency, and had agreed
to go with him on the morrow.

That night it rained, a heavy rain, and when he went forth the following
morning, the streets were heavy with mud wherever there was no
paving--which was, in this part of town, almost everywhere. Moreover, it
showed signs of raining more. It had been one of the dryest springs the
south had ever seen, and it was now probable that the deficiency in
rainfall would be eradicated by an excess in moisture.

Wyeth, however, was impatient to begin as soon as possible. He wished to
ascertain to what extent intelligence and regard for higher morals was
prevalent in this town.

Miss Palmer was not ready when he arrived, and it was two hours before
she was. "Thought since it rained," she explained, "that you would not,
perhaps, go out today."

"Won't know the difference this time next year," he jested, with a
cheerful smile, nevertheless, surveying the threatening elements
anxiously.

"If we go into the quarter districts," she advised, "we will most likely
get our feet wet--muddy."

"Are there no sidewalks out there?" he inquired.

They had decided, the evening before, at her suggestion, to begin in one
of the many little towns, inhabited by <DW64>s employed in the mines,
mills and furnaces, that made Effingham what it was. These little towns
encircle the city proper, laying, many of them, at a considerable
distance, to be incorporated as part of the city.

Some years before--between one census and the next--this city is
recorded to have trebled and over in population. It had, but in doing
so, it gathered all these little burgs for miles around. Some of them
were even beyond the car lines, which were built to them after the city
had incorporated them, and counted the people as a part of the
population of Effingham. Wyeth perhaps, as well as the world at large,
had not known this. The population, at this time, was estimated to be
one hundred sixty-six thousand. Of this amount, two-fifths were <DW64>s.
Only a portion had been born in Effingham; the rest came in the last few
years, in great, ignorant hordes from the rural parts of the state, and
from the states adjoining. And as Wyeth soon came to know, they included
some of the most depraved and vicious creatures humanity has known--but
of this, our story will reveal in due time.

The most extraordinary part of Effingham, was its staggering number of
churches. That is, among the <DW64>s. Notwithstanding the fact that the
city was the resort of every escaped convict, and the city where every
freed one headed for, which, of course, naturally made it the scene of
excessive depravity, there was, apparently, a great amount of pious
worship. Wyeth recalled, as he became better acquainted with the city
and the people, that a year before, in a northern city, he had one day,
gone to the library, where he found the directories of all cities of any
significance. He was preparing a circular campaign, and, in going
through the various directories, chanced to look through the part of
those of the southern cities that had recorded the churches. Effingham
had, according to an old one, almost a hundred <DW64> churches.

But, having digressed at some length, we will return now to Miss Palmer
and Sidney Wyeth, preparing to spread intelligence among a people who
greatly needed it.

"Sidewalks!" Miss Palmer exclaimed, in derision, "Lordy, they hardly
have streets in some places!"

A few minutes later, they were sailing through the country--although it
was counted as part of the city--to a town, a suburb, nine miles
distant, a suburb of mills. "I used to sell toilet articles out there,
on and right after pay days, and did quite well," said she, as the heavy
car thundered along at a great rate of speed, for an inter-urban. "I am
skeptical in regard to books, though, because these are 'bad' nigga's,
with the exception of a precious few good ones."

They were just then passing through a district that was well kept, and
apparently quiet. "We are now in a part of the town, where a large
number of the better class of our people reside," she said, "and I am
going to point out the homes of some of them."

"There is where Mr. Judson, paying teller at the Dime Savings Bank,
lives." She pointed to a handsome bungalow, setting well back from the
street, and surrounded by many young trees, with a well kept lawn upon
three sides. "Now over there is where Paul Widner, contractor and
builder, has his home." Following the direction of her finger, he was
moved by the sumptuous and imposing structure that met his gaze. "That
is the finest residence owned and occupied by one of our kind in the
city," she said, with evident pride. "Still, though, here is Dr.
Jackson's, which is almost as fine," and she pointed to another that was
a credit. "He is the financial secretary of one of the church
denominations of the south.

"See that long house over there?" she pointed to another. "That is Dr.
Wayland's. He runs the drugstore."

"A preacher?"

"No; a pharmacist."

They were now in the wood, a deep forest with great trees all about,
that darkened the inside of the car. The picked over and slim pines,
mingled with large water oaks, rose gloomily against the heavy clouds
that now rumbled ominously overhead. Before long, large drops of water
began an intermittent patter on the car roof, while the windows were
spat upon occasionally. And then, of a sudden, the very heavens seem to
open, and the rain fell in torrents. Through it the heavy car pushed
resolutely forward. The line was one recently completed, and facilitated
travel between the city and the suburb wonderfully. Built of steel, the
cars were long and heavy, with doors that opened near the center,
allowing the  passengers to enter on one side of the conductor,
who operated the doors, from a convenient position near the furtherest
side of the opening.

"We will surely get soaked today," grumbled Miss Palmer, but not
lightly, for she trembled on observing the terrific downpour.

"How much further is it to this place we are going?" he inquired. To
him, it seemed they had been riding an hour. "You do not mean to tell
me, that all that stretch of forest and open country before we got to
the forest, is a part of Effingham?"

"We will soon be there now," she evaded, and then added: "Effingham
includes everything that electric cars operating in and out of the city
reaches," and laughed. He believed her.

At last, the big car came to a stop. They alighted in the downpour, and
rushed to shelter beneath the porch of a small grocery store, conducted
by a kind-faced little <DW52> woman.

"Oh, how-do, Mrs. Brown," cried Miss Palmer, when the latter, upon
seeing them, opened the door and bade them enter. "I'm certainly glad to
see you," whereupon they kissed, and Miss Palmer cheered the dark
atmosphere with many cute words.

"Permit me, Mrs. Brown, to introduce Mr.----I forget your name?" "You
see, Mr. Wyeth," said Miss Palmer, with a delightful smile, "I taught
out here these past three years, and Mrs. Brown is one of my many
friends. Yonder is the school," she pointed to an old frame building,
that could barely be outlined through the storm. "They have transferred
me back to the city again," she turned to Mrs. Brown. "So I regret to
say that I shall not be with you next year."

Miss Palmer had a way of finishing her sentences with a show of her fine
little teeth; and her chin, at such a time, reached to a fine point,
which at first amused Sidney. She would bestow upon him a coquettish
smile, when she found his eyes searching her mysteriously.

"Mr. Wyeth," said she, with her arm linked now within Mrs. Brown's, "is
general agent for a new book by a <DW64> author, _The Tempest_, and for
which I have accepted the local agency--why not," she broke off
suddenly, "show Mrs. Brown the book?"

"She is clever and suggestive at the same time," thought Sidney, almost
aloud; but he forthwith obeyed the suggestion with much pleasure, and
took Mrs. Brown's order amid the rainfall, collecting twenty-five cents
as a guarantee of good faith, in addition.

It had ceased raining as suddenly as it had commenced. They turned to
leave the store, and, as he was passing Miss Palmer, he bumped against
her roughly. She was looking at his picture on the frontispiece now,
with apparent suspicion. He pretended not to see her or her suspicion,
that had now grown to excitement. She was yet apparently in some doubt,
as she tried to make connections.

"Look here! Look here!" she exclaimed at last, in subdued excitement.
"This picture! This picture! It is you! You!" She held the book open,
and looked at him in amazement. He waved her aside depreciatively, and
passed outside, while she continued gazing at the picture in a state of
excitement. She followed him, and they were alone.

"Why didn't you tell me this?" she cried, unable to stem her tide of
excitement. She had lost interest, for the present, in all else, and
pursued: "You, the author of this book!" She now saw him as another
person entirely. Feeling much put out, he felt something should be
resorted to, to dissipate the spell.

"I'm not the author," he said, with straight face. "Where shall we go
now?" his demeanor was calm and imperious.

"Stop next door--no, that's Mrs. Brown's house," she said, as she
followed him in a meditative mood. "The next house," he heard her say,
as if speaking from far away. Miss Palmer was now serious, and very
thoughtful.

Disturbed by her discovery, and, in a measure, disconcerted, Wyeth
concentrated himself upon the demonstration of the book to a creditable
degree that morning; and, one by one, with his voice and look charged
with dynamite, he secured those black people's orders, and the deposit
wherever they had the amount available. Miss Palmer merely followed him,
insisting upon the point of authorship, until, with a touch of
impatience, he admonished her that their purpose, on that occasion, was
to sell the book, the author, therefore, insofar as they were concerned,
was a matter of secondary consideration.

"Going to be angry with me so soon?" she pined, looking into his eyes
with a feigned appeal. In spite of himself, he smiled back
disconcertedly.

"You are the author, though, aren't you?" she asked softly.

He ignored the question.

"We have eleven orders, and have collected a dollar and seventy-five
cents, in exactly an hour and a half," she informed him, at the end of
that time. "Whether you _did_ or did _not_ write this book--say what you
will, I'm convinced you did--you _do_ know how to sell it. I never heard
a man talk so fast and so effectively in my life!"

"I must leave you now," he said. "I have agreed to be back in town for
the afternoon, and help start my young friend."

"Please don't leave me," she whispered artfully, and smiled in her
winning way, then suddenly hurried into the next house.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Thought you had quit me for good, Books," complained young Hatfield,
when he saw Wyeth, on his return to the city. "When we goin' out?"

"As soon as I have fed my face, and the car will take us to--where, or
what is that place you spoke of? Where the girls work in service?"

"South Highlands," he replied.

They followed the street until they came to the main street, or rather,
to one of the main streets, and caught a car from the front end, that
took them to the North Highlands, and not to the South, as they were
accustomed to go.

"You'll have to pay carfare back, Books," said Hatfield. "I have only
fifteen cents left."

"Go right over to where you see that girl, that little <DW52> girl
standing on the steps that lead to the rear, and tell her the tale of
_The Tempest_, and get her order," said Wyeth, when at last they had
come to the right place.

"I thought I would go along with you this afternoon," he said with a
frown, but obeyed the command, nevertheless.

Two hours later, Sidney found him where they had left each other. "What
have you done?" he asked holding back a frown, because he felt the
student had succumbed to a lack of confidence; but he was cheered in a
degree, when the other replied:

"I got four, how many did you get?"

"Eight," and they went on their way rejoicing.




CHAPTER THREE

_"I Have BEEN Married," Said She_


Thirty-five years ago, Effingham was an unsuspected factor. That was
before somebody had demonstrated that the chain of red hills encircling
the then small town, contained immense deposits of iron ore and coal,
and other mineral matter, that could be converted into practical
purposes.

Effingham lay, at that time, in the valley, where, as yet, most of it is
found; then, it was regarded as only an ordinary town, without any
expectation of future greatness. It had, to be exact, thirty-eight
thousand, fourteen years ago, fifteen thousand <DW64>s, and the
remainder white population, including a few Chinese. Today, the city
boasts of approximately one hundred seventy thousand.

Thus the city had developed, regardless of circumstances, which our
story will unfold.

But Sidney Wyeth, our erstwhile observer and literary contemporary, had
not been long in Effingham, before he had come to learn that it was not
the city Attalia was, in spite of its great industries, and its million
dollar payroll, which was employed in advertising the iron city.

To begin with, capital--hard cash--was a very expensive thing to use
toward the development of its extension. When the city incorporated the
many little towns that make up a large part of its present population,
it began to run in debt; a great deficit was customary at the end of
each year, and now, at the time of our story, it was still energetically
engaged in the same task--piling up a deficit. The many little towns
that are a part of the city, and where most of the great industrial
concerns are located, are practically controlled by the interests. But
when the Tennessee Coal and Iron Company became a vested interest, it
took over all these various concerns, and merged them into a trust,
which is a problem to every congress. And now as Sidney Wyeth saw it,
the company owned everything. It almost owned the <DW64>s, and thousands
of foreigners who were employed by the company.

But there was one thing the T.C.I. company did not own, and that was
train loads of liquor consumed by its black help, and, of course, the
whites also, to a degree, but not in such proportion. Drink was very
popular in Effingham, exceedingly popular. It operated to an alarming
degree everywhere, and about pay days, held sway in certain portions of
the town, and made everything run riot. And yet there were not nearly so
many saloons in Effingham as there might have been. It cost too much for
the privilege. At three thousand dollars a year, only about one hundred
fifty saloons were in operation. But some years before, while the state
was under prohibition, "tigers" became the order. And now many of them
still operated. Especially on Sunday and after closing hours, they were
busy. They dealt in a liquor known, in general, as "busthead;" and to
say that it deserved such a title, is saying little enough.

It was Miss Palmer, who became at once a personal friend of Wyeth's, and
who first told him of these conditions. From her, before he had time to
observe of his own initiative, he also learned a great deal in regard to
the black people.

He was waiting on the porch for her when she returned late that
afternoon, in fact, it was night when she arrived. She was tired, but
cheerful and greatly encouraged. She had secured eleven orders for his
book, and collected considerable more deposits in connection therewith.

"I certainly did some talking to those <DW64>s this afternoon," she
exclaimed, drawing herself upon the porch when she arrived. "I talked a
blue streak; and believe me, one after another succumbed," she boasted.

"You work too late," he said, with a note of kindness and admiration in
his voice. "I do not usually work to exceed six hours a day, and quit by
six at the latest," he added.

"That's the trouble with Annie," said her cousin, and a teacher also.
"She has so much ambition when she sees herself succeeding, that she
invariably wears herself out."

"Have you met my roomers?" Miss Palmer inquired. He shook his head and
waited, while she, with much ostentation, introduced them one by one.

"This is Mr. Jones, who carries mail upon a rural route; Mr. Farrell is
a student at Tuskegee. He is spending his vacation in our city. And you
have been talking with my cousin, Miss Black."

Mr. Farrell was a small creature, so black in the darkness of the night,
that only a gloomy outline of his features was discernable, while his
white eyes reminded Sidney as he winked them, of a pair of lightning
bugs on a warm June night. This was augmented by the occasional flash of
his white teeth. He was studying architectural drawing. There was
another student from the same school, a West Indian <DW64>, and who, like
his kind, was always apparently desirous of learning, and asked Sidney
many questions. Mr. Jones, who happened to be another cousin of Miss
Palmer, and the aforementioned mail carrier, was a suave creature who
read books, and discoursed with much practical intelligence.

The following morning, Miss Palmer and Sidney were starting toward the
car, on their way to canvass, when they stepped in a small drugstore
conducted by a tall, slender man, of about thirty-five. Wyeth had been
in the store two evenings before, or the day he arrived, and overheard a
big argument. He had now come to know, that this was a place for warm
debate, with the druggist ever conspicuous as one of the debaters.

He had not displayed his book there, or suggested a sale to the
druggist. There were certain classes of his race to whom he never made a
practice of showing the book for several reasons. The first and most
significant of these reasons was, that he almost always found the
<DW64>s who were engaged professionally, including teachers, not very
appreciative of the work of their race, although any of them would have
been insulted if this were told them. He had also made observation from
other sources, concerning the possible sale of his book. His decision to
dispense henceforth with showing the book to certain classes, had
resulted, because of a little incident the year before in Cincinnati. He
had observed the same in other cities before he reached Cincinnati. In
Dayton, Indianapolis, and elsewhere; but in Cincinnati, it was so
evident, that he was, in a way, ashamed to tell it afterwards. This is
what occurred:

The <DW52> people were making great efforts to secure a Y.M.C.A., and
were, when he left the city, within fifteen thousand dollars of the
amount they were required to raise. The white people had given sixty
thousand. He became well acquainted with the secretary, and it was from
him that he learned, without inquiring, that, of twenty-nine 
teachers who were receiving a minimum of sixty dollars a month,
twenty-one had not subscribed one dollar toward this small amount the
<DW52> people were strenuously trying to raise. And of the eight who
had subscribed, five had grudgingly given one dollar each. The
secretary, himself a former teacher, admitted this with great
humiliation.

Wyeth had always found the teachers profuse with excuses, when it came
to buying the book. And he had found the doctors little better; but, to
avoid what he had grown to expect, and which he invariably met, he had
decided to ignore this class of his race. He did not offer criticism
upon the whole teaching staff, because, of the three teachers out of
twenty-nine in Cincinnati, who had actually contributed toward the
 Y.M.C.A., the professor had shown his sincerity and race
appreciation, by subscribing one hundred dollars, and had paid it.

So Sidney Wyeth would never have shown the book to the druggist, with a
view of sale, but Miss Palmer did. In her insistent manner, she urged
him to buy. Now Wyeth, as was his custom, always went to the leading
book store in each town, and had never failed to sell them a few books.
The leading store in Effingham had purchased ten copies, and had placed
an advertisement of ten inch space in the  paper, that ran for a
month, and which the druggist had seen. So, when Miss Palmer approached
him insistently, he declared that he had seen the book advertised at
that store, and, as was their custom, sometime during the year they
offered all books at forty-nine cents, he would, if he wanted the book,
purchase it then. Of course, he didn't want it, and Wyeth was provoked
that Miss Palmer had even shown it to him; but Miss Palmer had, and,
upon being told of these conditions, she at once ceased her efforts.

Of course, the druggist was wrong, and Wyeth knew it; but the druggist
didn't. He wanted to bet--any amount, that he was right--that one of the
biggest booksellers in the southland, offered all books, regardless of
"best sellers," sometime during the year at forty-nine cents a copy. It
cost the druggist two dollars to learn that he could be wrong, or
mistaken at least, even if he had _been to school and graduated from
college_, which, in the minds of his august contemporaries, meant that
he _knew_ everything.

It was Miss Palmer who advised Sidney that Dr. Randall, for druggists
were called doctors also, among these people, had _been to school and
graduated from college_.... And Miss Palmer was much chagrined that
Wyeth had acted so hastily.... For times were hard and two dollars was
_something_.... If he had caught her eye when she tried so hard to get
his, she would have gotten him outside for a minute, one little minute,
and then she would have told him who the other was.... She was almost in
tears as she remonstrated with him for his hasty act.... Miss Palmer was
sincere and meant it, because, for some reason, she was unable as yet to
account; she really liked Mr. Wyeth. "He has such eyes," she told her
cousin when she returned, while the bet was being settled.

"Well, we have lost two hours, so we will have to get a move on us now,
to make up for lost time. Of course," he said cheerfully, "I've made two
dollars, which is as much, maybe more, than we would have made in the
meantime----"

"You did what!" Miss Palmer was amazed.

It was some time before she could be brought to believe it.

"We will go to a different part of the quarter today," she said after a
time. Wyeth looked at her. Miss Palmer was very kind. And Sidney Wyeth
longed for kindness. When he saw Miss Palmer as she was that day, he
felt something amiss in his heart. She had said nothing today; whereas,
yesterday she had acted, he thought, boldly.

The car now seemed to be flying through space. It roared like a mad
thing, and filled him with a peculiar feeling; exhilaration overwhelmed
him. For one moment he forgot everything, and he felt a burning desire
to touch the woman. At his side sat Miss Palmer. She had been kind to
him, even though he had known her almost no time. And then suddenly his
hand found hers, and, closing over it one moment, he crushed it. A
moment later the impulse had passed.

The powerful car thundered on its way.

Miss Palmer worked hard that day. All the hours through, she talked and
talked. She simply _made_ those black people buy. "The story of a young
man, a young man of our race, who had the strength and courage of a
pioneer, went alone into the wilds of the great northwest, and there
made conquest. Think of that as an example, and incentive to effort for
your children!" They nodded and joined her in seriousness, though they
knew not what it all meant; but they did feel the strength of her eyes,
and the insistence held them.

Wyeth suggested the route.

She offered no objection. Whither he suggested, she followed meekly,
almost subserviently. And always, she sought, whenever she could get his
attention, his eyes, and into them she looked for something; but it was
ever something unfathomable she saw therein. But the more she was unable
to fathom those depths, the more her eagerness to do so became apparent.

She talked of her work as a teacher, she told him then of her ambition,
and her hopes; but Miss Palmer, withal she felt that day, could not,
somehow, impart the secret of her great ambition. Vainly she tried, in
her most artful way, to have him tell her something--something of
himself.

But he never did. That made it harder for Miss Palmer, for soon, she
felt, she just _had_ to know.

"Over there," said she, pointing to a row of new houses, uniform in
splendor, "are homes that are beautiful and still economical. It is my
intention to begin the purchase of one of them next year. All the people
living there in those houses are personal acquaintances of mine and
friends. And, as you will observe, there is a school just around the
corner, which adds greatly to the value of the property. I want also to
buy another home in that neighborhood, as soon as I have the first one
well under payment, and so have it paid for by the time my boy becomes
of age."

"Your boy!"

"Yes," she admitted, with a tired, hard smile.

"Oh...."

"I have been married."

"Oh...."

"But am now a widow."

"Oh...."

"But not by death."

"Oh...."

"No; _he_ is not dead--at least he wasn't a month ago." She shrugged her
shoulders, and went on now somewhat doggedly. "I am a grass widow, and
you know what that means...."

He made no answer; but she knew he heard her, and was listening. She
went on as only an unsuccessful and unhappy woman could. "Yes, when a
woman marries a man that she loves, and gives to him the best that's in
her, and, after years, is forced to give up the fight, her very heart,
for a piece of paper marked 'divorce,' she is never the same woman she
was, and might have continued to be. There are those who say: 'Oh, I
don't care;' but I'm going to tell you, they do. The woman lives on
apparently gay, but her heart is dead within her." For a long time now,
there was silence. Presently, she spoke again.

"I am living entirely now for my little boy. He is all I have, and I am
willing, I feel, to slave until the skin falls from my fingers, that he
may have his chance. I am planning to graduate him as early as possible,
and place him in a good northern school in the study of medicine."

Again Sidney Wyeth felt a peculiarity about his heart. His thoughts went
back into yesterdays, and he recalled all that he had lived and hoped
for, and then for one brief moment, another stood before him. Miss
Palmer was talking, but her voice seemed to come from far away.
Presently she touched him. He looked up and she saw the _something_ in
his eyes, and suddenly all she had been feeling passed, as she now
observed him closely. Her lips parted. They started to say: "You strange
man. You've had your troubles too." And then something else seemed to
say: "But you're game, oh you're game. You've lived a bitter pill, a
very bitter pill. Look into those eyes; study them, and if you have
suffered, and by that suffering you have learned, you can read that a
secret lurks therein; you say nothing, but you feel, nevertheless." What
Miss Palmer did say when her lips spoke was: "We'd better be going, Mr.
Wyeth. It's getting late. Hear the whistle of the furnace, and across
from that we hear another. That belongs to the Semet Solvay; but they
both are right. It's one o'clock and thirty minutes. Time to canvass; we
must go." Her voice was kinder now than ever.

They went.




CHAPTER FOUR

"_Eidder Stuck Up ah She's a Witch_"


They now passed between two large industrial plants of the Tennessee
Coal and Iron Company. To the left, roaring mightily, was one of the
many blast furnaces, where the pig iron was made from the crude ore.
Innumerable small cars, upon which sat huge ladles, whirled to and fro.
Backward and forward they were pulled, out of the great shed, where they
received their supply of molten matter from the largest cupolas in
existence. Everywhere the white heat flashed. Hundreds and thousands of
men, black and white (although as they were now seen, they were all
black), worked away. System was everywhere evident. The cars, with their
loads of molten heat, moved with systematic regularity, while each and
every man seemed to know and fill a certain place. Only a little
carelessness, a little disregard for established rules and regulation,
would lead to death, of one to a score of men.

To the right of them, filling the hot summer air with sulphuric and
gaseous fumes, the plant of the Semet Solvay Company was visible in all
its activity. It rose grim and forbidding, with intense heat, and
stretched back for a mile, seemingly, from where they passed. Even the
dirt upon which they walked, as they went into the quarters between the
plants, was hot and dead. No grass was to be seen. A sickly little short
weed struggled for existence in this medley of industry.

And now, before them rose a hill, at the top of which were the quarters.
High above the factories, as though seeking the air, and as if to be as
much as possible free from the sulphuric fumes that at times almost
stifled one, these houses stood, dirty, grim and forbidding. They rose
sinister-like in the dull sunlight, and fell back beyond as they
approached.

When the two had reached the summit and viewed the place closer, Sidney
was, for a time, awed by the sight. Row after row of little red or
brown, shell-like homes they were. With a thin board porch, they made
little resistance against the intense heat, for it seemed hotter here
than elsewhere.

At this hour, the inmates could be seen spread about on these little
porches, if it happened to be on the shady side; or else, they could be
seen in the houses, and some were even beneath them, anywhere they could
find a spot that would permit of a little rest; for, from one to three
weeks they must work at nights, twelve, thirteen and fourteen long
hours. The furnace cupolas had not been cool, in many instances, since
they were erected, and only two shifts were employed. They were
predominantly black people.

Only here and there was a mulatto to be seen. Little children filled the
grimy streets, that are made to stink fearfully from the slag used in
the paving. And now, as the sun beats down, it was soft and stuck to the
shoes, much to the provocation of the walker. Notwithstanding the
apparent lack of comfort, evident everywhere in this little village of
workers, these little black children, with an occasional Italian, seemed
as cheerful and happy and gay, as those of the aristocrats of the South
Highlands. They played busily, while their little faces, tanned by the
heat, were full of joy. They were as courteous--more so than one would
expect under the circumstances.

When Sidney Wyeth inquired, he learned that the T.C.I. company maintains
and pays the teachers well in the schools for the education of these
masses of little, growing human beings. Unfortunately, so torn and
frittered by race law legislation, the city and the county and the state
are far in arrears financially, and, were it left to those bodies, these
little children would not all, by any means, learn the art of reading
and writing; for, with all our boast as the greatest nation of civilized
people, there is no law here, that compels the parent, guardian and
what more, to send these children to school. Which, perhaps, accounts
for the fact that forty per cent of the black population are illiterate,
and almost as large a per cent of the whites.

They walked along together in silence, Miss Annie Palmer and Sidney
Wyeth. This silence was interrupted only when they drew near one or a
number of these little human beings, who smiled upon them, and made eyes
back at Sidney, who winked humorously, and then made them all happy with
a few pennies, for he loved children. They passed through this mass,
which our pen has attempted to describe, and found themselves soon in a
part given over to nature. Trees had made a brave fight for the right to
exist against poisonous gases, and some had succeeded, in a measure;
while garden truck, closer to its mother earth, had apparently succeeded
to a still greater degree. Fences were in evidence; pride as well. The
children were cleaner; the houses were not quarter-shacks any more; but
commodious, even large homes, and were occupied by a class, while
workers, nevertheless they had employed their earnings otherwise than
for liquor and dice, and other frivolities, the curse that submerges the
more ignorant and prideless. They were a kind people, these were, and
when approached with a suggestion of literature, they smiled and
replied: "We are fond of reading."

Thus Miss Palmer and Sidney Wyeth began work that day, and until the sun
was hurrying toward the west, they talked and said words of kind
sincerity to the many they met, for these people deserved it. What was
more important, some made effort toward their betterment. These were few
in number. For this reason, such kind words of encouragement--ay, very
often praise, was necessary.

So, one by one they subscribed, and hoped for the book soon, until their
orders were many. The evening had approached until the hour was near
six, when they came upon another, a black woman truly, but pride,
apparently, she had plenty. While not the finest, in point of value, her
house was one of the cosiest. It was painted in two colors, and reposed
quietly behind a medley of small trees, around which was a fair stand of
blue grass. The lace curtains, all clean and white, contrasted
beautifully behind and below the pale green shades, while within the
furniture was artistically arranged.

They were invited in, and made most welcome. "Yes," said the black
woman, "I am fond, very fond of good books, and when it comes to one
which my race has produced, I want it, for such are few. So you may take
my name, and bring the book as soon as you can."

They thanked her profusely, and spoke, as they had spoken many times
that day, kind words of encouragement and praise. She appreciated it.

Yet some said of this woman, before the two made this call:

"She's a mean <DW65>, and you'll neveh be 'vited in da' house! Um-m! She
has no 'commadation 'bout her, and she's eidder stuck up, ah she's a
witch!" Whereupon they shook their black heads, and went their way with
a mutter.

But 'ere long another--and he was himself a practical and successful
man--said: "She's O.K., a fine woman; but she runs a grocery store while
her husband digs coal, and, well, she doesn't credit Tom, Dick and
Harry." And then Wyeth and his companion understood.

       *       *       *       *       *

The day's work was done at last, and they were hurrying back to town.
They were tired, both mentally and physically, but their spirits were
high. They were, moreover, grateful, and seemed, to a great degree, to
understand each other. Their friendship has reached the stage at which
they could indulge in confidences, Miss Palmer especially. She regarded
Wyeth, out of her liquid eyes, and smiled kindly, confidentially. "I'm
glad I took up the work--now."

She smiled with more confidence than before. "Yes; I am, really. I have
_enjoyed_ it." And still she smiled. He did too. She smiled back, and
then, in a voice that was so soft, and kind, and confidential, she said:
"You wrote it, didn't you?"

He heard the car as it crashed along through the night, for the sun had
set long ago. The trees, for they were passing through the forest,
flashed darkly through the electric lighted car, and Miss Palmer waited.
He did not reply. After a time--shall we say minutes--she sought his
eye. She was languid, and resigned to a degree. "If you would only admit
that which I am positive is true, it would be so nice. I would truly be
satisfied."

"What matter could it make?" and then he stopped. She might be more
interesting curious than otherwise.... He remained silent.

"Oh, why do you maintain this silence regarding the authorship?" she
fretted, moving restlessly about.

"Cannot we go along and sell it--that, in particular, is all that
matters, isn't it?" He tried to be reasonable. "You will, as you must
now see," he argued, "only need to go to the _industrial_ people, and
success will be yours." She was oblivious to all this. He resumed,
somewhat uncertainly:

"If many people--especially those in the class to which I feel you
belong--knew or thought that I am the author of this book, their
possible interest might become doubtful; whereas, with no thought than
the ordinary--that is the usual fetish--they _might_, after reading it,
be much impressed with its message. Don't you agree with me?" He wanted
to be reasonable, but Miss Palmer was silent.

She was still so when they left the car some minutes later. When they
had reached the curbing and stepped upon the walk, they saw Hatfield. He
had his suit case and was in somewhat of a hurry, from the strides he
was making.

"Where is he going, home?" inquired Miss Palmer.

"I don't know," replied the other, "but I wouldn't think so at least. He
never said anything to me in regard to it, when I left him this
morning." Yet so he was, though he never said so, when they met him and
exchanged a few words.

"I'm going to a friend's house," and he gave Wyeth a number. They told
him of their success, whereupon he secured a dollar, and that was the
last time they saw him. He went back with the same porter they had come
over with.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was Legs who informed Sidney that young Hatfield was going back to
Attalia. Legs was having some experiences of his own. Before he related
them to Wyeth, he inquired:

"Well, Books, how goes it?" He was cheerful as usual--in fact Legs was
always cheerful--with one exception, which we shall cite presently.

"Fine, Legs," Wyeth beamed. "Couldn't be better, which is saying a great
deal. How's things with you?"

"_Could_ be a whole lot better," he laughed, with dancing eyes; "but
they have been worse. I've been busy though. Working right along. Got me
a gal now, and won a little change today that I might lose tonight."

He did--and more. He lost all he had, borrowed a quarter from Wyeth,
wanted a dollar, but Wyeth halted him, advising that he loaned only to
purchase the means to fill his stomach, and then only when it was
begging for bread.

After this, and for some time to come, Legs' fortune varied from near
prosperity, to going for a whole day without anything to eat. And at
these times, he dispensed with his usual cheerfulness.

One day, he pawned his meagre jewelry for all he could obtain thereon,
which amounted to only a dollar and a half. He ate a big meal at a cheap
restaurant, got his shirts from the laundry, paid fifty cents on his
room rent, and went with the remainder to a game. Luck was with him, as
it is with all, once in a while. True, it was only in a small measure,
but he had sufficient to finish paying his rent, bought a cold lunch
that he sensibly tucked away for future purposes, and went to bed with a
dollar in his pocket.

Sleeping peacefully at two A.M., he was awakened by John Moore, the man
of the house, who told him--Sidney heard this--of a great game close by,
and where hundreds were at stake. So Legs got up, not too cheerfully,
from his comfortable bed and peaceful sleep, dressed, and a moment
later, followed Moore out into the night, and to fortune. (?)

He came back in about an hour. He was drunk and broke, angry with
himself, and more so with John Moore.

"Damn that <DW65>!" he cried terribly, when alone with Wyeth. "Damn him,
damn him, d-a-m-n him! Came in here and got me out of bed," he roared,
brandishing his long arms. "When I was sleeping the sleep of peace.
'Nigga's gotta big game on; all kinds a-money. I'n beat 'm in scan, know
I c'n.' And then like a fool," and here he looked down at himself, as if
to see which would be the best part to kick, "I up and goes with him. Of
course, he must have a drink for himself; so a quarter first went to
'get him right.' And then to the game. No sooner had we arrived than
'slip me a haf,' said he, and like a damn fool I did. He bet a quarter
that a dinge who held the craps wouldn't hit, and lost. He repeated--and
lost again. He wanted the last quarter, declaring his luck would begin
with it; but I forestalled him and got the craps myself and threw them
dancing, clear across the table, and they turned up," Wyeth waited
eagerly, "--craps!"

"Doggone that nigga! 'f he comes around me again, I'm going to shoot him
in the head--right through the middle of the head!" And with this solemn
declaration, he went forthwith back to bed. He slept peacefully, and
awakened the following morning, hungry and madder than ever, as the fact
dawned upon him. Wyeth loaned him a quarter, and gave him some good
advice.

"Quit it! Get a job! Work! Honest work! Come to the room with a book,
read and thereby learn something and save your money!"

"I will, so help me God!" declared the other, feeling repentant all the
way through.

"And remember--in speaking of the God--he helps those who help
themselves."

"My father was a preacher!"

Wyeth made no further comment; but Legs was a good rustler. He did
better--for a while. He looked the town from end to end for the kind of
work he followed, but without success. So it continued, day after day,
his great problem was to get something to fill that stomach, which was
now flabby, very much so at times. He managed, by diligent application,
to drop something into it once and sometimes twice a day, and one night
he came to the room with an exclamation, that he had eaten three times
that day, and had a dime left in his pocket. He drew this forth,
balanced it on the tip of his forefinger, observed it long and
earnestly, and then said: "Little one, we are friends, it's true, but
such we cannot possibly remain; for tomorrow you will have to go the way
of the rest," whereupon he touched his stomach with the forefinger of
his other hand. "So, tonight, on a pilgrimage of fortune we must go, you
and I. It's more or less--possibly nothing. So, to the first crap game I
take thee. And once there in the glare, I shall risk you against the
rest. Therefore, little one, prepare thyself, for soon I shall bet thee,
understand, in the first crap game I come to, a nickel at a time."

He did--and won. He continued then for some time to win and win, and
resumed all the cheerfulness he once possessed. His winnings continued
until he had redeemed his jewelry, paid a week's room rent in advance,
was clean, and seven dollars to the good over all. Then it began to go
the other way. He quit, however, and deposited five dollars with his
friend Wyeth.

"I'm doing this," said he, "because these roomers, who shoot craps too,
would not allow me to be otherwise than broke." Thus the fortune of Legs
took a turn for the good, for one day. The next night he went broke.
Thus we will leave him for the present, and return to Sidney Wyeth and
Miss Annie Palmer, who sold books.




CHAPTER FIVE

"_A Bigger Liah They Ain't in Town_"


John Smith was a large man, fat, and big-hearted as well, so Wyeth had
been told previously. Sidney met both Smith and his wife, and she was
larger still. She, too, was a good, kind woman, with a multitude of
friends whom they had made by kindness to others. She was a full blood,
while he was not more than half. Together they would weigh to exceed
five hundred pounds. And, of course, he was a preacher.

Said he, when he had heard the story of _The Tempest_: "Yes, I'll take
one--no, you may put me down for two." And then he seated himself with
as much comfort as was possible upon the greasy counter, for John Smith
was a successful merchant, who made his living by the sale of
necessities, to a multitude of his clan, who were employed by the Semet
Solvay Company. As he made the above remark, he was ready, as we can
see, for a long conversation.

"Been takin' many odah's?" he inquired.

"Oh, lots of them," the other replied, cheerfully.

"M-m. Who all yu' got in that list?" he went on.

The other shoved it before him.

"M-m," said he, running his eyes over the order list. "See yu' have Lem
Jackson down he' fo' one."

"Yes," said the other; "seems to be quite a fine fellow," he commented.

"M-m; but a bigger liah they ain't in town." He was not much excited by
the statement, and went on calmly: "He's fine all right, though--to
drink whiskey. M-m. Fight 'n' steal, and lay around drunk, and go
regularly to jail, and likewise have somebody pay him out. I have done
so myself, a few times, 's why I happen t' know. M-m. Two times in
succession I have done that in the last thirty days. M-m; but the next
time he gets his black hide in there, in so fo' 's I'm concerned, he c'n
stay. Yeh, 'n' 'twouldn't 'sprise me 'f the officers didn' come rid'n up
at any time fo' 'im, 'cause 'es been actin' mighty suspicious the last
few days. I'n bet he's been int' somethin'."

"Heah! Heah!" he cried, jumping from the counter and hurrying to the
platform in front, "what'n the devil you all makin' all this he' noise
'bout!"

"O-oh, uncle," cried a little one, grasping his trousers and looking up,
"the p'lice uz jes' gone ova the hill wi' Lem Jackson. Dey has 'rested
'im fo' stealin' coppa wiah."

Sadly, Wyeth drew his pencil through a name he had written not an hour
before.

"I'm glad to get your opinion concerning these, Elder," he said
gratefully. "The ones we have had down here have been pretty good, and I
don't wish to be cherishing expectations that are not likely to be
realized. So tell me, if you don't mind, who can be relied on."

"Aw, I do'n mind," he rumbled; "'cause them that's all right is all
right; and them that ain't, ain't. So whateve' I tell you 's all the
same in the end, exceptin' you won't need t' build on them that ain't.

"These people who had oh'd, 'n' took the' books so readily, 'n' did'n'
haf t' wait fo' pay day, ah, among the good people we got out he',
that's the reason." He took the paper from Wyeth's hand, and, pointing
out the names, he began:

"He's Joe Sim's now, I see you have, 's as good as gold. You c'n count
that book delivered; also I see you have Tom Hutchis, 'n' 'es O.K. Jerry
Carter is also; but here's Joe Tuttle, outside-a Lem Jackson, a bigger
liah, gambler--tin horn gambler, never lived; 'n' he caint read, why has
he subscribed fo' the book?" The other looked at the name, and then
said:

"I think Miss Palmer took that order."

"Aw, that's it. He's chivalrous, all right, and would be gallant enough
to subscribe to anything a woman's carrying around; but he won't be man
'nough t' take it, 'n' he knows it." At this point he laid the list
down, stuck his big stomach forward, rested his hands thereupon, and
with his finger to emphasize, he forthwith gave Wyeth a lecture on
Negroology.

"I been runnin' this sto' heah fo' thoiteen yeahs, 'n' lemme tell y',
brother, I know these nigga's fo' what they is." He paused a moment, and
surveyed the list again, critically. Then, laying it down, said: "Jump
up on the counter and rest yo'se'f, I gotta story t' tell yu'." Wyeth
obeyed, and John Smith began.

"I was run outta Geo'gi', 'n' I ain' 'shame to admit it; but
notwithstandin' the fact, 'twas a mistake 'n' aftwa'd the whi' people
found it out 'n' was sorry, 'n' wanted me t' return. That, however, was
afta I was ove' he' 'n' doin' business, 'n' mo' bus'ness than I had eve'
done befo'. So I jes' thanked them fo' admittin' to the mistake, 'n'
stay's he'. Well, 's I was sayin', I came ove' he' 'n' sta'ted a sto'. I
had owned a big fa'm back the' in Geo'gi', 'n' I received $10,000 fo' it
'n' put's most uv it in th' sto' 'n' trusted cullud people. In three
ye's I's broke--flat broke. Did'n' have nothin' but my credit. I had
opened that sto' wi' the finest stock of eve'thing: Clothing, boots 'n'
shoes, groceries 'n' hardware, 'n' 's I said, trusted my people.

"Now a nigga, with rare exceptions, will not pay 'n' hones' debt, oh,
no! He'll lie, 'n' lie, 'n' lie! T' make a long story sho't, they lied
me outta bus'ness. So I broke, but wi' plenty sense, I sta'ted all ove'
agin, wi' the help of the Lawd 'n' the whi' people, what knowed I was
hones' 'n' ambitious.

"That was ten yeah's ago. Seven ye's ago I made a 'rangement wi' the
Semet Solvay Company t' give these da'kies credit, and th' company has
since then, held the amount from the' pay envelope. From then on I began
to climb, but I had a drawback that was like a tick in my shirt, but
I'll git t' that later. Now nobody c'n say I gets my money by holding up
these nigga's, either; fo' I gives 's much 'n' mo' fo' th' money than
does the average sto' keeper 'bout he'.

"And so, with the help a th' Lawd, and a good wife, I have now
twenty-nine houses 'n' lots, 'n' a little money besides. And he' comes
the drawback I sta'ted t' speak uv. Eve' week that comes ove' my head, I
mus' spend good money t' get some a these low-down big mouth nigga's
outta jail. Last ye', 'n' you wouldn't b'lieve it, but I spent nine
hund'd dollahs a-gettin' nigga's outta jail, 'n' this ye' promises t'
exceed that."

"But why will you pay their fines?" exclaimed the other. "Why don't you
let the skunks stay and work it out?"

"That's it! That's it!" he exclaimed, moving about on the counter. "I
swear at the end of each ye' that I ain' go'n pay another fine, but they
pr'ceed diligently t' get locked up, 'n' I, bye and bye, comes fo'th wi'
the long green 'n' pays'm out.

"Now he's a incident uv it: Take this heh Lem Jackson, fo' instance. A
low-down o'nry hound, it would be a blessing t' this dirty little
district 'f he was in his grave; but the troubles comes by him not being
there. So he, on earth a-runnin' a-roun'; but wi' a family--a wife 'n'
chillun a-hollerin' fo' bread.

"It comes 'bout by his wife, who was one a-the finest girls in this burg
when he married her. So yu'n see, when he pr'ceeds t' git drunk, 'n'
drunk right, understand, 'n' then gets t' squabblin' wi' some other no
count nigga, 'n' gets run in, who's affected?"

The other winced.

"It's the same wi' dozens of the others. I'd let them stay in there 'n'
rot, so fo' 's they is concerned; but t' me comes a cry'n wife, 'n'
a-string-a hongry kids, so I goes 'n' bails the devil out." He paused a
moment now to breathe a spell. "'Cassionally," he resumed, "I c'n, with
some 'nfluence I have with the judge, get some out without payin' a
fine; but th' lawyer must have his, anyhow, 'n' a nigga, 's I done
already said, would'n' pay the Lo'd Jesus when he's out; but promises to
bring eve' dime he makes t' you when he's in.

"So, the're my bu'den, come day, go day. Over theah, fo' 'nuther
instance, stands a nigga--see him? The one that's so drunk 'n' noisy? I
got him out las' week, when he had received two hund'd days on th'
gang, 'n' t'day I got his brother out who was locked up Friday."

"Why can they not keep out of so much trouble?" said Wyeth seriously.

"Whiskey. The minute they get the' pay, the first thing they wants is
whiskey, 'n' then a crap game."

"And women," said Wyeth.

"Yes," said the other; "but they won't spend any money on them; no, that
would in one sense, be too much like right."

"What per cent of them, do you think, who, after giving their word as a
bond, would stand to it, a promise, you understand?"

"I'm 'shame t' admit it, I'm 'shame t' admit it; but, honestly, I
wouldn't estimate that more than two out of ten could be trusted to keep
their word, other than t' buy a pint a whiskey, or shoot dice until they
did'n' have a dime."

"What effect is the white man's prejudice having upon him directly?"
Wyeth inquired.

"None! None! In the days of old, and even yet, the white man's prejudice
was very hindersome; but, as time has wore on, and the races have come
to expect each other as they know they will be, the prejudice of the
white man is not near so hindersome as some a ouh people would have you
b'lieve it. Of co'se," he added thoughtfully, "politic's is in a way
denied him; but a great many more can vote than they do if they would
pay the' poll taxes. All in all, you'll find so much ignorance, and
ignorance by preference among them, and their minds are so polluted with
the devil, until politic's as they are now, would not make much
difference. I sometimes shudder when I look around me and listen, to
conclude what the race is sometime coming to."

"You have a large number of churches, a hundred odd, I think. That
should act as a great feature toward the moral evolution."

"Very little, very little," he returned, shaking his head sadly. "For
this reason: The churches, while having, of course, many good men as
their pastors, are filled up with more grafters, it seems, and mean
rascals as well, until the calling is not fulfilled. I don't hesitate t'
say that there are more grafters among the preachers, than any other
profession among the <DW52> people in this town. And the Baptists have,
and still are, building so many little churches, until every dime
available, and unavailable too, is used fo' this purpose, instead of
some means to help the chillun."

"Don't you think, figuratively speaking, that there are too many <DW64>
churches?"

"'Course the' is, a-course. Why there are more than seventy Baptist
churches among <DW64>s in the town alone. That in itself, is an example
of the utter selfishness tha' p'vails heh."

"How does it come about? It seems to me that the organization of the
church system must be very loose, to permit of such a wholesale building
of churches all the time. It would seem advisable that if they had fewer
churches, with better conduct in the administration of those few, more
good would result."

"Well, the Baptists are dominated, to some extent, by the association,
but it is inadequate in many ways. For instance, when they rule a pastor
out, he claims to a handful of devouts and friends, that he has been
made the goat of a frame-up, starts him a church in some shack, or any
other place where he can concentrate a few shouters, and continues."

"And what effect does all this have upon the children?"

He held up his hand in despair. "Brother, brother! That is the sad part.
The  child in this town is lucky, 'f he becomes anything else but
a criminal before he does anything else. His surroundings 'n'--what's
that other thing?" he stopped short, and held his hand to his head.

"Environment?"

"That's it! His 'nvironment is so bad. He is surrounded by eve' thing
conducive t' crime 'n' degeneration. He sees, hears, 'n' is brought in
contact, in his eve' day life, with all that is evil, 'n' learns t'
drink whiskey befo' he gets into pants. And now, instead of the <DW64>
churches concentrating their efforts toward the raising of the child,
they put all the fo'ce into the preacher's lungs, trying t' convert ole
sinnahs that nothin' but hell itse'f will effect."

"A library, and Y.M.C.A., properly conducted, might have some effect for
the good, don't you think?"

"A dead investment fo' yeahs t' come, fo' the reason that they would
have no incentive to attend either. Without clean, intelligent parents,
'n' better conducted churches, such cannot fulfill the purpose."

"Hadn't we better be going?" called Miss Palmer at this moment. "It's
getting late."

The two shook hands as they parted. As Sidney went over the hill, that
sloped for a long way down to the car line, he did not seem to hear Miss
Palmer, and he answered her mechanically.

He was thinking, thinking of what he had learned, in the last hour, from
John Smith, merchant.




CHAPTER SIX

"_Yes--Miss Latham_"


Three weeks had passed since Mildred Latham first saw the city she now
called home. She considered it the only home she ever really had;
because she had in one person a friend, such as she had never felt she
would have. That friend was Constance Jacobs. Daily, they went forth
together in their work, which was the sale of _The Tempest_. There was
another, who was, apparently, a friend also. That was Wilson Jacobs--but
more of him later.

Where there is congeniality, understanding and sympathy, there is
happiness to a degree. When such is the case, every day--despite even an
arduous task, within itself, becomes a holiday. Such were the days which
Mildred Latham experienced. Constance was like a sister. One of those
rare creatures, whose happiness came in her honest and sincere desire,
to see that others were happy about her. She had found Mildred a girl
secretive to an unfathomable degree, and, to say the least, strange; but
withal, a personality, and a sympathy that was so sincere, even devout,
that she loved her more than her own soul. That affection seemed to grow
and become more apparent when she saw, slowly but truly, nevertheless, a
cloud lifting from the brow of the girl who came to her door in quest of
lodging, not long since.

"Wilson," said she one day, "do you know, can you appreciate how much it
means to one to please somebody; to make one feel happy, relieved, and
in turn, see that person, come to know her, and see how genuinely she
can, in turn, appreciate what one does?"

"You are dealing in riddles today, Constance. I don't understand; but I
will guess. Is it Mil--Miss Latham?"

"Yes--_Miss_ Latham," whereupon she smiled upon him, and then looked
away.

"Yes," she resumed, looking out of the window upon a small garden she
was trying to further, "it is she. I think if I know her until the end
of my days, there will always be something strange--something I do
not--can never understand; but, in addition to showing a kind regard for
the little things it pleases one's heart to do, she makes me so happy."

"She keeps me puzzled," said Wilson. "I can never make up my mind about
her. She is indeed a mystery. I do not, as I can see, have any clue in
guessing who she is--and what she is, nor can I even conjecture. She is
a lady. But as you say, and have said before, there is something about
her that one can never understand." He was thoughtful. Presently he
heard his sister.

"She is an excellent saleswoman, although I do not think she was selling
the book until she came here. I have not asked her. She is one of these
people who, while not forbidding approach, yet her manner does not
invite questioning. But she is a business woman--girl. I cannot come to
see her as a girl, and yet, in the sense we know her, she is not a
woman."

"I finished the book. That young man had an extraordinary experience, to
say the least," said Wilson.

"Mr. Carroll has finished the copy I sold him, but his sympathies are
not altogether with the pioneer; he criticises him."

"How's that? Oh, yes, I understand. I have heard the same thing from
others. They see it; that the pioneer should have seen the evil and
insincerity of the preacher, and should have governed his happiness
accordingly. Yes," he went on, "but the pioneer _did_ see that the
preacher meant no good; he was aware, fully aware that he was about to
become the victim of an intrigue. But regardless of this fact, it must
be appreciated, that if this grave incident had not come to pass in the
life of that young man, we would not now have the book. Men do not----"

"And women."

"Yes, of course," he smiled, "write that kind of book unless their lives
have met with extreme reverses; something in their souls has gone amiss,
and, as a last resort--I can't quite find the words to explain it; but
it--what they write--is a brief of the soul; while the public is the
court, and to this court, as in the common court of the land, they cry
out for justice, restitution."

"Well," sighed Constance, "whoever this Lochinvar is, and regardless of
his misfortunes, writing the book has made one person happy. That person
is Mildred Latham. The book is her hobby. I would give something to
learn why she is so wrapped up in the work; but it gives her more
pleasure, I am sure, to show it to someone, and tell them the story a
dozen times a day, than it does some of those levee <DW64>s to get
drunk. And the work, she is simply lost in it. She makes the six work
days of the week seem like one, with her cheerful enthusiasm. The very
life in itself seems to please her. To make readers out of multitudes
who've never given reading a second thought, seems to be her great
ambition. She succeeds, too. And at the end of such days, more than at
any other time, she is like I fancy her to be: Feminine, lovable,
sympathetic--human in all its depths."

"We certainly struck it rich when she condescended to play for the
choir. And she can seem to get more out of the organ than anyone has
heretofore."

"She sings too. I never knew that she could sing so sweetly, until she
led last Sunday, when Bernice Waverly was ill."

"She almost made me forget my text."

"She's coming now," whispered Constance, as, upon the narrow walk, a
familiar footfall sounded. Presently the screen slammed lightly behind
the one of their conversation.

"I've been clear to the river, walked all the way there and back. Thirty
blocks in all," she cried cheerfully, surveying both, smilingly.

"And after all the walking you did today in delivering!" Constance
remonstrated softly. "You mustn't overdo your good health, dear. We
would both be terribly upset if you were taken down in any way. Did you
know that?" The other was taken by surprise. She was plainly embarrassed
for a moment, and to dismiss it she plucked childlike at her skirts.
Presently she said lightly:

"Always saying something, Constance." And suddenly she flew into the
caress of the other. "I haven't become used to such words, yet, and
you'll have to be careful in using them. Because," and here she buried
her head against the other's shoulder, "I might be likely to boo-hoo."
The three laughed it away now.

"Constance tells me, Miss Latham," said Wilson, "that you are an agent,
sophisticated in all the arts that result in a sale." His eyes now
sought hers with unfeigned admiration.

"Constance is, too; and did she not mention herself?" She rated
Constance now the least bit severely. "You never give yourself credit
for anything. Why don't you?" She frowned, but it was too grateful--her
appearance--to be accepted seriously.

"How many copies are both of you delivering weekly now?" he inquired.

"We delivered eighty-seven this week so far, and forty-five last week,"
replied Mildred, sitting very close to his sister on a small settee.

"Have you ever thought, Mildred," said Constance, "that selling a book,
or anything, for that matter, is a task within itself, calling always
for initiative. The average person has not the courage, at least he has
not practiced it, that would make a salesman or saleswoman. All of us,
with possibly a few exceptions, are chattels, human chattels. The
ordinary person would stand on his head on a nail for an hour, if
someone told him that was right; whereas, to take upon himself the task
of leading anything, he is an utter failure."

"Constance is psychological today, don't you think?" smiled her brother;
but Mildred accepted the words seriously and listened for more.
Constance had a turn of logic, and was in the habit, Mildred had
learned, of saying some very serious things at times; although she could
not be regarded as entirely serious.

"That is why I think you are so successful, Mildred," she went on. "You
seem to be possessed with initiative; it seems a part of your
construction; you seem charged with it; and, in addition to this, is
your kind regard and appreciation, for another's point of view."

"Oh, please don't tell me so many nice things. I can't believe it; I
have never seen myself in the way you speak of, and if you persist,
dear," and her smile upon Constance was the softest, "you might make me
vain--and I would almost rather be anything than vain--and spoil it all.
Here!" She kissed her a long lingering kiss, and then flew to her room.

"Wilson," said his sister, when they were alone again, "when I think of
the young man and his experiences in the story, and his make-up and
point of view, I find myself connecting Mildred. She fills my dreams in
that story as the One Woman. How successful and how happy that man could
have been, had he had a treasure like her, for his own."

"Well, yes, possibly. No doubt; but if, taking the story as it is, if he
had her now, after what has come to pass, I judge he could appreciate
her real worth to a greater degree. Don't you agree with me?"

She was thoughtful a moment before replying. "Yes, I think I do. It
_would_ be different now." She was reflective for some time before she
went on again. "The other day I said to her: 'If you had been in the
girl's place in the story, how would you have accepted this father?' I
shall not soon forget how strange she looked. Her entire being seemed to
undergo a change. From the way I recall it, her mind seemed to go back
into the past, and she was so odd for a few seconds, that I was sorry I
said it. Then, after a moment, during which she seemed to struggle with
something, she said: 'I would not, you may be sure, have been like the
girl.' That was all, and I said no more; nor do I think I will again.
She acted--ah, I can't hardly frame it; but, frankly, too peculiar."

"I'm going to bed, Sis'," said her brother now. His eyes were evidence
that he should go. He was awake now for a moment. "I've been much
interested in what has passed tonight, Sis'. I'll be glad to talk on the
same subject again." He was silent a moment, and then, rising, he said,
"Good night."

"Good night, Wilson."

Then she heard his door close, after watching him until he reached his
door; after that, she fell into deep and serious thinking. It concerned
him. He was all she had--this brother--and his future was in her
thoughts now, a grave concern of hers. Yes, and Wilson Jacobs was now
one and thirty.... He had no wife--not even did he see women in that
sense. Constance didn't think of herself now--nor at any other time,
apparently. And yet she was twenty-eight; but she felt, if her brother
was to be a happy man, he should consider his life more seriously. He
was lost in his purpose. Mildred Latham was a girl, the kind of girl she
would like to see him take notice of.

And then she was jerked back into a sudden reminder.... Wilson _had_
been acting different lately. How could she, for one moment, have
forgotten it. Yes, he had been acting _very_ differently.... He was all
attention when Mildred was saying anything. He was careful never to
disturb her. And only tonight, when they had spoken of her together, he
had almost called her by her first name.

Constance Jacobs was now oblivious to what was about her. She continued
to think. Mildred was kind, she was intelligent; she was--and here
Constance forgot the words Mildred had said not an hour before, 'I
cannot stand vanity'--beautiful.

She retired presently, but it was sometime before she went to sleep.




CHAPTER SEVEN

"_It All Falls Right Back on Society_"


"Two <DW64>s killed yesterday in the city, is the homicide record for
this town, which makes thirteen killed in the last week," said Wilson
Jacobs the following morning, as he laid the paper down to take up his
knife at breakfast. "Every day, at least, it is almost every day, there
is a murder of each other by our people in this town. Saturday night or
Sunday usually sees four or five such crimes."

"Isn't it deplorable?" breathed Mildred, seating herself at the other
side. "What accounts, Mr. Reverend"--she somehow found it awkward to
call him Reverend--"Jacobs, for such acts, that is, such is to be
expected; but why does there happen to be so much of it here?"

"Ignorance--lack of intelligence in our people. This city has a
preponderance of ignorant, polluted people among the <DW64>s. They flock
into this town from all around, and represent the low, polluted, and
depraved element of our race. They settle about the levee district,
spend their earnings for the worst whiskey, give the remainder of their
time to gambling and all forms of vice, and murder is the natural
consequence."

"Is there no way, there are so many churches, it would seem that so many
places of worship would have a good effect upon these people?" said the
other anxiously.

"More than a hundred <DW64> churches in this town; but they are, for the
most part, churches only. Seventy of these are Baptist, and they are
building more right along."

"I meet it every day in my work," she said. "Always so many apparently
good women, mothers and daughters, sisters, who say: 'I sho would lak t'
have that book, but y' see, it's lak this. We's building a new chu'ch;
or, a rally is on next Sunday, 'n' all the women is axed t' give five
dollars 'n' the men ten,' etc. and etc. But that is not the most I hear;
it is: 'Lawd, Lawd, honey, yu' sweet li'l chile. I sho is sorry to
disappint you. I sho is. You walkin' way up heh 'n' bringin' tha' book;
but don' you know, honey, that low down nigga man a mine went off Sat'dy
night un got drunk, got t' fightin' and was 'rested. I did'n' pay no
'tention when 'e did'n' show up a-Sat'dy night; nor was I wo'ied Sunday;
but when Monday mawnin' come 'n' no nigga, den I knowed de p'lice done
got dat nigga. And dey had, Sat'dy night fo' fightin' 'n' 'sturbin de
peace. So I done took yo' money, honey, 'n' got dat nigga out. 'n' now,
honey, I jes' cain' say when I'll be ready, 'cause 'e done lost his job,
too, so that means I gotta take ceh' a both uv us.'"

"If we allow our minds to dwell too long on it, frankly, Miss Latham,"
said he, "we will become discouraged. Where ignorance is bliss, it may
be folly to be wise; but it is unprofitable, from a moral point of view.
So, as long as we have a preponderance of ignorance, just so long are we
going to have a dreadful homicide record in this, and other towns."

"I read an editorial in the paper recently, with regard to murder and
the record per city," said Miss Latham. "I see that the south leads. And
this town and Effingham seem to struggle for the lead of them all. It
was not decided as to which had the most, but it stated that more people
were murdered in either one of them than in any other city in the world,
regardless of population."

"And that is not all. In both of these cities, no data is kept of the
number the police kill. I know policemen personally, and see them on
duty, who have killed as many as half a dozen <DW64>s."

"Oh, be merciful!" she cried. "Can this really be so?"

"It _is_ so," he maintained. "Why last week I stopped a few days in
Effingham on the way from Attalia, and read on the front page of one of
the leading papers, and which was accompanied by a cut, that an old
policeman, who had seen twenty-five years on the force, and who had
recently been made a captain, had never killed a man. It was this fact,
obviously, that was the most extraordinary."

"Cannot the city government do more toward the suppression of so much
crime?" she asked, forgetting to eat her breakfast.

"They cannot to any great extent, because it is the task of society. The
very foundation upon which this crime rests, is due to ignorance on the
part of the masses. You cannot reason with a mind that has no training.
Have you ever seen it that way?" he asked, more serious now than she had
ever seen him before, notwithstanding he was a serious person.

She nodded.

"No one can, the law of the land cannot. It all falls right back on
society." He was too serious now for a time to say anything, and he ate
his meal with his face contracted in serious thought. Presently he said:
"I am a minister of the gospel, and have the highest regard for the
Presbyterian faith; but, honestly, when I see the Baptists with their
loose system, keeping the black population that make up their body, and
with little, almost no effort whatever toward the education of the
children, and when I see still further, the Methodists with their better
system, in that they are not held back so much by 'splitters,' I
sometimes regret that the world took Martin Luther seriously. For, say
what they will, the conduct of the Catholics in regard to the children,
marriage and divorce, has an encouraging result in our civic life."

"I believe that if there were a Christian movement here as there is in
the northern cities, Y.M.C.A. and libraries, and if those who are
leaders of the race would encourage the patronage of these places,
eventually, it would result to the public's good," she said, after some
thought.

"Only one place in the south, as yet, seems to be making any effort
along such Christian lines. And you would not believe it, but the
greatest barrier to this has been the preachers. In their church effort,
they have the people fairly well under control, but to their own end.
In Attalia, they have almost come to appreciate the fact, that a more
intelligent and cleaner populace reacts to the welfare of the church.
Everything seems favorable toward getting one."

"I am sure that would make a great difference in time," said she,
heartily. "In Cincinnati, they expect to begin one soon. They have
almost all the subscriptions in now." She was silent for a time, and
then pursued: "Do you not think such a movement could be stimulated
here?"

"Not at the present, I think, regardless of the great need of one, and
of the great good it could do. It will be some time before the preachers
would come to lend their support--in fact, I do not think it could be
expected until they have been shown, in a majority, that such would
react for the good of all."

"Oh, my!" cried Constance, entering at this moment, "you two appear to
have worked yourself into a frenzy of excitement." She surveyed both,
questioningly.

"We have," her brother replied.




CHAPTER EIGHT

"_Where Are You From?_"


Mildred worked hard that day. As she went from the rear of one house to
another, she studied the people she met, more seriously than she had
done before. By this time, her work had become automatic, and she did
not find it hard or monotonous, to say the same thing over and over
again. She had, moreover, become accustomed to the class of people among
whom she worked. She liked it now, and for more than one reason; but
perhaps the greatest reason, was because it brought her into the closest
contact with humanity, without regard to conventionality. The people she
met daily, with few exceptions, made no attempt to be conventional. They
were human, almost all of them. She met them in their vocations; she
studied their environment. Some she saw, grown people with families, but
themselves like children. They gave their word with apparent sincerity,
and did not make any more effort to keep it than the merest babe. Why
did they not? She asked this question, and then studied them carefully
for the answer. It was ignorance. It amused her to find so many who were
positive they did not want it, did not even read, so how could they use
it? "But you can read?" she would inquire. "Sho!" would invariably come
the answer. Then came argument. Force of reason on her part, and
sometimes, she guiltily felt, it was by force of argument they were
induced to buy. She now paid little attention when they remarked that
they did not want the book. Obviously, since the most stubborn ones
were, very often after argument, the most appreciative buyers, she found
it reasonable to ignore their words of objection.

Mildred's life was a diversion that was much to her liking. She was
learning the greatest lesson a woman could learn--the study of human
nature.

On Sunday, when she met others (Wilson Jacobs' church had for its
members the more thoughtful and respectable <DW64> element), she was the
recipient of many surprised expressions. They were, she invariably
found, surprised that she canvassed among the servant class. She did not
appraise them of the practical side of it; in fact, of the masses, these
were more able to buy. She saw, as the Sundays went by, that much of the
display was a pretense. Many of those who expressed such surprise were
themselves unwilling to buy a book. Always she found (and especially
among the teachers, whom she thought the most pretentious) some artful
excuse. Most of them had a library which contained many books, but few
by their own race. They had the works of a poet who had died some years
ago; they also had a copy of a book or so by the principal of Tuskegee.
And then, one day she learned, from a most reliable and unbiased source:
"That those people bought the works of the now dead poet, because his
name had become a fetish. The white people had accepted these men's work
and called them great. Therefore, the <DW64>s had accordingly followed
suit. So the <DW64> author must first get a white audience, which will
laud the greatness of his pen, and then the <DW64>s will buy, calling
the book great also."

Miss Latham found conditions thus, and governed her work accordingly.
But, as time went on, she met surprises. They did not buy _The Tempest_,
but they read it. She found it borrowed among them all. They never
offered to buy it, but they read it nevertheless.

She did not understand this at first.

So she found the masses, often amusing, to say the least, but often with
more active race regard. They had the many faults of ignorance; easy to
influence into giving an order, they were still more ready to back out,
lie out of taking it. Some of those who took orders, and even the books,
did not read, she learned. While others could read, but did not; but
when she told them all the story, the story of her hero, for now she
held him thus, they were all thrilled, and inspired. Thus it happened
that many bought the book because it was by a <DW64>, and said as much.

Mildred Latham succeeded in her work. And with her success, there came
to her each day, almost every hour, thoughts of the one of her dreams.
This day, and others as well, she shuddered when she could not forget
what he had been told. It was worse, and more, because he had been told
the truth. It hurt her. He was somewhere, and he didn't know that she
loved him; but, even if he did, he could not accept this knowledge with
any delight. No, he was out of her life, or, rather, she was out of his.
He would never, no never, be out of hers. Never, because, as she felt
every day, it was his memory that stimulated her, made her feel and
appreciate what great good a life can do. And she did all she could, in
her way, to assist others. Some day, maybe, she might be able to do
more.

When she undressed each night to retire, she fell on her knees and
offered thanks to Him that is Holy. She asked for strength and
conviction and courage to continue in the same on the morrow. She
struggled to lead a Christian life, and to be acceptable in the eyes of
her Creator.... She was a believer.

Mildred was welcomed everywhere, and treated with all the courtesy due
to a lady. When she left a house one day, where two women had given her
their order, she overheard them say she was beautiful. She felt her
heart throbbing. She was not vain, but she loved to be called
attractive. Then she thought of him. He had called her beautiful also.
She wondered whether he, at any time, forgot the words he heard, and
remembered her as he had seen her that day. The day they had danced and
he--kissed her. She seemed to feel still that kiss; she hoped to feel it
always. She wondered, if he knew she was working in his memory and made
happy thereby, would he be pleased--and would he, at least, try to
forget as much as he could what he had been told. He could, of course,
not forget. That made it hard. _She did not expect him to forget._

When the day's work was done, and she had returned to her place of
abode, she lay upon her bed, and for a time, she gave up to thoughts of
him. She knew not where he was. She did not try to find out, that would
make it worse. Sometimes she felt that if she did, perhaps, it might
help her in her picture of him; then again, she did not think it best.
That might bring him too conspicuously before her. Sometimes at night
she would suddenly awaken, and her very soul would be on fire. She sat
up at these times, and almost declared it could not go on this way. She
must know his whereabouts; he must feel, know that she loved him. And
then, when the spell had died--was killed, for its death was inevitable,
she would lie down again and try to forget. But she never succeeded in
this.

More than a month had passed since she came hither. She had, with the
assistance of Constance, sold more than three hundred copies of the
book. She had saved the greater part of her earnings. She wondered, one
day, as she left a <DW64> bank, where she kept it, what he would think of
her, if he could know. She saw him viewing her in many ways, as she was
now. But always she was left undecided. Never would what he had been
told, seem to leave her free and undisturbed.

One day she returned home very much excited. She didn't let Constance
see her though. She had an adventure that day. She encountered a man who
looked at her strangely, when she was offering the book. She had seen
him in Cincinnati; and she recognized him by a scar on his forehead; but
she had not known this until she looked into his face, and asked him to
give her his order. Then he started. Did he recognize her? She thought
not, because she had not known he ever saw her, when he used to pass by
the house in Cincinnati, where she then lived. When she recognized him
this day, she had bungled in her talk. This fact made him suspicious. He
regarded her with undisguised curiosity. Presently his face cleared, and
he said: "You remind me of a girl I once used to see and know in
Cincinnati. Where are you from?" She tried to ignore this question; she
pretended not to hear him. Despite this effort, she choked. He observed
it, and was convinced that she was the one he had seen and known. Then
she was frightened, and, of course, did the worst thing she could have
done. She asked to be excused, and forthwith fled. She had not gone many
steps when she heard him mutter: "Well, I'll be damned!" And still
before she got beyond the sound of his voice, she heard him again: "The
same. Wonder what kind of a game she is playing here. Books. Hump! Well
I'll be damned!"

She didn't canvass any more that day. She couldn't. She was too nervous
and afraid. Then she was upset for other days. She feared to meet him.
She could never again stand that gaze of suspicion. All that she had
lived suddenly stood before her when she recalled it. Night came, and
she retired early. The incident persisted in her memory. She was
exhausted, and then she did what any unhappy girl is most likely to do.
She cried all night.

Even if she felt Sidney Wyeth had closed the chapter of her in his life,
she wanted him. She _needed_ him. To have felt now that he loved her, in
spite of what he had heard, he could and would protect her. He stood
before her now and she saw him as she had never seen him before. How
strong and brave and courageous he was! He was her hero. She went to
sleep after a time, a troubled, fitful sleep, and when she heard
Constance calling her the following morning, she awoke with a start and
was rested, although she could not understand how it was possible. But
she was calm. After all, she felt, maybe, her fear was premature.

She worked that day with her usual good spirits.




CHAPTER NINE

"_But Smith Is Not His Real Name_"


Owen Beasely. That was his name, and Sidney met him while waiting for a
subscriber, who failed to show up. He was a relative of Smith's, whom he
had met the day before. It was two P.M., the fourth day of July, and the
<DW52> people, as well as the white, had retired to a day of delight.
It was hot, and clouds rolled up, white-capped from the west. "It would
rain before night," the weather man said, and it did.

"And so you came from the west," said Beasely, who had been reading _The
Tempest_. Wyeth had seen him working behind the counter, and they put
aside all formality of introduction. Wyeth was glad to meet someone to
talk to that day. He had come out to this suburb, under promise of
subscribers to take the book. And, since every one of them had
retracted, he was discouraged, which is a disagreeable feeling.

"Yes," he replied gloomily, "and the day I return will be one of great
happiness. I am not particularly in love with being down here anyhow;
and the sooner I see the plains again, that much sooner will I be happy
and contented."

"Well," drawled the other lazily, "having been born down here, and never
having seen the rest of this great domain, I do not, of course, know the
difference; still, I have always cherished a longing to go west. I
intended going to Oklahoma years ago, and getting in on some of that
government land they were giving away, but I put it off until it was too
late, and then too, I had trouble in my family. My oldest daughter
married a worthless rascal who burdened her with those children you see
playing about the store, and I had to take care of them and her too,
since her marriage left her in bad health."

The other listened without comment. Beasely, however, went on,
apparently in a mood to relate the past.

"Smith has been telling me about you, and I have been anxious to have a
talk with you. Smith is my brother-in-law, and he too, has had his share
of trials."

By this time, they had settled themselves on the porch of an empty
quarter house. Wyeth chanced to look around, and, seeing so many empty
ones, said: "How does this come to be? So many empty houses?"

"Bulgarians lived in this row," he said, pointing to them. "Hundreds of
them, and when the war broke out in the Balkan states, every last one of
them left here and went back to fight, and have not returned."

"Some patriotism, eh!" Wyeth commented.

"It is singular about these foreigners," he said thoughtfully. "Have you
ever observed them?"

The other nodded. Beasely went on.

"They come to this country without knowing a word of our language, and
from a poor country. But they are not here ten years, before they are
able, financially, to buy a car load of our people. <DW64>s are
certainly a problem to themselves. These foreigners always have money,
and many of them return to the old country and retire, after a few years
of just ordinary hard work here; while many of our people at the same
job, if they get sick a week, are on the county.

"Clerking in a store where the trade is of the kind we have," he went
on, "is an opportunity for the best study in human nature you can
possibly imagine. A man like Smith, for instance, can succeed with the
trade of his people, when he can get it. Smith has succeeded on the
heels of his own failure."

"It appears harder for one of us to succeed, than for any other race
now, doesn't it?" commented Wyeth.

"It does, it does indeed," said Beasely. "Somehow the money gets through
our fingers, despite our efforts to hold it."

"This morning," said Sidney, "I had an experience that amused me. I had
the promise to take a book to a certain fellow in Averytown. I called
accordingly with the same, but he had just left. His family didn't,
rather couldn't tell me where I was likely to find him. I came on up the
street that leads here, and made inquiries on the way. Every one who
knew him gave me the same advice. 'If,' they said, 'he is not home, just
go to every saloon between here and there, and you will be sure to find
him.' I did so, and found him at the second one."

"And did he take it?" asked Beasely.

"Oh, I hadn't thought of it since. No, he didn't take the book--but I
think he will. He had no money, and when I approached him he went to the
commissary, took a scrip and got some groceries. These he took to
somebody and sold them, a dollar and a half worth for a dollar. He then
gave me a quarter, and told me to bring it next pay day." After a moment
he said: "Smith is an exceptional business man for a <DW64>, and an
interesting man to talk to."

"Yes," smiled the other; "but Smith is not his real name. He took that
after coming here. And since we have spoken of it, I'm going to tell you
the story of John Smith, alias Thomas Rollins." He laughed as his voice,
very dramatic in what he had just said, came back to him.

The other listened, and prepared himself to do so comfortably, while
Beasely mopped his forehead, drew his breath, and prepared to tell the
following story.

Beasely was a black man--a full blood--and intelligent. Nearly fifty
years he seemed to be, although, at a passing glance, he would have
passed for forty. He had been a school teacher, and had some education,
Wyeth had observed from his careful use of English.

"We lived in Palmetto, Georgia, where he married my sister. He was then
a farmer and pastor of the Baptist church, while I farmed and taught the
local country school. He had been in politics quite actively in the
eighties and early nineties, as were many other <DW64>s during the
reconstruction period, and had served as postmaster for four years. Now,
in this town were what is called a bunch of pet <DW64>s. These were
<DW53>s whom the white people used as local goats for their amusements.
And, so to speak, they were a sort of privileged character, but became
too familiar. As everywhere in the south, this town had its herd of the
poor trash, that kept things stirred up in the way of lynching and other
lawlessness. Considerable incendiarism had occurred of late, and some of
these pets were accused. Friction had been evident for some time in this
county and all around, and, with this burning and accusations, a
wholesale lynching took place. About a dozen of these pets were herded
into a box car, and burned alive. It was the most diabolical thing that
could be perpetrated by human beings, and created much comment all over
the country. It drove hundreds of <DW64>s out of the county, and you
will find them scattered over the rest of the state and other parts now.
Sometime after this, a strange <DW64> came to town, and hung around
Smith's place for a while. He secured a job finally with a white man,
who was one of the men who led the mob. It seems, one day, he overheard
him relating how they burned the pets. This crazed the <DW64>, or it
might have been that one of the victims was a brother of his, who knows.
Well, this <DW64> took an ax, marched into the room, and without a word,
split open the man's head.

"He made his escape. Pandemonium reigned. Lynching by hanging and
burning at the stake became common, and a general state of lawlessness
reigned for some time.

"Now, after this <DW64> had killed the man, he came by Smith's and got
the clothes Smith's cook had washed for him. He threatened her with
death if she ever said anything about it. Well, a lot of the poor
crackers had become jealous of Smith anyhow, and they tried to implicate
him in it, while he knew nothing about it. Smith stood well with the
best white people; but when any friction comes up in these parts, the
cracker is supreme, because he has the numbers. So, while the mob spirit
was still prevalent, they decided to give vent to their jealousy, and
called on Smith with a dark purpose. They charged him with having
furnished this <DW64> with an ax and instructions to kill the cracker. So
they were on the way to see him, when I warned him at church one Sunday
morning, preparing to preach a sermon. He hurried home, grabbed a few
things, and left the state as fast as he could leave it.

"That is how Smith came to be in this country and doing business; but
there is another part of this chapter, and which brings us up to the
present.

"A <DW64> worked for Smith back there, and after the thing had died out
and people there saw that he was wrongly accused, this <DW64> came on
here, and since then, this has been his home. Having known him back
there, Smith trusted him in the store here, and continued to trust him
until he was head over heels in debt to him. There came a day when Smith
was tired of this, and called him to account. The <DW64>, then, instead
of paying like a man, or making an effort to do so, howled his head off
and was surprised, or professed to be. He told Smith that he was repaid
from the fact that he had kept his mouth closed about his past, his
changing his name, and all that. In conclusion, he threatened to tell
the world, or that part of it in which Smith and himself were known.
Now, if Smith had told all this in the beginning, it would, of course,
have been different. But, having deferred it so long, he naturally hated
to have it told and flaunted in his face by the <DW64>s here. You know,
too, how <DW64>s like to hear anything, envious and spiteful as they are
by nature. It was a nasty affair, and to hush it up, Smith let the bill
go hang. But this was not to be the end of it by any means, oh, no! This
<DW64> had the nerve to come back into the store and ask for more credit.
Then Smith, with his nigga aroused, stood his ground. The <DW64> then got
drunk, fighting drunk. He found an old revolver that had been lost for
years in a trash heap, and ran Smith all over town. It wouldn't shoot,
of course, but Smith didn't know that. The crowd finally got around the
<DW64> and held him, while he raged and swore. Smith went to the phone,
declaring he was going to call the officers. The <DW64> yelled that if he
did--he knew. Smith desisted, but then into it came my sister, his wife.
She has spirit and was now thoroughly aroused and with a big forty-five
left-hand wheeler, she sought this shine. When the people that were
holding him saw her coming, they turned him lose and flew. When they
did, she began to shoot, and shot to hit. She missed; but she picked the
dirt all about him, and he did some running.

"After that, the <DW64>--he had been doing fairly well outside what I
have mentioned--began to go down. Whiskey and craps got all his money,
and then he parted with his wife. But he still had it in for Smith, and
it had come to Smith and me, too, that he intends telling it all at the
ball game, today. Moreover, that he will kill his wife if she plays ball
or attempts to, today. Smith's nigga is up, and he is going to the ball
game, and if that <DW64> starts anything on that diamond, look out!"

"I'm afraid of these <DW64>s down here myself," said Wyeth. "A few
nights ago, I was standing on a corner in Effingham, when one of them
came up the street slapping his wife or woman, or whatever she was,
something outrageously. I felt constrained to punch him in the jaw, the
brute, especially when she ran around a bunch of us trying to escape the
blows he was raining on her face. I didn't, and some time later I was
talking with a cop that patrols that beat. I told him of the incident.
'That's nothing,' he said. 'I started to punch him,' I said. 'You'd
better not punch any of these <DW64>s,' he warned. 'They'll shoot you
down like a dog. This is Effingham.'"

"Well," said Beasely, "I'm going to the game myself to have a hand in
the affair, if he starts anything. Wanta go 'long?"

Since he had nothing to do, he decided that it would be a good outing
and some diversion, so, rising, he followed. As they started, a ragged,
dirty <DW64> rushed up. He wanted Beasely, being unable to locate Smith,
to let him have ten dollars to get his brother out of jail, who had
gotten into a squabble down in a saloon and got run in.

"Let him stay there until tomorrow, and we won't have to get him out but
once. If he is gotten out today, he's liable to be in again before the
day is spent," replied Beasely carelessly. The other went his way with
mutterings.

They had not gone far before they came upon another. He had a load, a
heavy load. So heavy that he could scarcely make it. However, with a
superior effort, he managed to drag his feet along, and join them.

"Abe Thomas," remonstrated Beasely. "You are a disgrace to yourself and
the human race." The other accepted the rebuke in good nature. He
declared, that since it was the fourth, he was entitled by the law of
the land to get drunk, and convince the public to that effect.

"The fourth do'n' come but once a yeah," he said. "But I'm a good guy
all the time 'n' all the time. Fifty years I've been in this world and
don't look forty." He didn't, which was an odd thing, thought Wyeth.

"Say, Beasely, lend me a dollar!" he exclaimed. Wyeth was again
surprised; for Beasely, without a word, but a laugh full of humor, drew
forth a silver dollar, and handed it over.

As they walked along leisurely, Wyeth remarked about the crops, which
did not appear to be doing much good in the highlands.

"You know why that is?" said their companion, winking wisely. "That's
because all this land about here is undermined, and the water goes on
through."

Wyeth looked at him. He looked back at Wyeth and winked. "You are
philosophical indeed," said he. "How far is it to the mines below?"

"Three hundred feet," Beasely replied.

"And between that is all kinds of rock, hard pan and shale?"

"Oh, sure," replied the other; "but what has that to do with it?"

Wyeth looked at him, but the other didn't gather what the expression
meant, so he said: "Jok, you are full." They were passing into a cut,
and he saw at a glance the reason for the plant suffering. About two to
six inches from the surface was a thick layer of jip, which, as he knew,
prevented the water from going into the subsoil, to come up when the sun
had dried the surface, and furnish nourishment to the roots. Further
argument was not necessary, for, as they came out of the cut, a saloon
smiled before them, and into this their companion disappeared.

When they arrived at the grounds, thousands had preceded them, and the
same was black with people, enjoying a holiday. The diamond had been
cleared, and preparations were in order for opening of the game. The
contestants were a set of school boys and girls, and women, in fact, any
girl or woman that could be prevailed upon for the occasion. The sun,
now in the west, could be seen only at intervals, as it hung suspended
above the heavy treetops. The air was unusually still and humid. The
heat was intense; but, notwithstanding the fact, the future American
<DW64> seemed to be getting all that a holiday afforded.

Popcorn and cracker-jack, lemonade and coca-cola, barbecue and fried
fish, were being consumed by the crowd in every direction in large
quantities, and all seemed to be happy.

At last the preliminaries were over. The game was called. On every base,
in the pitcher's box, the catchers, and in the field, stood black girls.
Gayly they flitted about, and caught the ball cleverly, as it was thrown
from one to the other.

"Play ball!" called the umpire.

Everyone had his eye upon the game. A strapping woman, wound up like a
professional, and let drive a swift ball that went far to the right of a
left hand batter.

"Ba-l-l one!" cried the umpire.

"Frow lak a ole maid," cackled a big-mouthed <DW64>, who was immediately
hooted down.

"St-r-i-k-e one!" cried the umpire, slapping his thigh, giving vent to a
big laugh, as the batter swung wildly at the ball just missed.

"Dat gal's got some speed, b'lieve muh!" cried another <DW64>, who was a
good support.

"Who dat gal?" inquired another, at this point.

"Do'n you know 'er?" someone else replied. "Dat's Bobb Lee's wife. Dey
is pa'ted, y' know."

Wyeth started. Bobb Lee's wife! Bobb Lee was the <DW64> Beasely had told
him about.... And he had threatened to kill her if she played ball this
day. She was playing. He felt a strange pulling at his nerves as he
watched her, and his imagination began to play. He was afraid of these
<DW64>s. Even if they did nothing, they could, so far as he had learned,
be depended upon to commit murder. No one, perhaps, paid much attention
to a <DW64>'s threat; but he didn't feel just right in the stomach. A
chilly feeling was creeping upward and held him. He looked about him.
For a moment he had forgotten the game. The men were now on the bases,
while the girls were swinging in many ways at the ball. The wife of Bobb
Lee was there at the bat. Around him the crowd watched her closely,
expectantly. He did likewise.

"B-a-l-l one!" cried the umpire. The woman was a stout Negress, with
square, broad hips, and was conspicuous in the green uniform. Two balls
and one strike were against her, when the fourth came whizzing across
the plate. She struck it with terrific force, that sent it just over the
heads of all and beyond the fielders, making a clean home run, as well
as bringing in two girls that were on bases. The cheering that followed
was deafening. For a time Sidney forgot the threats of the bad <DW64>.

Again the wife of Bobb Lee was pitching. More speed had developed since
last she held the ball, and she was apparently more clever. She hurled
the ball across the plate so swiftly, that the crowd could hardly see
it, nor could the batters, whom, one by one she fanned. Two balls and
two strikes she had on the last one. Wyeth's gaze, wandering across the
diamond, observed John Smith standing to the other side, and again the
words of Beasely came to his memory. He wished the thought and the
threat would not so persist. He tried to concentrate his mind on the
game, but the words lingered. During his whole life, Sidney now
recalled, he was peculiarly given to predestination. If he had not seen
anyone he had known for some time, and happened to meet him, he could
always recall that he had just thought of him a few days before, or it
might have been only a few hours before. Strangely, as he watched the
game, there came to him a premonition that something was going to
happen. He felt it so strongly that he stood waiting for it. It was only
a question of a little while.

The wife of Bobb Lee had raised her arm and was winding up for the last
throw, when suddenly, from across the field in the crowd, came a cry as
of some one mad, enraged. In the still, humid air, the cry of a woman
resounded, and fell upon the ears of the crowd like a cry of death.
There was a shot, and so quiet did every one appear at the moment, that
the noise it made sounded like a cannon. A woman rushed upon the
diamond, and fell prone on her face, with a last scream that disturbed
the quiet.

Clouds had been gathering overhead for some time, and now they overcast
the skies. The sunlight, with all its brightness of a few minutes ago,
had faded; it became so dark that the people could scarcely see across
the diamond. Heavy peals of thunder added now to the darkness, while
flashes of lightning struck electrically all about. The crowd stood
awestruck. The woman in the box had lowered her arm, and was looking
wild-eyed at the woman who had fallen prostrate at her feet. And then,
through the still air came again the cry of the beast.

"Ah tole yu' 'f yu' played ball ag'in ah'd kill yu'. Ah've killed yu'
doity sista, in the' stands you, 'n' the' is John Smith who run away
frum Palmetto, Geo'gi', 'n' whose real name's Tom Rollins!" And with
that, the woman gave a long lingering cry that frightened all those
about. They turned in one great mass, the revolver sounded another shot,
and with scarcely a groan, the woman staggered for a moment, and fell to
the ground dead. For just a second it seemed, the crowd, tearing wildly
about, halted and turned their eyes upon the two dead women. And as they
did so, the murderer turned wildly in the direction of where Smith had
stood, but he was gone. In a blind fury, the drunken brute whirled
around dazed, yelling: "Wha' is he! Damn him! Wha' is he!"

"I'm heah, you beast!" roared Smith, in a terrible voice. The other had
just time to see him, but too late to do further murder. John Smith was
on him in an instant, and all the strength of his powerful frame seemed
to come to him in that moment. He snatched the smoking weapon from the
hand of the brute, and, raising it to the length of his large arm, while
the other, at last sensitive to the moment, saw it as it lingered one
brief instant, with eyes, the sight of which Sidney Wyeth did not soon
forget, it fell, crushing the skull. A mad herd now, the crowd rushed
upon the fallen creature and did the rest.

Just then the heavens opened up with a mighty crash of thunder, and
there came a flash of lightning that made trees tremble, while the rain
came down in torrents.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sidney returned to the city by the first car. The incident rose before
him again and again, as the car crept along in the downpour. He had seen
the first murder of his life, which, however, was an almost daily
occurrence in Effingham. When he reached his room and related the
incident, it caused less excitement than when he once witnessed a
gambling raid and related it. No one took murder seriously in Effingham.

"They kill a nigga every day on an average in this town," grinned Moore.
When he read the papers the following morning, he had about given up
finding it at all, when his eyes came across a small paragraph in the
corner, reporting that a drunken <DW64> had killed his wife and
sister-in-law, which added to the list of casualties, making eleven for
the day in Effingham. All were homicides. No deaths from other sources
were reported.

As Sidney Wyeth now saw it, the people might have prosperity, and they
might have happiness; likewise, they might suffer reverses and be in
hard straights for a time; but of one thing there seemed a certainty,
that as long as whiskey was available, crime would be prevalent in
Effingham.

Sidney Wyeth had never voted for prohibition. As he saw it now in
Attalia, where it was not sold legally, and in Effingham, where it had
this permit, there seemed but one conclusion. Only when they stopped
making it, would these ignorant, semi-barbarous creatures quit drinking
it.

And thus we find conditions in one of our great American cities, where
there is forty per cent of illiteracy among two-fifths of the populace.

       *       *       *       *       *

Having sent for a considerable consignment of books, and, due to the
inability to collect from a number who spent their money on the fourth,
Sidney found his finances depleted. Room rent, by paying in advance was
due the following Monday, so, taking himself to one of his subscribers
among the servants, he was able to collect only a dollar that day. Half
of this he divided with his landlady, promising to pay her the remainder
on the morrow. He did so, but John Moore desired to question in regard
to the same. The truth of it was that John Moore wanted the dollar, and
had figured on it, in order to shoot craps on Saturday night, as was his
usual custom. So John came into the room where Sidney sat reading. It
happened that Wyeth was in no pleasant frame of mind, and, calling was
thus not in order that evening. Perhaps John Moore did not know this,
but he did a few minutes later. He wished to know what Wyeth was going
to do about the rent.

Wyeth looked at him. It wasn't a very pleasant look, to say the least.
And Wyeth was one of these creatures who could not stand to be dunned.
Since he had already made arrangement with the real person, he regarded
Moore out of eyes now that narrowed with anger. He said something, sharp
and quick, and stinging. Thereupon, a storm ensued.

"I aised you a civil question," complained Moore.

"And I tell you that I have already arranged with the landlady regarding
the rent, and don't want any argument with you!"

"Then I ais you to git yo' things and get out!" cried Moore, with an air
of finality.

"And I tell you that I will do no such thing; moreover, you, insofar as
I'm concerned," cried Wyeth heatedly, "can go to Hell!"

"Look out, look out!" cried Moore. "I'm a-comin', I'm a-comin'."

"Not very fast as I can see, standing there in the doorway," said Wyeth,
now composed, and reseating himself from where he had risen. And yet he
felt, as he had never felt before, like fighting--with his fists.

"Hole me Mary, hole me!" cried Moore, moving many ways--in the doorway.
The other waited--in vain.

"Come ova' he' from Attalia, a bad nigga, 'n' tellin' me what I ain'
go'n do 'n' mah house!" he cried, now derisively. "Stay! Yes, stay, 'n'
be killed, 'cause 'f you sleep in this house t'night, you go'n sleep
ova' mah dead body."

"Oh, but you're an awful liar," smiled Sidney grimly. He arose from his
chair and moved in the direction of Moore, whereupon that worthy moved
in the opposite direction. "A <DW64> like you ain't going to fight
anyone, and talk about your dead body! Hump! If you had any idea I was
going to kill you, you'd be a mile away by this time and still running.
As it is, I am going to stay in this house until I get ready to leave,
or at least until I am ordered out by the landlady." With this, he
jumped forward quickly and caught Moore by the nose, which was, to say
the least, a difficult task. He pinched it hard, and then, with well
directed licks, he slapped his face with his open palm. Then, giving his
nose another pinch that made the creature scream with pain, he pushed
him with such force that he fell backward into the other room. A moment
later, Sidney slammed the door, and, resuming his seat, picked up the
book and began reading.

They were good friends ever after.




CHAPTER TEN

"_When You Have Been Grass-Widowed, It's Different_"


"Oh, is it Mr. Wyeth? How-do, Mr. Wyeth. Come right in and be seated. I
shall be in presently." Whereupon, for the fraction of a second, Miss
Palmer gave him a smile that was bewitching.

It was Sunday, and a beautiful cool day in July. A rain had fallen the
night before, which made the air cool and radiant. Just a day for an
outing. To go forth into the forest on a day like this, in company with
the lady of his choice, was a pleasure all men could wish. And to go
forth today, to the forest about Effingham, which could be seen from
almost any part of the city, was, to say the least, a treat. From the
summit of any of the many points, the observer could gaze down full upon
all that makes Effingham.

And it was for such a purpose that Sidney Wyeth called upon Miss Annie
Palmer that day.

Miss Palmer had been good to him. And he, a man of experience and
adversities, was not the kind of man to be indifferent to her courtesy.
And, besides, Miss Palmer was fairly well endowed with the art of making
it pleasant. Especially was this so when it happened to be a young man
who had captivated her, and, apparently, without any effort on his part.

It is said that curiosity is the inspiration of invention, and that
women, although with no great record as inventors, cannot stand to be
held in doubt. Sidney Wyeth had aroused Miss Palmer. It was whispered
that other men had done so before, but no one spoke ill of Miss Palmer.
It was so told here and there that she desired to marry. Miss Palmer
found it difficult to keep Sidney out of her thoughts; daily, hourly
and, sometimes she sighed, it seemed minutely. So, when he had
suggested an outing, she had accepted with all the grace of which she
was capable. It had been arranged for this day. She had worked hard
every day preceding it, and had sold a number of books. As we now know,
Miss Palmer was the mother of a very young son, and she had always had
to work to care for him, herself, and her mother, who was somewhat of an
invalid. Perhaps this was the best excuse Miss Palmer had for not having
remarried. It was a plausible one, no one could deny. It sufficed to
arouse sympathy for her, and she had many friends who unhesitatingly
spoke of her in such terms.

"Miss Palmer has a hard time," said one.

"What kind of a deal--that is, what kind of a husband was the man she
married?"

"A half white nigga from Ohio, whose parents made him mistreat her,
because she was not brighter in color. They never forgave him for
marrying anything but a 'high yellow.' So they, through their treatment
of her, snubbing her whenever they could, simply broke them up. She was
a good girl," so everybody said about Miss Palmer, "and she worked night
and day to help him, but he drank. His parents kept up the game of
spoiling him, even after he was the father of her child. So, in the end,
when there was nothing else for her to do, she had asked for, and was
duly granted a divorce. That ended it. The school board, although they
were overrun with applications from multitudes of <DW52> girls, to
teach in the city schools (because teaching is about the only thing they
can get to do to make some money and a living for themselves), had
reinstated her, and she went back to teaching, after four years of
unhappy married life."

It was thus Sidney Wyeth had found her. Miss Palmer was a human being
with a heart that cried silently for the love of a man, as all other
women's hearts do, who happen not to be so fortunate as to have one. She
had been to school, and graduated from a normal academy, that taught
English as far as it goes, and, likewise, compelled the girls to learn
how to cook, sew and save. Miss Palmer was mistress in all these arts,
and some more. It was her delight to show them by a demonstration,
whenever she could. She had proven all this to Sidney Wyeth, and he had
thought it practical in her. He had said as much, but he would have said
as much to any other, no doubt. And of the many good things we now know
of Miss Palmer, let us not forget that she was selfish to a degree.

Unfortunately, many of us are. But when Miss Palmer became the recipient
of such kind words from the lips of this man of mystery, for as such she
regarded him, and believed it, she was subtly delighted. So she had done
all she could as a saleswoman of the book she was positive he had
written, to prove further her ability to help him. (?) Today they would
be all alone, together. She had looked forward to the same with all the
anxiety of the anxious, and the day had come at last. And such a day!

She dressed in her best for the occasion. We shall not attempt to
describe her; but when she appeared at the end of an hour, she was a
delight to observe. "Indeed!" exclaimed Wyeth frankly, "I didn't know
you could look so well!"

"Why are you flat?" she complained, with a frown; and then she added
softly: "You could be otherwise."

"We will catch the Tidewater and get off at Jewell Junction, and take
the Relay. That will take us to the summit of Baldin Knob. From there
you can see everything this state possesses for fifteen miles," she
said, as they walked cheerfully in the direction of the car line.

Never had either experienced such a delightful ride, as the heavy
tidewater cars gave them that morning. The Relay unloaded them forty
minutes later at the highest peak of which the Red Mountains boast.
Below lay Effingham, the iron city, a medley of smoke and many little
points. Only the blast of the furnaces, and the heavy smoke they belched
forth, met their gaze, as they saw it now. It seemed hardly possible
that it was a city of so many thousands, it seemed so small at this
distance. A mass of uneven timber appeared all about and below them, and
far away were a thousand peaks. Broken by hundreds of ravines and
draws, that split and tore the mighty range, they saw the city beyond. A
dull haze as of Indian summer hung in the distance, as their gaze sought
the horizon.

Then they walked down a <DW72> to a spot they had seen. She stepped on a
rock that lay buried beneath many leaves, and turned her ankle so
severely, that he feared it had been sprained. It hadn't; but, as a
precaution, he took her arm, and that, perforce, brought them closer
together. Thus they walked, until, at the foot of a pine, lay a fallen
tree conveniently. They sat themselves thereon, and, leaning their backs
against the tree, for a minute, possibly more, they heard their own
breathing.

After saying many things that meant nothing, she said:

"Now, you are going to tell me all about yourself today, aren't you?"
She ended this beautifully, and waited likewise. His reply was not
gallant, if such it could be; but he merely added:

"There is little to tell, Miss Palmer--so little, I'm sure telling it
would be dull for you to listen to."

"You have beautiful ways of saying anything," she said, and gave him her
best smile. He looked at her now, but without any apparent enthusiasm.
His smile was a little tired and weary and sad. Very often he was this
way.

"Do you know," Miss Palmer now said, "you have impressed me
wonderfully."

"I didn't, I'm sure; but you are complimentary." He was now a mite more
cheerful. "In what way, I beg, have I impressed you? In that I can sell
books?"

"I don't mean that, and you know I do not," she pouted. "And you can be
so innocent, when you want to be. Oh, you are artful. But I mean, if I
must say it and then explain why, there is something about you that is
unusual. You are in disguise, going through the country studying people,
yes, people and what they are, have been and are likely to be." She was
thoughtful now, as she sat in serious mood for some time. Presently, she
said:

"I've been reading that book, and, of course, I understand you better.
Is all that you say in it true?" She was serious now, and anxious too.
She waited eagerly for him to speak.

He laughed. Then he said nothing in the affirmative, but indulged in
words concerning other topics.

"You are more than a book agent. You have, at least, been a man of
means. Really, I would be pleased to know from your own lips," she now
sighed.

"I wish we could talk of something else, that would be more interesting.
Cannot you suggest something?" he turned to her now appealingly.

"I cannot. Yourself is the most interesting thing I care to talk about.
I have been thinking of the terrible secret you disclose in the book.
Won't you please tell me if it is all true?"

"I suppose if _the_ book is published as a true story, then it must be
so," he said evasively.

"And she was a weak woman. No strength and conviction; nothing to
protect a home. You and she will not remain as you are, will you?"
Silence. "There is nothing the matter with you--and her. I sympathize
with _this fellow_." Miss Palmer was more serious now. "Because,
apparently, he wanted, tried to do the right thing, and was not
allowed.... I know somebody else that wished to do likewise, and was not
allowed.... Life is a strange thing, isn't it?"

"Indeed so," he agreed.

"And on this pilgrimage you study the lives of others, many others, and
it reveals so much to you that would, could not be possible, otherwise?"

He agreed with her again.

"And on this pilgrimage you have met _women_, and you have studied them
and their way of seeing things?"

"Possibly. They are all in the same category."

"Yes; but somebody said: 'I bet that fellow has _so_ many girls!' I
didn't agree with them. I don't think you have any; you are too
preoccupied to give them serious thought. Perhaps that is why the girl
allowed herself to be taken away...."

He now looked at her. His lips, for one moment, had started to speak,
and then he seemed to think better of it, and said nothing.

"Everyone I sell the book to cries when they have read it: 'If I had
been that fellow, I'd have kicked that old preacher into Hades.' It's
what you tell in the last part of the book that arouses the people. But
they all think _he_ acted with poor judgment in the end; but if _he_
hadn't allowed that to come to pass, I would never have known you." Miss
Palmer was tantalizing.

"Out in this _Rosebud Country_, of which the story is told, are there no
<DW52> people?"

"None."

"I should think it would be dreadfully lonesome."

"Why so? The white people are kind and sociable."

"Yes, but I would prefer my kind. Still, I suppose if one lived there
and had their all there, it would be different."

"Yes," he agreed, "it would be different."

"You will, no doubt, marry one of the many girls you meet before you
return, and then live happily ever afterwards."

"That is nice to listen to. Nice girls, that is, girls who are willing
to sacrifice to an end that would help both, are, to say the least, hard
to find."

"Yes, in a sense; but there are plenty. And all want husbands. Of
course, when you have been widowed, grass-widowed, it's different...."

"Well, yes; but I see no reason, if she is the right kind of girl, why
she cannot re-marry and be happy in the end."

"Oh, you don't," she essayed. "Well, there is. A woman is never regarded
as the same. The looks she gets are not like the ones bestowed upon her
when she, or before she married. They are looks--looks that are not
honest," she sighed. He was silent.

"And the men are the cause of it. All of it. Sometimes I hate men."

He saw her now, calmly. She was uneasy under the look he gave her. And
then he was silent again. She went on:

"Of course, there are some that are different. Yourself, for instance."

"In what way?"

"So many I hardly like to say. So unassuming, for one. And then you--oh
I won't say it."

"Please do."

"Not until you have told me more about yourself. Has it occurred to you
that you have told me nothing, absolutely nothing about yourself?" She
was looking at him now. He winced.

"Of course, if a woman is--is--well, easy enough to go into the
mountains and on an outing with the man--a man who has told her nothing
of himself, then, it--he cannot be censured." She watched a pine
squirrel now that played near, and who regarded them out of eyes that
made Miss Palmer feel guilty.

"You are like a stone wall when it comes to secrets. Did you ever really
love anyone?"

"Yes."

"Oh, you don't mean it!" she cried in feigned surprise. "Who was it?"

"You would be no wiser if I told you."

At this moment, a blast in a mine near, which they did not see, went
off. It broke the silence so sharply, that both sat quickly upright. In
doing so, their hands met. His clasped hers. In a moment the tension was
released, but the hands were not. Slowly their hands clasped each others
tighter. He was in some way conscious of the fact, while she was dreamy.
He looked by chance into her eyes, and they were more dreamy still.
Their shoulders touched. She sat at his left, and it happened singularly
to be his right hand that held hers. In that moment they seemed to feel
lonely, very lonely. Both had suffered--and, to a degree, their
suffering had been similar. To give up and to be human, unconventionally
so for just a little while, seemed a mad desire. She swayed perceptibly.
Suddenly his left arm stole about her waist and encircled her body.
Mechanically he looked down, and into her eyes, that were upturned. They
seemed to tell the secret behind. To be loved for one minute was what
they asked. He lingered a moment, and then his head went down. When it
had retained its former position and was erect, he had kissed Miss
Palmer.

He was standing now, and was looking down upon Effingham. It lay silent
and gray from where he saw it. In that moment he wanted to be back
there. He felt guilty. He turned and beheld Miss Palmer. He felt more
guilty than before. She lay against the tree with her face turned the
other way. He felt very sorry for her then. Yes, Miss Palmer would, he
believed, do the right thing. _She would be glad_ to do the right thing.
Oh, she had had her troubles. And Sidney Wyeth knew that when people had
suffered, especially when it had been their great ambition to do the
right thing and be happy, they would go through eternity to make
happiness possible. He spoke now.

"Don't you think we had better be going, Miss Palmer?" She heard him,
and his voice was kind, she thought. She rose, and together they went
back over the hill and caught the Relay.




CHAPTER ELEVEN

"_I'm Worried About Mildred_"


"Wilson, I'm worried. I'm worried about Mildred. Something is haunting
that girl. Something has been haunting her for days. She says nothing,
of course; but I can see, I can't help but see. She is worried almost to
insanity." So Constance said to her brother, some days after Mildred met
the man who saw her in Cincinnati.

"I wonder what it can be," said he, thoughtfully.

"I'd give anything to know," she sighed. "The only thing I know is that
she is worried. I dare not ask her. She is not inviting in her demeanor,
when it comes to confidences. She seems to be looking for something,
simply uneasy always, and hesitant. Some days, she seems to dislike to
go canvassing; in fact, for some time now, she has been nervous every
time she ventures out."

"I wonder whether it would not be advisable to ask her to lay off a few
days."

"I have thought of that," said she; "but she has so many deliveries to
make that she is almost compelled to go out every day. And then, if what
she fears is to happen, I'm sure she would be more worried if she stayed
in."

"I'm willing to do anything to help Mildred." She looked at him, but
they were both too preoccupied to take notice of the fact that he had
called her by her first name.

"The only time I can seem to get her away from that worried, tired
expression, is when I play. She listens and becomes, at least for a
time, oblivious to her troubles."

       *       *       *       *       *

By day, Mildred, when she was canvassing, hourly expected to meet again
the man whose recognition had frightened her. But the days went by
without further encounter, and when she failed to meet him, she began to
relax. She was worried constantly, but she was relieved after two weeks.
The fright had passed, and she was cheerful again, much to the relief of
her two friends. It had pained her to see that both were obviously
worried on her account. And she respected them, because they were
considerate enough not to ask her questions that would have annoyed her.

"You sang that beautifully, Miss Latham," said Wilson, one afternoon,
when she left the piano, after singing a song that had been introduced
lately into church services; and which, while sentimental, nevertheless
possessed more thrill than the average.

"Do you think I can satisfy the congregation now?" she asked sweetly.
She had been practicing it for several afternoons.

"I should say you could," he cried, enthusiastically. "You could satisfy
any congregation, much less our little crowd." He looked sorrowful, as
he said this. She understood. The great majority did not attend his
services. They went to the big Baptist church two blocks away. Many of
them even smiled, when they passed his little church and observed the
few people sitting therein. Mildred sympathised with him, because she
realized that he was a courageous young man, willing to go to any
extent, so far as effort was concerned, in order to help those about
him. They needed it too, these black people.

"Oh," she cried, so kind that he choked, "you will have a larger church
some day. I am confident you will--I _know you will_." And she meant all
she said. "In time the people will come to appreciate your efforts. As
it is now, they don't think deep enough to do so. They want sermons, as
yet, that make them feel by merely listening; whereas, it is necessary
to study what you say.... That makes it difficult now. When the people
become more intelligent, more practical, and more thoughtful, they will
appreciate religion in a practical sense." He was overwhelmed with
gratitude, as he heard these words. For a moment he couldn't speak. He
felt the tears come.

"You are so kind, Miss Latham. You seem to understand, and see below the
surface. And what you have said is timely. I am one, you may be sure,
who appreciates it." He stopped here.

A choking, which he didn't wish her to notice, made it necessary. She
was aware of the gratitude, the sincere gratitude in his tone, and her
sympathy went out to him more than ever. As she saw him sitting there,
with head bowed and face hid, he seemed his mother's boy. She felt
strangely that other part. Impulsively, she advanced to where he sat by
the window, with the sunlight streaming in upon him. In the bright, soft
light, his curly hair shone, and seemed more beautiful than she had
noticed it before. She laid her hand upon it. An hour ago, she would
not, could not have dreamed she would do this. And then she spoke in
words, the kindest, he felt, he had ever heard.

"There, now. It will be all right. Just give yourself time. Oh, it's a
great struggle, this human problem. All these black ones of ours. But
you are pursuing the right course, and some day they will see it. Then
will come your success. It's going to come. It will come. It _must_
come. These people can't keep on going along as they are; this
crime--murder. It's terrible. Someone will help to stem the tide of it,
someone will lead them. They need leaders. They are not bad people, with
all we see and now know of them. They simply need some one to lead them
into the light. I feel you will be that person. Yes. I am sure you are
the person." She paused a moment, and it was only then, she became aware
that her hand still rested upon his head. She removed it now, and
silently left the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I love her! I love her!" cried Wilson Jacobs. "Oh, God lead me, for I
know not whither I go!"

It was the first time in his thirty-one years that Wilson Jacobs had
felt so. But he was a man. And the fact made him respect Mildred Latham
the more. Not for anything would he have her know his secret after
this. She had thought of him in no other way but to help him. That was
all. He would have to go forth now with a secret from Constance even.

He studied his text for the coming Sunday, and prepared himself to
preach as he had never preached before.

"Here is an example of how much our people down here desire a Y.M.C.A.,
Miss Latham," said Reverend Jacobs later. "You may recall that, last
spring the <DW52> people of Grantville (which had a population, in the
last census, of one hundred ten thousand people, almost forty thousand
being ), made a great campaign to secure a Y.M.C.A." He laid
before her a <DW64> journal, published weekly at Grantville. She picked
it up and read the whole article.

It went into detail concerning the campaign that was made to secure a
Y.M.C.A. for the  youth of Grantville. She had been interested in
the campaign and knew that in a few days, thirty-three thousand dollars
and more had been subscribed. The publishing house that printed this
paper, had issued a daily of sixteen pages during the campaign, and had
heralded the spirit of the <DW52> people in their liberality. They had
been liberal indeed, but it was only in subscribing. The paying was
different, quite different.

After six months, only something over four thousand dollars of that
amount had been paid in. The building, equipped, would cost one hundred
thousand dollars. A millionaire Jew, the head of one of the greatest
mail order houses in the country, would give twenty-five thousand
dollars. The white Y.M.C.A. gave an equal amount. From other sources,
seventeen thousand dollars were forthcoming. The <DW52> people were
expected to raise the remainder. It had been oversubscribed, but only
four thousand had been paid in. Six months had passed, and she knew
(although the paper was optimistic and had no other thought, apparently,
than that the <DW52> people would raise the amount) subscriptions would
be paid slower now than before. She did not know what to say when she
had read the article.

"Do you realize what they are up against?"

"Yes," she said resignedly.

"And they do not seem to know it."

"No."

"It's discouraging."

She nodded.

"It would be no trick at all for any of a dozen churches in the town to
raise four thousand dollars in sixty days in a rally." She remained
silent but listened, and knew that he spoke the truth.

"They have hundreds of churches all over the south, that have cost, in
actual money, one hundred thousand dollars, and they have paid the
amount without assistance from other sources; whereas, the white people
are offering sixty thousand dollars of this amount."

"And, I gather," said she, in a voice that was listless, "that
Grantville, with its many schools and much more intelligent <DW52>
people, is far more likely to succeed in such an effort than this town."

He nodded.

"But this place needs it, it needs it badly. It needs a Y.M.C.A. worse
than any town in the south--"

"In the world," he insisted.

"And you do not think it would be worth while to inaugurate a campaign
for that purpose here, before long?"

He sighed sadly, and then grew thoughtful.

"Last week, the number of murders exceeded any previous week for two
years...."

"And over one hundred <DW64> churches have preaching in them every
Sunday."

"And from what I can learn, these murders are rarely mentioned, in any."

"I have been thinking for a long time--before you came--of a Y.M.C.A.
for our people in this town, but I have never spoken of it. But since I
have known and talked with you, Miss Latham, and have seen the way our
people are conducting themselves, I have been constrained to take up the
effort of securing one." He said this very calmly, with no undue
excitement.

"Have you, Mr. Jacobs?" She made no attempt to use the clerical term.
Her tone was eager, anxious.

"Yes," he repeated. "I have decided to begin at once, regardless of the
discouraging spectacle of Grantville."

"Oh, I'm so glad," she sighed, relieved.

He looked at her, but said nothing. He knew that she would be glad to
hear it. He was glad, though, that she had spoken.

"Yes," he resumed. "I have discussed the matter with the heads of three
of the big trunk lines operating in and out of this town, and all of
whom have shops here that hire black men, and, as you might, of course,
expect, they are all in favor of it. They have, moreover, advised me
that they will bring such a movement to the attention of the board of
directors. They have further advised me, however, that I must not expect
to exceed five thousand dollars from either, and not to be disappointed
if the board failed to give anything at all. That, they explained, and I
understood without explanation, was due to the financial conditions of
the railroads. I have met the same response from other local interests.
But by them all, I have been encouraged. Of course, the white Y.M.C.A.
are agreeable to giving assistance as in other towns, and have given me
to understand that they will put in twenty-five thousand dollars. And
then the Chicago philanthropist, of course, has a like amount awaiting.
But the time limit expires in six months."

"From these, I have gone to our people."

"You went?" She held her breath now.

"To those others, the preachers."

"And they were----"

"Against it, almost to a man."

"God be merciful!"

"Of course, all of them did not say so in so many words--in fact, as you
might expect, 'Yes, brother, this town sure needs a Y.M.C.A,' But when
cooperation was suggested to that end, quibbling began. Most of them,
not a bit original, put forward the same excuse, _too_ busy. All were
preachers, yet too busy to save souls. Then, of course, the next excuse
was their church was loaded up with debt; they were now preparing a
rally to raise such and such an amount. And still others had just closed
a rally, which meant their flock was strapped and would be until another
rally. And there are three churches in this very town that cost equally
as much as this thing, all told.

"Next, I tried the teachers. The professors, of course, were full of the
idea. I found only two, however, who had paid enough attention to the
effort in Grantville, to know that the people were likely not to
succeed. These, I was glad to hear, spoke of this fact, and we then
discussed the matter from a serious point of view."

"Have you not found ignorance a great stumbling block?" she inquired.

"The greatest, in a measure, I think. To be ignorant means, that they
will be easily discouraged, when they discover the obstacles."

"When do you intend beginning the campaign?"

"Sunday. I have prepared a speech to that end for that day, but, of
course, I would have to concentrate a greater effort before it can be
started with any effect. I have, however, prepared an article, rather,
several articles, and which the newspapers, the white dailies, have
agreed to publish conspicuously. But before we can expect much from the
white people, we will ourselves have to show greater activity. That is
where the hard part comes. It is hard to arouse the local leaders to any
appreciation of such a thing. There is so much surface interest, and so
little heart enthusiasm. So many will say a lot of sweet things that
mean nothing, not even an effort to be serious. But I shall open the
campaign Sunday, and I was thinking of asking your assistance in singing
and playing."

"Oh, I'd be only too glad to help in any way I know how, but that is so
little," she said bashfully.

"We will start only in a small way. I have thought it best to begin with
my congregation. I have been to them all, and have already secured
liberal subscriptions, all of whom paid a part of it in cash. This I
will employ as a means of stimulating others. So Sunday, at three P.M.,
I will lecture on it and ask subscriptions, detailing first those who
have already subscribed."

       *       *       *       *       *

"What is my balance, please," inquired Mildred the next afternoon, at
the window of the paying teller.

"One hundred fifty," said the cashier, who looked surprised.

"I wish to withdraw it. And you may make it into a draft, payable to the
 Y.M.C.A."

His mouth opened slightly. He regarded her with a different look, and
then did as she instructed.

       *       *       *       *       *

A fairly good crowd greeted Wilson Jacobs, when he got up to speak on
the proposed campaign for a  Y.M.C.A. To cheer the listeners, he
asked Miss Latham to play and sing the song she had practiced, and which
was new to the congregation. She did so, with all the art of which she
was capable, and was pleased, when she turned to face the audience, that
she had given both pleasure and satisfaction. Her eyes wandered over
them for a moment, and then rested upon someone she had seen before.

"Where was it," she mused, in a half whisper. Wilson Jacobs was
speaking. For two hours he spoke in behalf of the Christian forward
movement. He made plain in so many ways, the urgent need of such, and
did this eloquently. He arraigned the high murder record, which made all
of those before him feel alarmed. The time for some united effort was
necessary. Eventually something had to be done. Plenty of churches, it
was true, were open; but churches were arranged for worship, and not for
clean sport, pool, billiard, gymnasiums and other amusements in which
young men might indulge, would indulge, and did indulge; but in so many
ways and places, that were not conducted in a Christian manner.

"And now," he said, at the close, "we have decided to start this
movement today at home. We will be pleased to make an example we hope
the other churches will follow." With that, he read the names of the
donors and subscribers. Among them, one hundred fifty dollars by
Mildred Latham, the organist, led in cash. They were surprised. Very few
had even become acquainted with her. Now all desired to. When the
meeting had closed, many gathered about her and were introduced. Then,
as she was turning to go, the person she had observed when she finished
playing, approached. His hand was extended, while his eyes looked into
hers with something that frightened her when she saw him--and recognized
him as the man she had seen back in Cincinnati, and who now recognized
her.

When she went home that day, she had reached a decision.




CHAPTER TWELVE

_And Then She Began to Grow Otherwise_


The week following Miss Palmer's and Sidney's outing, was a week of
conflictions for her. She was torn by them considerably. She hardly knew
how to feel; whether to be happy or angry with herself for having acted
as she did. He was kind to her, he was considerate; but that was all.
She had exercised all her wits to make him see her seriously, but beyond
that incident, he had given her no encouragement whatever. She felt
guilty at her conduct. She accused herself of having acted unbecoming in
her attitude toward him. Although he would not admit having written the
book, which had aroused her curiosity, she, of course, knew that he had.
She had finished it now, and knew all he had suffered. And, as she
thought it over, time and again, she almost concluded that his life, as
he had suffered, made him hard and unsympathetic. And almost in the same
thought, she rebuked herself for feeling that way; because, above all
else, he was certainly not selfish.

He called almost every evening when he had finished his work, and they
sat on the porch in the swing if there was no one, and when there
happened to be, they sat in the parlor on the davenport. And when they
did so, it so happened they began to flirt. And this continued to
develop until it reached a point she declared to be outrageous. And yet
it persisted. At such times, moreover, she became bold. There came a
time when she was almost disgusted with herself for being so weak.

After a few weeks had passed, she came to realize that her quest was in
vain. Sidney Wyeth had no affection, beyond flirting, with her. And then
she began to grow otherwise. He observed the change, and was sorry,
perhaps. Still, Miss Palmer did not give up entirely. She was not that
kind of person. After all, to kiss him and to be kissed in return, was
some pastime. It was better than not being kissed or loved at all. So
she flirted.

After this became the usual thing in their acquaintance, she began to
assert other dispositions that had not before been evident. She inquired
boldly where he went when he didn't call in the evening, as usual. She
dictated where he should go as well. In desperation she continued her
tactics--even to a point where our pen is constrained to relate.

"Do you know," said she one evening, when they had flirted shamefully.
"I'm beginning to care for you." She said this from his knee.

"I did not," he sighed. He was not the least excited by her
acknowledgement.

"I am," she affirmed. "More and more as the days go by." She smiled into
his face, while he looked tired. "Have you anyone back where you came
from, who loves you and calls you her all?" she asked now, as though she
could think of nothing else to say.

"No, no, no!" He looked distressed. "I wish I had," he added.

"I know you tell what is not true--feel you do," she corrected. After a
pause she said: "Do you happen to have just a little, only a little
regard for me?" He made light of it by blowing her a kiss, and tried to
change the conversation, but she had more to say.

"Of course you wouldn't love an old grass-widow like me anyhow," she
pouted. He was at a loss what to say, so said nothing.

"Why don't you say something?" she said, put out.

"You should not make such remarks," he said, with a frown.

"But it's true, it's true, and you can't deny it." She seemed angry now,
and didn't appear to care what she said. She left his knee with a last
retort. "And you men are the cause of it all."

He leaned his head against the back of the davenport and closed his
eyes, which angered her, and she cried:

"Go to sleep, go to sleep. You are the worst person I ever knew," and
forthwith she left the room.




CHAPTER THIRTEEN

_Enter--Mr. Tom Toddy!_


When Legs had pawned and lost about all he possessed, he happened upon a
job at one of the hotels, and went to work. To do so, however, he had to
secure a white jacket, and a pair of black trousers. This was somewhat
difficult on account of his long legs, but he managed to secure an old
pair, and, too glad of the chance to work where he could fill his
stomach regularly, he gave good service, and was soon on the good side
of the head waiter.

"Say, Books," he cried one day, soon after he had commenced work. "You
should have seen me eat today. Nice hot bisquits with butter, and
dripping out around the edges, um-um. Man, the way I did eat! I got all
them nigga's t' laffin' over somethin' funny I said, and then I'd slip
back into the kitchen, open the oven and get me a half dozen hot rolls
and butter'm good, and eat, and eat, and eat!

"There is but one thing I can't seem to get over, and that is that
dollar this nigga Moore got me out of bed to lose. Say, that hurt me
worse than anything in this world. I've drawn the line on him now
though. He ain't nothing but an old always broke <DW53>, a-moochin' around
for somebody to stake him in a game. I could have made it all right when
I came over here, if it hadn't been for him. And he never won anything,
and kept me broke as long as I would speak to him."

In a very short time Legs was "on his feet," as the saying goes. He was
making some money and spending it all. His good resolution with regard
to gambling had been laid on the shelf until further declarations, and
he shot craps whenever off duty, and when he could find a game. Moore he
ignored; but that worthy was as fond of the game as a pig was of corn,
so they occasionally ran into each other, nevertheless. In fact, as
Sidney observed them, almost every <DW64> shot craps, with few
exceptions. Whiskey and craps were so much in evidence everywhere he
looked, that he drew this conclusion soon.

Now a man lived overhead, and rented from the landlady, whose name was
Murphy. Wyeth called him "Smoked Irish." He was a creature with a dark
record, so Wyeth was told, and he hailed from a little town in the state
adjoining. Some years before, he had been a man of considerable
importance, but with women and other pastimes, he had fallen into bad
ways, was sent to the penitentiary for fraud, and had sought other parts
after the expiration of his term.

As Wyeth knew him, he was a "bahba," and shaved chins and sheared wool
in one of Effingham's fancy <DW64> shops.

Murphy had seen almost fifty summers, was about five feet eleven, and a
mulatto with coarse, stiff, black hair, tinged with gray. His features
were set, like a man with experience, and he could tell some wonderful
stories. The Mis' called them lies. They might have been, but it is to
Murphy's credit that they were good ones, and interesting to listen to.

On Sunday, and week days also, when he was home from the shop, and in
his loft, Murphy sold whiskey on the side--or as a side line, and
operated a crap game in addition. The law, of course, did not permit of
this, as we shall see presently; but--well, it didn't matter--as long as
the law didn't know it. And Murphy made money, Wyeth was told. It was up
there Legs invested most of his earnings, winning once in a while, but
losing more frequently. The fact that Murphy was so convenient with his
diversion, was, in a sense, helpful to Legs, because he didn't have to
journey far to his bed. And always as soon as he was "cleaned," he would
retire and sleep as peacefully as a babe, until his work called him the
following morning.

John Moore was a frequent visitor also. Legs put Wyeth wise, when he
inquired why Moore was up there so often, since he appeared to have no
money. "He's a piker, a cheap piker that touts for Murphy, for the
privilege of gambling and gettin' a drink a liquah, that he loves so
well."

Much to the surprise of them all, one Saturday night about this time,
Moore did make a winning. Legs informed Wyeth to this effect, when he
retired from the battle "clean."

"Seven dollars and a half, the dirty devil. And he'll be as scarce as
hen's teeth as long as he has a dime of it too." He was mistaken. That
was on Saturday night. Sunday morning after he had risen and had some
good whiskey, Moore dressed himself like a gentleman, and made some of
the losers envy him for a few hours. Then he went back upstairs to
Murphy's. When Wyeth saw him again, he was sitting under a shade tree,
reading the Bible. This was a self-evident fact that he had made an
investment. As further evidence of the fact, that night at supper he
offered a beautiful prayer. He had failed to do so that morning, which
was further proof of Legs' contention.

Legs came up while Moore was reposing sanctimoniously, and said: "M-m!
Cleaned, eh! Glad of it, the cheap sucker. He's dead broke, too. Because
if he had even a nickel, he'd be upstairs. You can bet a nickel up
there. The only thing against it is Murphy's cut. He cuts a nickel a
pass. And sometimes he cuts both ways, going and coming. So, with men
betting a nickel against a nickel, Murphy is liable to take it all."

Moore retired early that evening, and slept peacefully. He had worked
hard the night before, and that morning.

The following Saturday night, Legs came to the room, caught Wyeth half
asleep, and borrowed a dollar. With this, he went for a joy ride, and
got drunk into the bargain. Wyeth didn't realize that he had loaned him
a dollar, until the other was whizzing down the street in the car. And
then he was angry with himself. This disturbed him until sleep was
impossible, so, rising, he betook himself to the porch. As he thought it
over, he became more angry with himself than ever, because he knew Legs
had borrowed it for the sole purpose of getting drunk and joy riding.
While he was getting over it in the soft night air, the Mis' told him
Legs had got paid that day, and, with the exception of what he paid her,
he had lost the remainder of his two weeks' wage in a game. That made
him more angry, and, in seeking a diversion, he rose, and out of
curiosity, he decided to pay Murphy's den a visit.

Murphy had a good crowd that night--he usually did on Saturday. In a
room that was near the middle of the apartment, surrounded by a crowd of
<DW64>s, stood a table over which was spread a green cloth. At one side
of the table sat Moore, and he called the points and fished the cuts;
while in another room to the rear of this, with doors open, stood a
large refrigerator. This, Wyeth surmised, was where the liquor was kept.
It was, for, as he was looking, Murphy approached it, opened it, took
therefrom several bottles of beer, and served it to the many gamesters
who were working hard, and perspiring freely.

The green cloth, which at one time had decorated a pool table, was, as
he now observed, employed to deaden the sound of the rolling dice, that
slid over it from some perspiring palm. Not any large amount was upon
the table; but many one dollar bills could be seen in the palms of the
gamesters. Another roomer downstairs, and who read a great deal, was on
hand and shot craps too. This was something of a surprise, since he was
apparently very intelligent; but, as Wyeth learned later, literary
training did not make them ignore the game by any means. As he stood
watching, the dice passed to Glenview, the intelligent roomer. He made a
point, and then threw seven before he came back to it. The winners
picked up the money. Wyeth was relieved to see the dice pass to another
<DW64>, who had been fidgeting about impatiently. He caught them up, and
blew his breath on them, as they were held in his palm, before throwing
them before him across the table. Wyeth advanced closer as the game
became more excited. Glenview had thrown the dice, much as Wyeth had
observed the white people did back in the _Rosebud Country_--for they
shot craps there as well. But now, with a "clea' dy way, I'm a comin',"
he let them roll.

"Throwed eight!" cried Moore.

"Eight I throwed! Now dice, do it again!"

"T' click-i-lick-lick-lick, 'ah eight!"

"Throw-e-d ten!"

"Haf 'e cain' hit!"

"Ah got yu!"

"Qua'ta' mo' I'n make it!" exclaimed the shooter, hesitating with
upraised hand, but shaking the dice in them the while, and throwing a
quarter across the table.

"Ah'll take yu'!" cried a burley on the other side.

"Shoot the dice, nigga, shoot the dice," commanded Moore.

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick 'ah-ha-eight!"

"Throwed five!"

"Ain' no eight on 'nem dice!"

"T-click-i-click-i-click 'ah, eaighter from Decatur!'"

"Throwed seben!"

"Ke-hu!"

"Tole yu he coul'n't make it!" cried a big dinge. "Now gimme dem dice!"

"Bet a quata!"

"Make it a haf!"

"Ah take yu!"

"Shoot the dice, nigga, shoot the dice!"

"Yeh. Cut out d' awgument 'n' let'm roll, let'm roll!"

"Gimme room heah 'cause ah kicks!" He did too. Raising his left foot he
stamped the floor with it, kicking backward viciously at the same time
with the other. He caught a <DW64> on the shins, which made that worthy
angry with pain, whereupon he turned, and let the other have a good one
in the usual place. For a time the game was threatened with a fight; but
Murphy, who appeared to understand them quite well, interfered with
success.

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick, 'ah, seben ah 'leben!'"

"Throwed craps!"

"Ya-ha! Makin' all da fuss 'n' lose d' fus' shot!"

"Dem dice 's crooket," he muttered.

"Yuz a liah," cried one of the winners, as if afraid they were, and he
would not get his bet.

"Yuse a cheap nigga," said Moore. "Stand aside."

Next came a little <DW64>, with a nose that began at the ears, and peepy
eyes which observed the dice suspiciously. He was displeased with the
looks of them, evidently. They were a large white pair, and which, so
'tis said, can be loaded. He threw them across the table without making
his bet, saying: "Ah gotta paih mah own," and produced from his pocket,
a pair of huge celluloid ones, that were beautiful in the electric
light.

"Haf t' use the house's dice, cain't substitute," advised Moore,
judiciously.

"Why caint ah, I'd lak t' know. Why caint ah!" he exclaimed, beginning
to perspire.

Moore started to say more, but Murphy came forward now, with "Let me see
them." He took them carefully in his hand, held them between his eyes
and the light, tossed them about, and then threw them on the table.
"They're all right," and walked away. The little dinge grabbed them
eagerly, rubbed them together fondly, blew his breath on them, and then,
raising his hand above his head, he made a peculiar rattle and threw
them bouncing and jumping across the table. The <DW64>s about had been
observing him with ill omen, and now, as the dice jumped before them
like little red devils, they sparkled in the light, and made their eyes
blink.

"Throwed seven!" cried Moore.

"Dogone nigga's 's lucky 's 'e 's ugly," grumbled a loser.

"Shoot it all!" he cried, hesitating with the dice in his hand.

"Ah'll take it!"

"Haf 'e cain' hit!"

"Ah fate yu!"

"Let'm roll, let'm roll!"

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick, ah baby dolls!"

"Throwed five!"

"Raise ut t' a dollah!"

"Make ut sebenty-five!"

"Let'm roll!"

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick, ah, phoebe!"

"Throwed five!"

"Um-m-m-m-m!"

"T-click-i-lick-lick! a-ha dice!"

"Throwed seben!"

"Jes' look ut dat fool nigga, good Gawd!"

"Sech luck, sech luck, sech luck!"

"Shoot it all!"

"Fate dis nickel," begged a loser, with a whimper.

"Trow it out d' windu' shine!"

"Now watch dis 'leben!" cried the guy with the luck.

"Aw, Lawdy, Lawdy, Lawdy, jes' look ut dat nigga agin!"

"Nigga, dem dice yu' shootin' uz sho God crooket!"

"Shoot it all!" Five dollars was the size of the pot now. It was like
five hundred to the eyes that now saw it.

"Whu, whu, whu!" He blew on them; while with murder in their eyes, the
losers watched.

"I'll take it," said Glenview calmly. He placed a five dollar bill over
the amount that lay upon the table. Several had now gone broke, while
others declared silently, that he was a hoo-doo, and feared to risk him.
Several little bets were made on the side, but no one was willing to
risk much against such luck as he had displayed.

"Now, Anne Jane, bring home du' bacin!" he cried, as he let them bounce
on the table. It seemed an age to the lookers before they stopped
somewhat to the far side. A six and a five. Eleven. He had won again.
There was no comment now. Every one was silent, and surveyed him, as if
he were the clouds.

"Shoot it all," he cried again. A bit of muttering went the rounds
before any one ventured to cover it.

"'E cain' keep ut up, 'e cain' keep ut up," declared one who held only
three dollars out of a ten dollar bill a few minutes before. He threw a
dollar viciously toward him. After much parley, others joined; John
Moore saw Murphy's back, eased a dollar from the cuts, and added it to
the pool. Twenty dollars was now the stake, and it was like a million to
those that saw it.

The winner now uncoated himself. He had on nothing beneath the coat but
an undershirt. He flung his hat in the corner, revealing a little sharp
head, shaven clean and upon which the light dazzled like a smoked opal.
As Wyeth observed him, he was reminded of an ape, if he had ever seen
one. He took plenty of time, as though anticipating something. Rolling
up his sleeve, he exposed a pair of sinewy arms that made the crowd
exchange glances. Sidney was standing near the window. At this moment he
happened to look out. From up the street came a sound of merry
rollicking. No other appeared to hear.

The dice were now tumbling over the table in their fateful quest. More
than a dozen pairs of brown eyes blinked dryly at them, as the red
material flickered beautifully. Wyeth now looked carefully in the
direction of the sound, and finally caught the outline of Legs. From the
distance, he saw that he was loaded. He was covering considerable
space--so much so that it would have been extremely difficult to have
passed him on the walk, which was narrow. And behind him came another.
He was about half the height of Legs, as they now appeared. Wyeth
recognized him as the runt, and his name was Tom Toddy, at least, that
is what they called him about a hotel that was patronized by <DW64>s,
and where he acted as a sort of goat and flunky. Wyeth had had his life
threatened on one occasion by him. It was because he had called him
"Graveyard." He was old, bald-headed and measly. So this epithet seemed
quite appropriate. And, thereupon, Toddy had threatened to send him into
eternity, if he addressed him again in such terms. He had a load also.

On they came, and for the time Wyeth forgot the game. Toddy was now
beside Legs, and they embraced like man and wife. As Wyeth smiled at the
spectacle, they began to sing.

     "It's a long, long way to Temporary,"

and as they came on, they changed it to:

     "We're a long, long way from home."

Wyeth laughed now almost outright; but those behind him never heard.
They heard only, and saw with all eyes, that the apish creature had won
again, and had strapped the crowd to cover the next bet he was now
shooting for.

Legs and Toddy had reached the curbing, and, not seeing it, they tumbled
over into the sand-covered street. As they picked themselves up, they
sang lowly:

     "You made me what I am today,
      So I guess you're satisfied."

On toward the house they now came, singing at intervals. Presently they
stepped upon the porch, and rattled the knob. The door was always kept
locked during such proceedings. From the lower end of town, a rooster
crowed long and loud; while, at the same moment, a clock from some
remote tower struck two. The dice tumbled onward to their fatal end, and
Legs kicked the door a bang.

In the still night, it sounded like the discharge of a cannon.

Then here came a lull. All became so quiet that the ticking of a clock
upon the mantel sounded like the pounding of a hammer. Faces turned
about and eyes looked into each other. They were all colors and a sight
to see. The little <DW64>, coolest all the while, eased the money into
his jeans, as the others cried all at once:

"The bulls!"

And now began the scramble, and it was a mighty one.

Under the table went many, whereupon it turned over, and revealed them
all wiggling like so many eels. To the room containing the refrigerator,
went a half dozen others and closed the door. John Moore stood in the
center of the room where he had been deserted by the others, his knees
hitting together with a sound like rocks. Cold fear, for he was an awful
coward, held him like a vise. Into the closets; into Murphy's bedroom
went some more, and piled in a hurry into the bed, whereupon it gave way
with a loud crash, mixing many in a nasty, smothered mass, where they
tried to extricate themselves with much difficulty.

And, in the meantime, the kicking continued. "Let me in! Let me in! What
in Hell!" cried Legs, and it was punctuated with a piping from Tom
Toddy.

"Yes,"--he was very proper--"open up! Open up! This is a He-ll uv a way
to treat two gentlemen!"

John Moore was still doing the dazzle; but, now upon hearing the voices,
he gathered enough courage to stand erect, and then he turned hurriedly
and running to a rear window, put his feet out, jumped out full upon the
soft dirt below, and landed without injury, apparently, for, a moment
later, Wyeth heard him running around the house in the direction of the
kicking. He didn't permit the miscreants to see him, until he had made
out fully that they were not officers. When he had made sure they were
not blue-coats, he advanced on them from the rear, and took them by
surprise. He appeared unable to frame words of denunciation strong
enough, but at last he made it. His voice was subdued when he did speak,
he was so angry.

"Yeu! Yeu! Y-e-u long-legged nigga! Yeu liver eatin' bunch a-meat! And
you! You little dried shrimp! Git ready t' die, 'cause 's sho 's I'm a
nigga, I'm going t' part you from this earth t'night!"

They turned now, for a moment sober, and looked at him. He went on with
his tirade.

"Makin' all this noise down heh, 'n' scarrin' everybody t' death, 'n'
a-breakin' up the game! This is wha' you all 'n' me meets our Jehovah!"

Legs was now too near the edge, and, suddenly with a catching to save
himself, which Moore construed as an advance upon him, he went overboard
with a mighty tumble.

To this day, however, John Moore didn't know it was an accident. He
didn't wait to investigate. A long pair of legs, with a long body on top
of them was all he cared to see, and when they landed, he was going
around the corner of the house and into the kitchen.

His hurry up ingress awakened the Mis', who bolted out of bed, and
demanded to know what was up.

"The devil's up--on the front porch, a-raisin' cain."

"What are you talkin' 'bout!"

"That long-legged nigga from Attalia a-comin in heh a-kickin' on the
door, and a-scarrin everybody outta the' senses!" he told her, much
excited, and with his back against the door, not failing to listen in
the meantime.

Wyeth descended the stair now, opened the street door, admitting Legs
and Toddy. Legs entered first, while Toddy, blinking blindly, followed
suit with a grip on his coat tail.

"Where is he," cried Legs. "I mean John Moore! I want to kill him! Death
for him is the campaign for tonight! From this earth he's got to part!
Where is he! Show him to me now, and in a minute I'll show you his
heart, the skunk."

In some way, Moore did not hear this; but stood at the rear looking for
Legs from that direction; and, in the meantime, declaring to the Mis'
what he was going to do.

"I'm go'n throw that nigga out tonight! To-night, or I'll die tomorra,
so help me Jaysus!"

Legs, who had entered his bedroom which opened into the kitchen,
overheard this last. He now tore off his coat and hat, which Tom Toddy
held, and forthwith sought Moore with a mighty oath. Glenview put in his
appearance now from the rear, and kept Legs out of the kitchen, which
fact sufficed for John Moore to make words. Our pen fails to describe
this in detail.

"Git yo things 'n' go!" cried Moore near the door, and positive that
Glenview was between them. "Leave mah house at once!"

"Oh, hush! Hush! Hush!" interposed the Mis'.

"Leave, leave, to-night!"

"Just let me get to him, just let me get to him! I want to eat'm,"
begged Legs.

"Yeh; let us have him. We're going t' skin him," squeaked Tom Toddy.

"This is terrible," cried the Mis'.

"Just let me get my fingers on the tramp, and it'll be all over in a
minute," Legs begged.

"All but the funeral," assisted Toddy.

"Orderin' somebody out of _his_ house. You ain' nothin' but the flunky
anywhere. If I was in charge here, I'd make you sleep under the bed!"

"I'd make him sleep under the house, the lousy rat," cried Toddy.

"Ah said you leave this house now," cried Moore. "These ah the orders
from me. From me-e!"

"The Mis' ain' said nothin'," Legs cried again.

"Leave, leave, before I tear yu' t' pieces," Moore raved, stamping his
foot.

At that moment, Legs gave Glenview a push that sent him reeling, and
with a lunge, he cornered Moore. That worthy was frightened into Hades.
He was speechless. Legs smiled on him as he reached out and got him by
the ears. Grasping them tight, he essayed a bumping process against the
wall with his head.

"Have you got him, boy?" inquired Toddy, making sure before he ventured
forth with a small knife. "What shall I do to the sucker now? Just tell
me, and I'll proceed to take off his nose or his lips; either one of
them will make good dog meat."

"You shouldn't have come home disturbing everybody like this," said the
Mis', and seemed hurt. This had effect on Legs, who was always
considerate of the ladies.

"I'm sorry for you, Mis'; but I've had it in for this hunk a meat, ever
since he got me out of bed to lose my last dollar." He emphasized the
remark by another bumping.

"I'm a poor widow woman without protection, and you are ruining the only
way I have of making a living." That was enough. He forgot John Moore
for a second, and the next moment that worthy was locked in an adjoining
room. Here he went into a tirade. Legs forgot the Mis' now and sought
him, but the door was locked and bolted.

"Git yo things 'n' go nigga!" he cried boldly now, from his safe
retreat.

"If you had called, or knocked, I would have come and opened the door,
as I always do. There was no call for all this!" remonstrated the Mis'.

"Don't lock me out, don't lock me out!" Legs raged.

"Git yo things and go, dy'e hear," from the retreat. Legs now became
angry with the Mis'.

"Gimme a dollar Mis' and I'll go. If that thing in the other woom there
is running this place, I don't want to stay."

"Git yo things 'n' go!"

"Gimme a dollar!"

"You ought to have known better than to create such a disturbance," the
Mis' said.

"Gimme a dollar!" from Legs again.

"Let's get another drink!" from Toddy.

"I've always treated you like a gentleman."

"Gimme a dollar!" "Gimme a dollar 'n' a haf!"

"What we go'n give you a dollar 'n' a haf fo'?"

"I paid room rent in advance last Wednesday."

"Now! Here!" cried the Mis', "all of you go to bed and forget this
noise."

"Ah'm go'n git 'n' officer, and have that long-legged nigga 'rested!"
from within.

"Go to bed!" from the Mis'.

"Go'n have who arrested?" exclaimed Legs, mad all over again.

"'F you do'n git out at once, I'm go'n throw you out!"

"If I ever get my hands on you again, you old cheap nigga; you old
broken nigga; you moochin' piker; you pot a-neck-bone stew!"

"Say," cried one of the roomers, just then, "a pair of bulls are coming
down the street!"

That was the end of it.




CHAPTER FOURTEEN

_The Disappearing Chin_


Some years before, back in the west, and at the drug store in a little
town near which Wyeth owned land, and where, during the cold wint'ry
days, the more intelligent and pretentious, as well as argumentative
were wont to collect and discuss science, politics and economics, a
subject came up one day, that thereafter, became the topic on more than
one afternoon's discussion.

It concerned chins, and grew out of the presence of an insurance writer,
who was booziogically inclined. And, being so, and a man of no great
means, if any, it was a puzzle to many how he could get the means to
fill up on liquor daily, and pay for it.

The occurrence had remained in Wyeth's memory, and, afterwards, he had a
new viewpoint in observing people.

Fitzpatrick was his name, and he was, of course, Irish. His ability to
get the wherewith to get drunk daily, and have money for other purposes
as well, came up one day for discussion. The more logical and nature
study debaters, laid it to the fact that he was possessed of an
indefatigable will, and that, in addition, was conspicuously evident in
his chin. Fitzpatrick had a wonderful chin; one was inclined to take
notice of it the first time he met the man. It extended some distance
beyond his teeth, and was square and firm. A chin that was set in such a
fashion and did not recede, was, they argued, an evidence of will. So be
it.

Chins were carefully observed at once, and lo, the druggist was the only
one with a chin that was inclined to disappear. It was plain at first
glance, that not one of more than a dozen, possessed a chin the equal of
Fitzpatrick.

It was then that Sidney began to see everybody's chin, apart from every
other, the moment he met a person. When he had come back again among his
own, after eleven years, his observation began to reveal chins, which
according to the argument related, were, to say the least, discouraging.
Almost two-thirds of his people possessed the disappearing chin. A bad
sign, he was positive, but they had it, and he now studied this race to
which he belonged, very carefully, and from an every day and practical
point of view. He did not attempt a scientific study, for, in the first
place, he knew little of science, and in the second place, to understand
life from a practical point of view, and to apply one's thoughts and
efforts to that end, seemed to him a more profitable occupation. In this
research, he met many of his people who had gone through college, knew
everything from the dark ages to Caesar, but many of them couldn't have
bounded the state which they called home, for they paid little attention
to their surroundings. As he became better acquainted with them, he was
disappointed upon finding them ignorant. At the same time, they had
little appreciation for another's viewpoint, unless he had _been to
school and graduated from college_.

Having digressed, we will attempt to return to the story.

The druggist was not an assuming person, and admitted, very gracefully,
to the fact that he possessed neither will nor determination; but, as
Sidney Wyeth knew his people, he did not expect many to be so frank.

So, it came about that when he met Miss Palmer, almost the first thing
he took notice of when she came out of the darkness to the porch, was
that she possessed a chin, the point of which was far beyond the lips.
It was that fact more than any other, that caused him to try in every
way possible, to secure her services. As we have stated, he had little
confidence in chinless persons, a fact, which was so much in evidence
among his people.

So, when he had known Miss Palmer a few weeks, and had been convinced,
from a practical point of view, that she did possess will in keeping
with the set of her chin, he confided the fact to her. She smiled very
modestly, and, of course, deplored it; but, nevertheless, he caught her
studying the reflection of it more than once, when a mirror was
convenient.

That Miss Palmer was determined, vigorous, possessed courage and had
strength of her convictions, was a positive fact. When she made up her
mind to do a thing, if she failed, it was because it was beyond the
range of reasonable effort to accomplish it. And it was shortly after
this, that Wyeth discovered that such a fortune could be superabundant.
That is, a person could be endowed with so many of these helpful
qualities that it passed beyond the range of judgment to assert them.
This happened to be what he discovered in Miss Palmer. He regretted it
too, because he had begun to admire her.

The presence of these aggressive facts, began later to result in a
change in their regard for each other. They disagreed in their point of
view, and, still later, they came to a crash, literally.

For Miss Palmer was, in addition to the agreeable and admirable things
he had discovered, pretentious to an alarming degree. And it was this,
which caused the trouble.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our pen has not before had occasion to relate that the change in the
life of Sidney Wyeth, from the prairies to the present, was due, in a
great measure, to the evil genius of an overly busy person. And yet,
such was the fact. Therefore, being an observing character, and
realizing these qualities, but not appreciating them in the creature
whom he would always despise, he did, above all else, wish to avoid a
person thus richly endowed. He had declared many a time, that he trusted
the diamond back rattlers that infested the prairies, more than he did
an unduly pretentious, ostentatious person.

Therefore, when he came to notice these qualities in Miss Palmer, it led
to frequent disagreements. And yet, withal, no one could altogether
dislike Miss Palmer. There came a time when he felt, that if she did not
try to argue on everything that came up, without first attempting to
equip herself with a few facts bearing on the subject, and which would
serve to substantiate her argument, he could have overlooked much of her
pretense. But, as he came to know her better, she argued on everything,
and sought to force her conclusions upon the other, when her knowledge
was quite foreign to the question on hand. She literally murdered facts.
And, as time went on, he saw that her aim was, very often, merely to
dominate, with no apparent regard for what might be learned by careful
listening.

In Effingham, as in every other town, Wyeth had discovered, among his
people, a set who claimed to be the more elite; they were the more
intelligent, and called themselves society. On his pilgrimage, he had
never sought to become a part of this society.

In Effingham, Sidney came to see this phase a little clearer than
before, due to his acquaintance with Miss Palmer--that is, that side of
it, the woman's side. As for the men, he met that at the drug store,
where he had relieved the druggist of two dollars, and where the more
elite gathered and indulged. Arguments were usually in process there, he
soon saw; and when not so engaged, they gambled and drank to an alarming
degree, in the back room, and secluded, where he was not invited. Cards
were the custom; but soon craps, he heard, became more conspicuous. The
druggist was "a" shooter, and won quite frequently, so 'twas said.

Miss Palmer took pride--as well she might--in informing Wyeth of the
fact that she was a member of the <DW52> society of Effingham, and
proved it by entertaining until she was ever bankrupt; she was always up
against it for money; and this fact, no doubt, brought her to selling
books, as a means to make ends meet during vacation. But Miss Palmer did
not, could not, of course, be expected to admit such a thing. She could
have said nothing about it, which would have been as dignified; but she
made it a point to appraise Wyeth of the fact, that she only did it to
help him, at which times she would smile, and show her little teeth. "I
like you so much," and she would smile again, "that it is my great and
ardent desire to help you."

Sidney had never appreciated it in this way.

At Miss Palmer's could often be found a gathering of teachers, of which
Effingham, with its sixty thousand black people, had many. And these, to
whom the masses looked to for tutor, he studied very carefully. He had,
as before stated, never shown them the book; but the surprise of it was,
that Miss Palmer had not done so either.

In one of the little suburbs, where they had canvassed, he recalled a
row of very attractive homes occupied by the more respectable <DW52>
people. Miss Palmer had canvassed there very carefully, and had sold the
book to nearly every one, but she had as carefully avoided showing it to
a professor, who occupied the most imposing of the row. He had not said
anything, but, of course, he could scarcely help noticing this careful
avoidance of all houses where teachers lived. In some manner, the matter
came up one day, and Miss Palmer merely remarked that the teachers were
all broke, would be so, until school opened again.

Sidney had surpressed his criticism. But one day he called on Miss
Palmer. He was just in time to meet a white woman coming out. The latter
turned and thanked Miss Palmer for her kindness in giving her the list
of thirty teachers, with the suggestion that they would be interested in
the set of books for which she was agent. The lady had sold to
twenty-five of that number, not counting Miss Palmer, who had cheerfully
started the list. And the books were in twenty volumes, at one dollar
each.

Of course, Miss Palmer showed them to her friend with much ado, stating
that the same would be so helpful to her in her school work. He said it
was very nice; but he wondered just what particular help the books could
be to these teachers, for the set were a collected list of fiction, with
no care as to whether it was a work of specific interest. The set
included many volumes, by authors who issued a book every sixty days,
all of which were on sale at any bookseller, or by mail at that time,
and for some time past, at fifty cents a volume, or twenty copies from
the publishers at forty-five cents each.

Of course, Miss Palmer did not know this, or any of the other
twenty-five teachers out of the thirty who had purchased--and lest we
forget, it was this lack of knowledge that had cost the druggist two
dollars, because he had been shown a work by one of his race, with a
suggestion to buy. The fact uppermost in the mind of Sidney was, that
the teachers with few exceptions, scarcely needed any such work to teach
black children. Many of them would be unlikely to read as many as half a
dozen of the books in their lifetime. And yet, by borrowing the book,
they were reading _The Tempest_. Some were even contemptible in their
criticism; but all of them borrowed it and read it, including Miss
Palmer; and she admitted it was the only book she had read that season,
other than what she was compelled to read by the board of education.

But all of these people felt they were sacrificing everything for their
race, and would deplore it, were they told that such was not true.

But the teachers were nice; much more interesting to talk to than the
common herd. They could, almost all, smile beautifully; and they could
pronounce their English more correctly, employing their "r's," and
interspersing their discourse with a clever toss of the head or twinkle
of the eye; and when one of the race, who had been successful, married,
he invariably picked a teacher. They were sensible enough to realize
that a husband who could keep the wolf from the door, was a treasure to
be appreciated. It was thus Sidney Wyeth found teachers. But he could
not understand why they seldom appreciated <DW64> literature to the point
of purchasing, since they were engaged in the teaching.

Miss Palmer was buying a small home in one of the suburbs, and which was
all she could boast of owning. As we know her, she secured her living by
teaching nine months in the year, at forty dollars a month. And as we
now know, she must perforce earn something during vacation, which was
the real reason for selling Wyeth's book. So, from what we know of her,
there is no reason why she should not have been conspicuous in <DW52>
society, since the masses, unfortunately, are all poor. Hence, wealth
cannot be the dividing line, else there would be no society whatever.

Miss Palmer showed more ostentation as their acquaintance lengthened.
Sidney was now thirty; and since nineteen, he had lived on the western
ranges. And, as is usually the case, western people are great readers.
But here, his people did not read. Not that they could not do so, but
because it was apparently not a preference; considering the fact that
few seemed to care for much reading beyond a newspaper sensation. And,
as he met the more elite, he was surprised that they paid so little
attention to the condition of the masses. Murder, as we have seen, was
an established habit. Of all those he had met, the teachers impressed
Wyeth as having the least regard for conditions. In other words, "they
never worried." They dressed the best their means would afford, and aped
the rest, which was easy. And this he found so prevalent, that he was,
at times, dreadfully bored by it all. But he was relieved when he looked
deeper, to find that the people who were actually succeeding in doing
something, paid little attention to this set, which dominated society.
But the set claimed them, nevertheless.

As he had known society from reading of it only, he had judged that
literature was one of its chief features--but not so with this. Gossip
and hearsay were more in keeping, and obviously more appreciated.

Wyeth was a literary man now for the sake of gaining a livelihood; but
he had studied it, as we know, from a modern point of view. He had
never, however, any difference of opinion with them, for so few knew of
the late books, purchased few, and most of them not any magazines of
interest. Not one in a dozen even read the race's only periodical, _The
Climax_: though the editor had once been one of them, and had written a
book, a novel. It was a failure, from a financial point of view.

The fiction they knew and talked of was in the order of Rip Van Winkle,
Ben Hur and St. Elmo.

One day, when arguments were abundant, it came to a point where Wyeth
made mention of the fact that so few teachers showed any interest in
current events; did not read the magazines, and <DW64> literature they
almost held in contempt.

"Is it because they feel that no <DW64> knows enough to write anything
they would care to read?"

"The idea," cried Miss Palmer, indignant. "All the teachers take the
magazines, and as for <DW64> literature, it has been the teachers who
have robbed themselves to make the same possible."

"And yet other than 'Up From Bondage' and the works of the dead poet,
you can seldom find a volume by a <DW64> author in any of their
houses.... And, if I have investigated correctly, ninety per cent of
this was placed there, after the white people had bought it and
proclaimed the authors great. In the many houses I have been in with
you, I have not yet seen any of Derwin's. Though one of them he wrote,
and which is named after our souls, had a great sale among the white
people even."

"I cannot see, nor appreciate either, your point of view with regard to
the teachers' lack of literary interest, when not two weeks ago,
twenty-six teachers among a list of thirty, purchased a set of twenty
volumes each, and which cost them all that many dollars."

"And every volume by an author few know of, further than that he was
white, and, therefore, knew something," he retorted.

It ended there and they were both relieved that it did; but neither
forgot it.

Effingham, with its sixty thousand black people, had scores of drug
stores which sold literature. Many newsstands also did such a business
exclusively. There were four drug stores operated by <DW52> people,
and, like Attalia, not one sold magazines and newspapers as a side line;
nor did any sell literature, which were operated by whites that depended
upon <DW64> trade. Granting, of course, that many <DW52> people bought
such at white places, when they desired to read, it may reasonably be
imagined how much literature was in demand among the <DW52> people.

Wyeth usually purchased a work of fiction weekly, and sometimes more;
while some weeks, of course, he omitted this custom. One day, he was
asked by the clerk of the leading book store in Effingham, what he did
with so many books when he had read them. "We have sold," he said,
"seven copies of the book you sold us; but I guess you'll be surprised
to know that we have not, as yet, sold one to a <DW64>." Wyeth was not
surprised, but didn't say so. "That ad we placed in the  paper,
and have had standing a month, would bring dozens of curious white
people in to see what it was. And, of course, some would purchase it to
see what was said. Then, if the contents did not thrill or please,
indifference would follow. But when nobody buys, not even inquires, we
can only feel that your people don't have much interest in books, and we
have had the same experience before." He smiled when he had finished, a
smile that was embarrassed. He disliked to say it, apparently, but when
Wyeth was so pleasant, he added: "We have bought what few books your
race has written, for the purpose of sale, and have naturally expected
some evidence of interest from them, by a call and an occasional
purchase. And I am telling you the truth, if we depended on them to
unload this stuff from our shelves, it would be there yet, as some of it
is. You have personally bought more literature, in the way of current
books, since you came in here, than all the rest of your people in this
town together."

Wyeth went his way then, but he was no longer surprised, as he once was,
for he had heard that many times before.

One day shortly after, Wyeth happened in at the druggist's place, the
hot bed of argument. He inquired why a few magazines were not carried in
stock.

"Hell!" cried that one, throwing his hands up in a gesture of despair
and mingled disgust, "nigga's don't read."

The following Sunday morning, when the drug store was full, he happened
to mention a new book he had, and which many of the idlers were
inspecting, one by one, asking to borrow it when he was through. He
suggested that it was on sale uptown, then quoted the words of the
clerk, who had remarked that he, Wyeth, bought more books than did the
rest of the <DW52> people put together.

He was hooted down, so there was no argument. Each was positive that his
friend had bought one; while that friend was likewise of the same
opinion. And of the many, almost every one had read the book he wrote,
having borrowed it from someone who had bought it. The druggist then
offered an excuse for the absence of literature at his store, by
declaring that almost all the people subscribed, and the same came
through mail.

Miss Palmer and he were certainly very forgetful.

Literature was a dead issue, that could not be denied; but whiskey was
not.

Effingham had no library for its black people, and they were not allowed
the privilege of the white. Yet a part of their tax was paid to support
the same. Still, no one gave that much thought, insofar as Wyeth could
ascertain. When he mentioned it to the teachers, almost without
exception they replied: "No use. <DW64>s don't read." And it was so
everywhere. Yet every class but the doctors and teachers purchased _The
Tempest_, when it was brought to their attention, and Wyeth even sold to
three of these (two doctors and one teacher) in Effingham that summer.

No, no one he met had any worry about a library; but thousands of black
children ran wild day by day upon their streets, went to jail in great
numbers before they were of age, and filled convict camps as members of
chain gangs long before they could be called even young men. There was
no library, nor was there a park; but there were plenty of other places
conducive to crime. And still Effingham had more than a hundred <DW64>
churches.

"Can you not realize, that in your absence of such necessities for the
training of these little black children, that you are growing children
for the chain gang every day?" But this never aroused any visible
concern. And sometimes they did say, emphatically:

"Aw, we don't need no library; and if we had a park for <DW52> people,
they would do nothing but fight in it." And still others would cry: "Git
religion! 'n' read d' Bible; pr'pare y'self fo' Heaben." And still
others were in disgust, as they replied: "A nigga ain' going to 'mount
to nothin' nohow, so what's the use?"

"A library could be obtained, if the conditions here were brought to the
attention of the northern philanthropists," he suggested to Miss Palmer,
whereupon she cried:

"Oh, Mr. Wyeth, you bore me with your contention about libraries and
parks and Y.M.C.A.'s and the like. These nigga's in Effingham are not
worrying about such things; so why should you, a stranger, a mere
observer, be so concerned!"

"Because, Miss Palmer, I cannot help but see all this murder and crime
going on, which is undermining the foundation of <DW52> society. Every
day, when my paper comes, it's murder, murder, murder, and fully ninety
per cent is among our people, although only two-fifths of the population
is <DW64>."

"Haven't I told you all along, that the crime is among the low down,
whiskey drinking, depraved element, and not among the best people?"

"Yes, but this country cannot exist in peace and prosperity and
happiness; nor can this race, with the greater part ignorant, criminal
and depraved. The more intelligent have, for their duty, the task of
helping in any way possible, and by so doing, lift these unfortunates
into a state of intelligence and self-respect."

"Well," she contended, resignedly, "that is for the churches to do,
there's enough of them."

"And the teachers, because they are looked to, should help as much as
they can with their higher intelligence, for the mothers are too
ignorant and too depraved to do so. But of the many churches, of which
seventy are Baptist, not one has any connection or interest in a school
here, directly or indirectly."

"I begin to think you are going to lose your mind, if you don't quit
seeing the many iniquities of our people. If you would only see what the
good people are doing, and try to interest yourself more in them, you
would be happier," she said. He sighed now, and then said to himself:
"What's the use."

"Quit it all, Sidney," she said softly, calling him for the first time
by his first name. "Quit all this worry about these nigga's and be
yourself; be sweet." And she kissed him.




CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"_Wilson, Wilson! Mildred Is Gone!_"


"Wilson, Wilson! Mildred is gone, Mildred is gone!" cried Constance,
ringing her hands despairingly.

"Gone," he breathed, uncomprehendingly.

"Yes, gone." His sister sank into a chair, and gave up to a flood of
tears.

"But why?" he cried, only now seeming to understand that she had
actually left them.

"I don't know, I don't know," she moaned.

"This is certainly a mystery. Surely dear, you are mistaken," he
insisted, greatly disturbed. "Mildred would surely not have left us so
unceremoniously. And, besides--why, she--she, Constance, why she gave
one hundred and fifty dollars to the Christian association movement only
today. And you cannot mean that she has gone! It is hardly possible!"

"I only wish it were not so; but come," and, taking his hand, she led
him to the room Mildred had occupied. It was deserted, save for the
furniture that belonged there. Only once had he seen the inside of it
while she occupied it. And now it did not appear the same; because then,
it was decorated with much lace and woman's needle work and picture
postals. But, strange as he had thought, when he happened to glance into
it before, there were no pictures of girls and men, young or old, nobody
excepting the picture of the author of the book which she sold, and
which had been taken from the frontispiece.

"This is the way I found it when I came home a few minutes ago," she
said, resigned. "I cannot make it out; I cannot make anything out,
except that the sweetest friend, the dearest girl I ever knew, has
disappeared strangely."

"She sang at the meeting only a few hours ago, and sang as I never heard
her sing before. She was, moreover, in the best of spirits all day, and
was so enthusiastic over the meeting. Dear me," he sighed wearily.

"If she had only left some word; given some hint that she was going to
leave, but, of course she knew, and couldn't tell us, so there is no use
at all. She's gone and I cannot imagine how much I am going to miss
her."

Her brother sank into a chair, and gazed silently at nothing. He could
not think clearly of the departure. For days he had slaved for this day
of inauguration, and in his work, he had looked forward to her for much
help. Her encouragement, to be near her and to hear her voice daily, was
more to him than our pen can describe. He had felt that he could face
the mighty struggle (which he knew was now before him) with all the
strength of the strong; but now only, he fully estimated what she had
been to him, and what he had dreamed that she would be some day. And all
that, was now cast aside; in this one moment, his hope, his greatest
hope had been shattered.

His sister looked at him, and for a moment, almost fell on her knees in
sympathy. For she had not been blind. She had seen the change coming
over him, with no thought but to encourage him. Constance had faith and
patience and perseverance, and she had felt that everything would result
favorably in the end.

And then she had watched this girl during that spell of a short time
ago. She had seen her appearance change, as the result of some mystery.
Her eyes became dazed from loss of sleep, due to the worry and subtle
fear. It was then, with great cheer, that she saw it disappear later,
until she was the same again. Constance was happy then, because the
other was happy. She had been happier still, because she saw that,
without effort, the other was making her brother happy. He had fairly
thrived under it.

Constance felt that his lot was a hard one. She was confident that he
would be a leader of men, in a greater measure than he was at the
present. And when she had carefully observed the practical ability, as
well as the intuition and foresight of Mildred Latham, she had longed,
with all the craving of her heart, for a union between these two.

And, as she saw her brother now, with eyes dry and listless, her heart
went out to him with all of a sister's love. It pained her more, when
she realized that she could not help him. She would have to stand by and
say nothing, at the very time he needed her more than ever before. He
was too strong a man by disposition; he possessed too much will power,
and was too proud to ask or accept sympathy. It would all have to be
given in silence.

There was a knock at the door. She heard steps on the porch, and guessed
it was the people calling in regard to the Y.M.C.A. And it was only then
she recalled, that they had been invited to a supper. She called to him:

"Wilson, some one has called." She went to the door and admitted a dozen
persons, members of the church, and foremost enthusiasts in the
Christian forward movement.

"Well, well!" Martin Girsh, principal of the local high school cried,
coming in ahead of the others. "You are both sitting here at home, when
we have been looking all around for you. And you both show the effect of
the strain you have been laboring under, in this affair." He said this
after he had seen the look upon their faces, their efforts at
self-possession, which they could not hide. They were glad he saw it
that way.

"Where is the young lady, the dear young lady who showed such an
interest in the movement by giving such a liberal sum?" inquired one,
and it was immediately taken up by the others. It required an effort on
the part of both, to explain that she was out and would not be back
again that evening....

"Isn't that too bad! And all of us were simply wild to meet her, to hear
her sing, and to know more of this courageous young person," said the
professor, with much regret.

"She is positively a jewel, to say the least. Upon my honor," cried
another, who was a letter carrier, "I didn't know she was such a
treasure until she sang, and when she led them all in a cash
subscription, I declared I would have to become better acquainted with
her."

"I had heard her play and sing, but, indeed, I didn't know she possessed
such a voice before."

"Suppose we arrange a banquet for this young lady, have her cut in the
paper, and let the people know what a race-spirited young woman we have
in this town," suggested one. The others took it up by acclamation.
Wilson's eyes found his sister's, with a sickly green expression. And
then he heard them again.

"When can we arrange this, Wilson? It is left to you and Miss Jacobs to
set a date. The incident of this young woman's contribution to the
 Y.M.C.A., can be employed to a great advantage in the
inauguration of this movement."

"Fire, fire, fire!" came an alarm from the street at that moment. All
eyes sought the front, where, directly across the street and one door
down, a large frame house suddenly burst into flames. Forthwith the
visitors rushed, in a body. A wind was blowing strongly from the west at
that moment, and the conflagration seemed to draw the flames. It had not
rained for some time, and in an incredibly short time, the beautiful
structure of a few minutes before, was beyond saving. From the way the
flames were fanned by the wind, they threatened to endanger other
buildings.

In a few minutes, the place was surrounded by spectators; while a number
of fire departments were rushed to the scene from different directions.

It was hours later before the flames were subdued. Only a mass of
charred ruins marked the place where the handsome structure had stood.

Services at the churches were well under way before many of the watchers
left the scene, and the number included many of Jacob's callers who had,
of course, forgotten their suggestion to entertain Mildred Latham, in
honor of the beginning of the effort to secure aid for the  youth
of the city.

As they sat alone that evening, neither Wilson Jacobs nor his sister
offered any comment upon how they were saved an embarrassing ordeal.
They were both thinking, thinking, and seeing, with their eyes full of
tears, a chair where one had sat and talked and laughed with them the
Sunday night before.

Their hearts were heavy, very heavy, for, strangely enough, they felt
that Mildred Latham would never sit in that chair again.




CHAPTER SIXTEEN

_The Beast and The Jungle_


"REMEMBER THE SABBATH DAY AND KEEP IT HOLY"

This was the inscription under a cartoon in the Effingham Herald, one
Sunday, following a Sunday when crime seemed to have run riot. The
cartoon pictured a huge knife stuck into a human heart, and the moral
was, that on the Sabbath day, when its population was supposed to be at
pious worship, murder was un-Godly.

The Sunday previous to this, seven different murders had occurred in
that many different parts of the town. Sidney had read the accounts, and
said nothing when he saw they were all black people. Only one exception,
and that was one who had shot another, and in attempting to escape, had
been shot by the police.

Thus was the condition of crime in Effingham. It was a rare Sunday that
didn't have five or six shootings, killings and cutting affrays. The
record for the previous year showed more than three hundred murders,
mostly by <DW64>s upon each other, and in part by the police. Eighty per
cent of all murder in the city was among two-fifths of the whole, or the
<DW64> population. But what surprised Wyeth was, that insofar as speaking
of it as an everyday occurrence, and something to be expected, the
<DW52> people paid little attention to it.

By this time, Wyeth had become known as a severe critic. And, therefore,
against <DW52> people in their effort for salvation, so the critics
complained. There was one, however, who saw beneath the surface, and who
said, in reply to the criticisms going the rounds, that Wyeth was
criticised, not for the criticisms, but for his method of bringing the
truth before the eyes which did not wish to see it.

"We've tried every way possible to obtain a library," said one.

"What are some of the ways?" he inquired pointedly.

"Well, for instance, we have asked the teachers to each give a book for
that purpose. We have almost two hundred teachers in this town, and if
each one gave a book, and the preachers likewise, that would make
considerable of a library."

"For sixty thousand people, yes." And under his breath he added, "You
fool!"

"Why do you not write an editorial and bring attention to the dreadful
amount of crime that seems to have submerged your population," he said
one day to Mathews, a very excellent writer.

"I'm writing of what people are doing that is uplifting," the other
returned.

"Do you not consider that all this murder the <DW64> is committing, to
the disgrace of the state, the city, the county, and the race to which
he belongs, is a thing that requires some effort, or some comment on our
part as citizens of this commonwealth?"

"Oh, but the best <DW52> people don't care to read of that," he
explained.

"But it's a fact, is it not; and one that is going forth every day
through the columns of the big dailies, and a fact that the public is
making record of, and holds up to the gaze of the world, and gives this
town the name of being the most uncivilized community in the country?"

"There is, of course, Mr. Wyeth, no use in trying to argue these things
with you," complained the other. "About town, although you have been
here only a short time, you are regarded as a contentious person, always
forcing your way of seeing things upon people, and criticising our
teachers and preachers and best people for their lack of concern, in
regard to a lot of criminal <DW64>s, that find their way to this town,
from every convict camp in the state and other states. If you would
struggle to get into society and mingle with the best people, you would
forget what these brutes are doing. Instead of that, you can always be
seen standing at a distance, viewing all of us as one."

"Abraham Lincoln, our emancipator, said: 'This country cannot continue
with one part of the people free and the other in serfdom, and thrive.'
I am wholly at a loss to understand this attitude of what you term the
'best people' toward the masses." Wyeth persisted, thoroughly aroused.
"We complain of the injustice of prejudice, which is well worth the
complaint. But, while we see that the white people refuse to accept us
on an equal basis with themselves, we cry out about the 'best people.'
We cannot expect the world to accept us as a race on the reputation of a
precious few. And yet right here in this town, on all sides, among the
'best people' we hear that 'you' cannot be responsible for the condition
of the great herd. I do not think you are expected to by the public; but
what stirs me, fires me sometimes to denunciation, is this utter
disregard for the evil things in which our people indulge themselves, to
the disgrace of all."

"Have it your way, Mr. Wyeth," said the other, resignedly. "That is the
reputation you have, 'having your way.'"

This was the end of that, but not of murder. Everywhere it continued.

Wyeth went to the churches. He listened to the sermons; and at the drug
store, where the more logical members of the city could often be found,
he met the same condition. Nobody was worried. Nobody cared. Just as
long as their own affairs were going along in a satisfactory manner, no
complaint was forthcoming. And, as time went on, Wyeth took notice that
everybody carried a revolver. One evening, at the drug store, someone
displayed a revolver of a new type, which brought about some comment.
Forthwith, among the twelve present, ten additional revolvers were
produced and displayed, Wyeth being the only one not possessing one. He
was looked at in surprise, and made the object of much comment.

"Why, I wouldn't go from here home one night, without my cannon," said
the druggist. A prominent doctor smiled grimly, as he pocketed his,
while others laughed and patted their weapons fondly.

"You from out of the west and haven't a gun. Man, you are crazy,"
laughed one. "You better send out west there, and have them send on that
dungeon."

"I never owned a gun in my life."

"What! Been living out in that wild country these many years, and never
owned a cannon! What kind of people do you have out there?"

"Civilized people."

"Uh, well, I ain' never been without a smoker, believe muh."

"He'll be carrying one before he's here long," laughed a physician, as
they filed out into the night.

       *       *       *       *       *

More conspicuously here than elsewhere he had been, Wyeth saw that the
undertaking business thrived better in this city than any other
conducted by <DW52> people. A half dozen companies were incorporated,
with a paid-up capital stock, and declared handsome dividends every six
months. And each company owned one or more ambulance carriages, or "dead
wagons," as they were commonly called as they moved busily about the
streets, picking up wounded and dead <DW64>s. Almost daily they whirled
through the town at break-neck speed, to the tune of a dreadful alarm.

Then Wyeth began to see, without looking, why crime thrived. The mills,
coal mines and furnaces employed thousands of men, as we know, and paid
them at various times. And to a saloon they filed and drank their fill.
In his observations, Wyeth had never seen saloons do such an excessive
bottle business. Great cases, the length of the bar in many instances,
and piled everywhere, were half pints of liquor. A man said to him one
day, "You'll find, upon searching the ignorant <DW64>, three things
almost any time: A bottle of booze, which might be empty if you searched
him at his work--a cannon, if not, it is because he is not able to
possess one--a knife, with a blade long enough to go through
you--additionally, a pair of dice."

But it was not at the saloons that they bought all the whiskey,
regardless of the great number in sight. But barrel houses and
wholesale stores were operated in connection therewith. Here the tiger
conductors purchased their supplies, which consisted mostly of whiskey,
and the cheapest available, which was, to be exact, a dollar and a half
a gallon; but, if bought in smaller quantities, it came at forty cents a
quart; while the beer used by the tigers was so cheap that finally, no
label was used on the bottle. And it was this kind, he learned, the
tiger people used almost exclusively. It was likewise, this kind that
produced the most fighting drunks, and was sold after midnight--Saturday
night. So, on the outside of a good supply of drink and a crap game in
sight, crime ran high in this city, and was ever in continuance.




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"_This Is Mr. Winslow, Madam!_"


After his conflict with Moore, Legs took a silent pledge; he would quit
gambling and drinking, and start a bank account. "I'm going to use some
sense and save my money," he declared, with much sincerity. "There is
nothing like a few dollars, in case of emergency."

"If you stick to that theory in practice, Legs," Wyeth corroborated,
"you'll never have cause to regret it."

He started the same at once, with one dollar. The next week he added
another, which made two, and was jubilant. The next week he added
another, and at the end of four weeks, had five dollars to his credit,
and was discussing investments. "I'm going to buy me a house and lot by
and by," he said, laughing over his prospects.

"I own the L. & N. R.R.," cried a dirty, black, fat <DW64>, coming up the
street. "Haf a the A.G.S. too!"

"That's Sam," said the Mis', coming to the door at that moment. "Ever
since a white man took his wife, they say he's been like that. He
imagines he owns railroads, and if you happen to be going by the
station, you can see him standing gazing at the trains, with a foreign
expression."

"Git that car back on the right switch there! Flag that engine, and make
them push that section to the left! All right. Now, pull her ahead.
That's all."

"How-do, Sam," she greeted him as he came abreast. He halted a moment,
and gazed at her remonstratingly.

"This is Mr. Winslow, madam. Always address me as such, and in that
manner hereafter. I am Mr. Winslow, understand, and I own the L. & N.
R.R."

"And the A.G.S.?"

"Own haf a that too."

"And the T.C.I. Company?"

"They wanted to sell it to me. I wouldn't buy it. Come on there with
that train, engineer. Drop that car on siding G. Now, switch that other
chain around on track E.

"Say, Books," laughed Legs. "If you want a get rich, quit the book
business, and run into a train with your head. That guy is certainly
rich."

"He carries on that way all the time," the Mis' explained. "But he is
sane otherwise, that is, he is harmless and lives with his mother down
the street a few doors. He goes errands, and you can give him as much as
twenty dollars to buy a nickel's worth, and he'll bring back nineteen
dollars and ninety five cents. No one can beat him, and he is as honest
as the most conservative."

"Let's go to a movie, Books," said Legs, when Sam had disappeared.

"All right," and together, they went down the street in the direction of
the business district. When they had arrived at one of the three shows,
the pictures did not appeal to them, and they strolled about the town.

The bank, conducted by <DW64>s, was near the center of the block, and
cornered on the alley, and on either side of this was business conducted
by or for <DW64> trade. Within a block of the bank, was located the three
shows; and while operated and owned by white men, were patronized
entirely by <DW64>s. It was a puzzle to Wyeth to see his people
operating banks with more success than they could picture shows,
clothing stores, and even hotels. This was the case not only in
Effingham, but in other cities as well. The bank and the neighborhood
immediately surrounding it, was the center for <DW64> gatherings, and
upon this street might be found a crowd at any time. Almost every other
door seemed to be a restaurant, and operated by Greeks. In fact, this
line of business was, apparently, monopolized by these people all over
the country. Wyeth saw that this was due to social reasons. A Greek or
an Italian, or even a poor Jew, operating a business like a grocery
store, or any kind of business, employing less than ten thousand dollars
capital stock, lived much within his means; whereas, a <DW52> man in
the same business, invariably was, through the connections of his
family, a leader in society. These Greeks did not even pretend such a
thing, even in a small way among their own, which made a great
difference at the end of each year. None of this class referred to would
think of owning an automobile; whereas, such an asset is common among
these black people. Hence, a <DW64> in any business other than a
barbershop, bootblack stand, pressing shop, or business requiring a
considerable amount of practical ability, was a rare thing.

Being in business, he is looked to to spend more money, as well. This,
Wyeth had found, was not always his preference; but his wife and family
usually represented the better <DW52> people, and, therefore, are
expected to entertain; are made the object of much flattery and
ostentation. There was one who ran a grocery near Miss Palmer's, whom,
Wyeth recalled, was the object of much scorn, when discussed. More than
once, when he suggested a purchase of a watermelon, or soda water, or
some refreshment that might be obtained at a grocery store, he was
advised against patronizing the "chinse" on the corner, meaning the
 grocery keeper. And he came to learn, that the only excuse for
such a reference, was that he didn't "keep" his wife in society, but
made her "slave" in his little old store along with himself.

For this, he was given as little of their trade as possible; but, with
careful application and perseverance, he was succeeding to a creditable
degree. But the most extraordinary feature of this was, that the
druggist received no more of this class of trade, than did the grocery
keeper, notwithstanding the fact that he was high in society, and was
positively of their point of view. Wyeth passed much of his spare time
talking with the grocery man, and came to find him a most obliging man
in every way. When he was informed that Wyeth was selling a book by a
<DW64>, he instructed him to bring him one forthwith, and which he was
glad to own, and read it through at once.

So it came to pass, that in all he saw, Wyeth found many honest and
unassuming people, and whose interest in the race did not end with a few
sweet words and a shrug of the shoulders.

Many <DW52> men were actually succeeding in the grocery business in
Effingham, and many of them were referred to as "chinse's," by those
purporting to be leaders in society.

Getting back to Sidney Wyeth and Legs, who were uptown for the purpose
of attending a picture show. Two of the three shows were operated by the
same company, and the playhouses were referred to as capital number one,
and capital number two. They were in separate blocks. Legs and Wyeth had
been to capital number one, and were turning in the direction of the
other, when some excitement was in evidence in that direction. They
joined in the crush, and were just in time to see an altercation between
a man and a woman, a nice looking woman, brown-skinned, with an
unusually heavy head of hair. The man appeared to have called the woman,
and was desirous of remonstrating with her about something to which she
took exception. She turned to go, and it was then that, like a flash, he
drew a long, keen-bladed knife from his pocket, and, without a word,
drove it to the hilt in her breast. She walked calmly, perhaps a half
dozen steps, and than, with a sudden clutching at the air, she cried:
"Oh, I'm so sick!" Wyeth saw her eyes for one moment, and the next, she
reeled about, and fell dead at the feet of the crowd.

The murderer saw her, and it was only when she fell, that he appeared to
take any notice of the fact that he had committed murder. He now turned
and fled up the alley, while the <DW64>s about him fell back.

"There goes the beast!" cried Legs, pointing him out to Wyeth, and the
next moment they followed in close pursuit. A cry from the crowd went up
as they disappeared. It warned them that they would be dealt with
likewise, but they heeded it not.

They ran up the alley that opened ahead into a wide street. The murderer
led them at considerable distance, and, as they hurried after him, they
saw his head turning from left to right, evidently looking for some
opening in which to escape. But their pursuit was too close. Arriving at
the end of the alley, he halted one brief moment, and then turned south.

This street fell rapidly a block, and reached a level in a railroad
yard, where long trains of cars stood silently in the pale moonlight. To
these he now ran, not looking back at his pursuers. A few minutes later,
he had, for a time, disappeared from view behind a car. But determined,
with their blood now boiling, the two flew on after him. When they got
inside the yards, they caught a glimpse of him crawling along to the
other side of a line of cars, to which was hitched an engine.

A moment later, this began to move, and, suddenly, while they were yet
some distance away, he swung aboard one of the cars and stood on the
bumpers. They hurried forward, and caught a car each, a few cars to the
rear; while the speed of the train increased. In a few minutes it was
flying, and they were hanging dangerously to the side. With quick
intuition, Wyeth climbed to the top of the train, and called to Legs
when he stood over him, to do likewise. Hurriedly, Legs clambered to the
top. As he settled panting on top of the moving train, in the rear and
hurrying forward, the light of a brakeman approached. They darted
forward, looking carefully between the cars, to ascertain which
contained the fugitive. The train now hurried around a bend toward the
outskirts of the town, and, as it did so, they saw the creature drop
suddenly from between the cars and roll over the embankment, and down
the grade which was, perhaps, at this point twenty odd feet.

The train was tearing along now at a speed that made it positively
dangerous to alight. Still, the light of the brakeman was only a few
cars away, and, inasmuch as they would most likely be severely dealt
with if found, they were, for the moment, at a loss what to do. The
fugitive had now arisen, and was running again to safety. All they had
seen before the electric show now came back to them, and, without regard
for the risk they were taking, they quickly clambered to the bottom and
fell off the train, just as a curse greeted their ears from the
brakeman above.

A moment later, the roar of the train was lost in the distance, and they
were alone, but, fortunately, uninjured. The fugitive had, apparently,
made good his escape. Disgusted and disgruntled, they started back down
the track in the direction from whence they had come. They had gone, it
seemed perhaps a half mile, when suddenly a groan came to their ears.
They stopped and listened.

From near where a few stray hedge and weeds had grown up and were
tangled and enmeshed, they caught the outline of a man, stretched
apparently helpless therein. They hurried forward, Legs in the lead. As
they did so, he sighed perceptibly. Legs had now reached the man, and
was in the act of bending over him, when Wyeth grabbed him from the rear
and jerked him quickly back; but he was in time to save him from the
other, who had, like a flash, sprung up and lunged forward with upraised
knife.

Having missed, the murderer tumbled forward on his face, and bit the
cinders, while Legs raised himself off Wyeth, who had been pushed
backward and down by the sudden collision. The other had gained his
feet, however, before they got their wits together, and with a mad curse
he tore down the tracks. As Wyeth raised himself, his fingers
encountered a piece of cinder, heavy with iron. Unconsciously, his
fingers encircled it, and when they again started in pursuit, he grasped
it.

"We'll kill that beast as he killed that woman," cried Legs, panting
dreadfully, but more determined now than ever. With a clear track, and
nothing to obstruct the speed, it was now evidently only a question of
minutes until they must surely overcome the other who was shorter, and
whose speed had become noticeably slower. Legs had got within a few feet
of him, when suddenly he stopped short and whirled about. Too late! Legs
seemed doomed to meet the point of the upraised knife that glistened in
the moonlight. Wyeth at that moment saw the danger of his companion,
and, with a cry, he hurled the cinder full at the crouching fugitive.
It went straight, and took the beast full in the face. With a cry, the
other fell backward across the track.

Legs tumbled over his prostrate form, while, at that moment, from down
the track came the sound of an approaching train. Both now looked up,
and it was only then they were aware that it was so near. They were
blinded by the light, but with a cry they sprang free, as the light fell
full upon the face of the fugitive, who at that moment came to his
senses. He staggered forward, and then with a cry that rang above the
roar of the train, he stumbled forward, but in rising, one of his feet
had caught in a frog and held him fast. A screwing of brakes could be
heard, but in a moment the heavy engine crushed over his writhing body,
and mangled him until, when he was taken from beneath it, he could not
be recognized.

       *       *       *       *       *

Legs and Wyeth were present the next morning at the inquest. There was
no visible excitement over the death of either. A small paragraph at the
bottom of the back page of the morning paper reported the death, by
stabbing, of a <DW64> woman; while a still smaller one made notice of the
death, in an unusual manner, of the murderer.

And so it was in Effingham. If one desired notoriety he had to do other
than kill a <DW64>, or be killed by one. For such was soon forgotten
among other and more unusual sensations.




CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"_Thou Shalt Not Steal!_"


During Wyeth's canvass among his people, he had become accustomed to
regard men who indulged excessively in drinking, as a problematical
feature. And when that same man gambled, in addition, and failed to keep
his word or oath, he was not in the least surprised. And, moreover, when
he became acquainted with a person who loved liquor, gambled likewise,
and who did not struggle to secure a job, but was content to walk about
in perfect peace, without any effort in that direction, he was not
surprised if that person stole, in addition.

The people he stopped with were, in a measure, secretive. That is, they
did not always take the trouble to state where they purchased all they
had about the house. He took meals with them occasionally, and saw them
eating every day; and, although chicken was very high, exceedingly high
in Effingham, they had it every day.

The druggist, whose store was a block distant, had inquired of them, and
made known the fact that Moore was indebted to him two fifty, but Wyeth
paid little attention to this, since, during the warm afternoons, under
the cool of the electric fan, he indulged in such reminiscences, and
Wyeth knew almost everybody who owed the druggist anything, including
Miss Palmer.

Two robberies had occurred in less than two weeks at the place, and both
were shrouded in mystery. The first had been explained away very
reasonably. A window that was almost hid by vines had been left open,
and through this, a "nigga," as they put it, had made his entrance and
gotten away, carrying with him a suit of clothes belonging to one of the
roomers, who kept himself pretty well soaked with liquor; this roomer
happened to be employed at a wholesale liquor house, and was,
therefore, able to drink with economy. Sam was his name, but he was not,
however, the one who owned the L. & N. R.R. But Sam was an easy go-lucky
and didn't care whether school kept or not; and, likewise, didn't make a
big noise if something did crawl in through the window, and steal a new
thirty-five dollar suit.

As was stated, it was explained, John Moore lost an old derby the same
time--at least, this was how he reported it. The green stain upon the
window-sill, from the vines his knees crushed, was further evidence of
the ingress and the egress. Considerable indignation was shown by Moore,
and a great many words were employed over the affair; but, in due time
it had died away and was forgotten, when the second came to pass.

The victim this time happened to be a gloomy and forlorn creature, who
could well boast that no miscegenation had prostituted his ancestors,
and whose teeth, in the night, flashed like a diamond necklace. Griffin
was his name, and he did not shoot craps, or fight, or get drunk, and
Wyeth didn't think he drank, until he saw the Mis' go to make his bed
one day, and, in turning back the pillow, revealed a half pint of John.

Griffin reported that it was employed as a medicine, and Wyeth allowed
it to go at that, but indulged a smile upon Griffin that meant more.
Wyeth had a way of joking with the eyes that kept him out of
difficulties, but convicted and judged those near him, and they could
only laugh and look guilty.

One of the other good things we know of Griffin, is that he read the
Bible, and nothing else, and said so; moreover, he deplored the reading
of anything else, declaring it to be contrary to the laws of God.
Griffin rarely said Jesus, and never "Jaysus." And--yes, he was a Sunday
school teacher, and went to services to a church that was at the other
side of town; he shouted when the preacher delivered a soul-stirring
sermon, and expected to go to Heaven when he died. Only one thing did
Griffin indulge in, though he was careful to keep that to himself, and
that was woman--but we are a long way from our story. And still, we
cannot leave it, this part of it, until we make known that she was a
"high yellow" which is perhaps unnecessary to state, for when the color
is like Griffins', they scorn all other kind.

The robber this time employed a more machination method, and he was a
very congenial robber also. Out of consideration for Griffin's regular
attendance at church, he left an old greasy suit that, due to the great
amount of the foreign matter it contained, was likely to last him until
finances would enable him to restock for the benefit of the robber.

This robbery occurred one night when he was away, and did not return
until the following morning, which was in itself singular, for Griffin
was rarely away. It was, like the other, mysterious. Griffin was a
miner, and since he would not--so 'twas said--pay twenty-five cents a
week for warm water and a towel to clean himself at the mines, he
preferred to sleep in the kitchen, because he was unfit to occupy any
other portion of the house, unless it was the attic. And since there was
none to this house, we leave him in the kitchen, where he slept in a
dirty, but warm bed, and kept his clothes--he had some pride--in the
strongest trunk Wyeth thought he had ever seen. On the outside, he kept
it locked with the strongest Yale spring. With all the high-priced
advertising done in regard to the safety of such locks, this robber
didn't seem to give a hang, but, with a steel poker, he had twisted and
twisted, until Mr. Yale had resigned himself to the inevitable, and
permitted ingress. Within were four nice, clean suits, awaiting
Griffin's subtle occasions.

Legs, Wyeth and Glenview, who were very agreeable roomers, didn't hear
of it until the second morning. And they might not have known then, if
it had not happened that they were together in the adjoining room, and
overheard Griffin crying over the loss. That happened to be Friday. Legs
had become something of a hero, with his successful running down of the
murderer, and now played, very successfully, the part of a man. Legs did
not positively condone the light fingered method. When they had been
led, by their curiosity, to investigate, and had returned to the room,
he remarked:

"It beats Hell the way this place continues to be robbed!"

"It is indeed singular," commented Glenview, whose English was always
the most careful. And he never swore.

"Yes," said Legs again, "it _is_ strange. So strange that I'm getting
suspicious," and he closed an eye meaningly. "There's a man in the house
who has not worked this summer.... He cannot _seem_ to get the kind of
work he follows, true; but the fact to be considered, is that he _has_
not worked this summer. He likes to gamble, and is particularly fond of
liquah...."

There was a pause, and he closed that eye again, and looked across at
Glenview. Glenview closed an eye and looked at Wyeth. Wyeth held his
open, but did some rapid thinking. He now recalled that, upon entering,
the robber had cut the screen, it was shown to them; but now as he
remembered it, the ends of the wires where the screen had been cut
pointed outward.... Also, it was reported to have been cut with a
hatchet; and the hatchet was on the ground near the window, which was
logical.... It was very strange indeed, this robbery.... Legs was
speaking again:

"This man who has been out of work all summer, at least has not worked
all summer, and who loves liquah better than I do, and who could shoot
craps forever and be happy, sleeps within four feet of that trunk. The
only thing between him and the trunk is a door that has not been closed
this summer.... And who, moreover, if you will recall," he closed that
eye again and held it so a second, "awakens always when we enter late at
night, and inquires, 'who goes there.' _And this man slept through all
this with the trunk almost against his head, and didn't hear it being
opened._" He paused again and closed that eye, it was the right;
Glenview closed his left, Wyeth closed his too. From the other room came
sighs, and a restless turning on the bed where some one lay. On the
front porch, John Moore sat with the Bible open before him....

"Have you observed," said Glenview, in his Englishy way, "that the ones
who have been robbed, are those most likely to take _his_ story about
it, and are not capable of investigating on their own initiative?" Three
eyes closed simultaneously. "For instance," he resumed, "there's Sam,
always full you know; when I inquired what he had done about it, he
replied that he had inquired of one pawnbroker--and you know there are
perhaps a hundred in this town--if any one had offered a suit as
security for a loan that fit that description. Think of it! And now here
comes the instance of this old creature we hear sighing in the kitchen;
and who reads nothing but the Bible, and goes to church on Sunday. He
hasn't sense enough, and nerve, he doesn't know; he has perhaps called
on the Lord to restore those things. Why haven't some of our things been
stolen?" ... Again three eyes closed, while memories became the order;
the memory of Wyeth's conflict, and they didn't forget that of Legs. "We
leave them laying around, and none of us lock our trunks.... You," he
said, seeing Legs, "have more suits than any of us, and they hang on the
wall...."

John Moore had fallen asleep and the Bible had tumbled to the floor. A
street car line came past the door, and the cars, when passing, filled
the house with noise. One passed at this moment, and he was suddenly
awakened. Looking about hastily for the Bible he had held, he saw it on
the floor at his feet. He stooped to pick it up, and as he did so, saw
that it was open. As his hand touched it, his eyes lit upon a chapter,
whereupon he straightened up quickly. A moment later he picked it up,
and rising, entered the house.

The words of the chapter that had disconcerted him for the moment were:
"_Thou Shalt Not Steal!_"




CHAPTER NINETEEN

_They Turned Her Out of Church_


Saturday night of that week was a beautiful night, and everybody sought
the open air--no, almost everybody. There were a few that didn't, in
fact they sought the closed inside for a purpose.

Murphy had a good crowd, for it was pay day, and everything was
"sliding" along O.K. Glenview, who had purchased a new novel from Wyeth,
who bought them and sold the same at a discount when he had read them,
was there too. So was John Moore, _he_ was always there. Wyeth was
below, and so was Legs, for, strange as it may seem, he had kept his
pledge thus far. He was glad of it, too, which is ahead of our story.
Easy.

A game was on, a big game, and <DW54>s were uncoated; perspiration
flowed freely. Wyeth retired about twelve, or it might have been
earlier--it makes little difference. The game was on, and so was
somebody else. Wyeth felt himself being shook, but could not seem to
awaken at once. Words came to his ears, and it was the voice of Legs
that spoke:

"Get up," it said, in subdued excitement. "Get up, you fool."

"Go to the devil! Are you crazy? Don't awaken me. I'm tired and want to
rest," he answered unconsciously.

"I said, arise--at once. Somethin' doin'."

"Will you go to the devil, or shall I hit you in the ear and dispatch
you forthwith! I want to rest, you pair of Legs."

"Listen! Listen! Hear them, Books!"

Books heard something, but he didn't know what it was; moreover, he
didn't care--in fact, he didn't want to hear. He wanted to sleep. It was
a fine night for sleeping, too. The soft air floated in through the
window at his head, and the vines and garden the Mis' raised, and which
grew within a few feet of him, perfumed it with nature's own. Why should
he be concerned about what went on up in Murphy's den. He kicked at
Legs, when he repeated.

Legs went into the other room, but the noise from above persisted.

"Look out there, <DW65>!" it said. "Don't start nothing, don't start
nothing! Get around there, you, beside that other <DW65>! Now, here,
you, ink, put these cuffs on the two <DW65>s against the wall. Right
around the wrists, you fool. I've put them on you often enough for you
to know that they don't go on the shoulders. And don't be so damn
nervous. You shiver around there as though it was the first time you've
been arrested. Are you done? Well, stand over in that row beside them
other <DW65>s! Don't think because I know you that you c'n ease out that
window. And don't figure I'm going to play any pets! Heah! Heah! You
little black rat! You, I say, with the pop peepers! If you try any
monkey foolishness, I'll put'm out, I'll put'm out! Hear that <DW65>,
hear that! I'll shoot you <DW65>, I'll shoot you!"

"Hear'm Books, hear'm! It's the police. They're upstairs. They're making
a raid. Hear'm Books!" came Leg's voice, as he came back to where Wyeth
lay. Sidney had awakened now. Sitting up in bed, he listened to the
voices that came down from upstairs. It was still a little vague, but
Legs spoke again:

"They are coming down now." And so they were. A noise of many feet
tramping about, began to file downward on the rickety steps.

"Wait, Frank," came a voice. "Let me out on the front, so I can hold a
gun on these <DW65>s. Now come ahead. Now, <DW65>s, the first one that
makes a break, remember, out goes his light, bingo!"

"Mary, oh, Mary, bring me my coat and hat." Wyeth was dressed now and
peeping out the window. Yes, it was John Moore, and he wanted his coat
and hat. He was going away, on a journey. The Mis', very much
frightened, hurried forward, and held them out to him. He placed the hat
on his head, and took the coat on his arm. He wore cuffs, so that made a
difference.

The Mis' fell into the room a moment later, and gave up to silent
anguish. It was not the first time she had witnessed a raid. Sometimes
Wyeth felt sorry for her. For, once upon a time she had been a good
woman, she was yet when she could be. At least she was always kind; but
when liquor was voted out of the state some years before, he, her
husband then, took up the sale of it, contrary to the law. He had been
caught once, and then twice. He had then been caught the third time. The
third time is when you go to the mines. You may never return from these
places, so 'tis said. "They kill you out there," is what John Moore had
told him once, grimly. "Yes, they _kill_ you out there. It's _Hell_!"

They killed the Mis's husband. And she had a son, and he sold liquor
too. He was a dissipated youth. The mines had him six months. They gave
him back to her. T.B. He died. And at this time she mourned his loss.
She was now alone in the world. She had, at first, made an honest
living, and was a member of the A.M.E. church. She became acquainted
with John Moore. Well, they turned her out of church some time
afterward. They would have done so sooner, but she was pitied, and black
people have sympathy--even for criminals. The Mis' had lost her husband,
and then her son and--but they turned her out of church. That's bad. Oh,
it's awful bad to be turned out of church. Black faces, crooked often,
regard one with dark suspicion when he is turned out of church,
especially if a woman.

And now they had _him_. The other, her consort, for such he was, because
you see, be merciful, she was a human being.... And all human beings cry
out for love, yes, _love_....

"Take along his Bible, Mis'," grinned Legs. And then he looked at
her.... Yes, Legs knew the story too.... He was sorry, terribly sorry.
They were all sorry for the Mis'.

Legs and Wyeth now stood on the outside. It was safe now. They watched
the arrangement.

Four abreast they now stood lined in four rows. They were all handcuffed
together. John Moore was there, bringing up the rear. Murphy was, too.
Being the man of the house, he was honored with a place at the front.
And behind these sixteen men, walked his honor, the police. And so very
insignificant they were, apparently. Yet, they were the _law_! And that
means more than our pen can describe here.

Black people claim to fear God and no other. They don't. The most of
them do not understand it in a larger sense. No. But, notwithstanding
the fact that, in Dixie they are forever breaking it, they _do_ fear the
law--and the white man.

They filed now, a row at a time, and a few feet apart, across the
street. Under the flaring electric street lamp they passed, some
bareheaded, but all downcast, discouraged and remorseful. Oh, this was
the law. The law of Effingham declared: "Thou must not game!" In the
middle of the street they walked, and a few minutes later, they passed
under the light of the lamp at the next intersection, and disappeared in
the direction of the station. And it was only then, Wyeth recalled, that
among them he had not observed Glenview. He was not there, he was
positive; and yet he was at the game. Where was he? Where did he go?

He turned his eyes in the direction of the rear, and at that moment
Glenview walked into view.

"You!" cried many voices, for a curious crowd of crooks had gathered.
Good people had long since retired.

"Well?" he smiled.

"Well...."

"I'm _here_. Not _there_!" And his eyes went in the direction of the
others, who were now passing under another light, into a bigger light.

"Well?"

"I saw they were nothing but a pair of snots."

"Well?"

"The window was open."

"The window?"

"And the _outside_ air was _very_ inviting. Much more than that
_other_."

"Oh...." It was becoming clear to all now. The Mis' looked disappointed.
Sometimes she had not liked Glenview.... He winked and went to the front
of the house.

"Well," sighed the Mis', resignedly. "They certainly got a bunch of
them," and then laughed, a laugh that Wyeth had heard before and knew.
Not a cheerful laugh, but a dry, hard laugh. One that was possible after
years of bitterness.

By this time, a score or more <DW64>s, denizens of the night, had
gathered and were exchanging opinions, offering theories, and executing
objections.

"Some low down nigga done turned'm up." This was what a large Negress,
with imposing hips, was saying. She sold liquor across the way, and
conducted a house for any kind of purpose.

"Some doity li'l' stool pigeon," added another, who was more doubtful
still. Wyeth regarded them a moment in disgust. They were dressed as
they were when they arose that morning or that afternoon, or whenever it
was, which was not in the last hour or two.

It was Glenview who detailed the raid now at some length. "A big <DW64>
was shooting for three dollars. A little guy, who appeared to be very
drunk, kept making a fuss, finally asking to be let out. He went, and
when Murphy opened the street door for that purpose, well, in walked the
bulls--no, the little snots."

"I'm going upstairs to see how it looks after the scramble," said he,
and a moment later his feet were heard in that direction. He had no
sooner hit the landing, than from above came a dreadful noise. A
crashing of window panes indicated that someone was trying to get out of
the window. A table turned over with considerable objections, judging
from the noise it made. The whatever-it-was appeared to be coming toward
the stair in post haste now. Chairs were cast aside, without care of how
they might land, and then it appeared on the landing. A moment later it
came down, much a tumble, and not in the usual way. Hands and legs and
feet seemed altogether, as they did many stunts on the way down. Eyes
were opened wide, while breaths were held, as the spectacle was observed
closely. And then it landed. One moment it lingered, and made a funny
picture for the many eyes. Then it became erect--and behold! It was a
man.

But he hadn't taken the time to dress entirely. He had, upon coming
down, or deciding to do so, donned only a coat; while his large, loose
knee lengths stood out conspicuously from the small legs, that reminded
one of pipe stems, smoked ones--coming out of huge corn cobs.

It came about when Glenview ascended the stair, and met it in the act of
looking about to ascertain whether the coast was clear.

For a time that may have been a second, possibly more, he stood
hesitant. Wild of eye and trembling in the legs, but conspicuous to a
humorous degree, he soon came to appreciate the spectacle he made, and
forthwith betook himself hurriedly back up the steps; but, alas! Not
many had he ascended when he made a miss, and, with a smothered,
embarrassed cry, he fell, and the next moment came back.

While all this performing was going on, he was not aware that the
officers had long since departed. And when he again landed at the feet
of his onlookers, who were now given over to a fit of snickers, he cried
in a subdued, but intensely excited voice: "Don't let them get me! Don't
let them get me!" He was wild, as he hesitated before attempting to
return. And in the meantime, he whined like a poor thing, which made the
<DW64>s who stood about, give up to loud laughing.

At last, he was calmed to a point where he took himself hurriedly up the
stairs, and disappeared. And then there was another commotion!
Apparently the house was coming down, from the scrambling, and the way
chairs, and beds, and tables--and everything seemed to be turning over.

"Say, say!" came the voice of Glenview. "The officers have disappeared a
half hour ago. Be quiet. Those are not officers below. They are
curiosities." But it was some time before he was able to communicate
this fact to a point that brought quiet. When he presently emerged, the
onlookers saw not two, Glenview and the other, but five. They slipped
down the steps like ghosts, looked wildly about for one brief second,
and then melted into the night like vampires.

As they floated away, some one recognized one and called him out by
name, and these words came back to those who listened:

"Hush calling my name, you fool!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The plate at the head of the table was not turned that morning. The
Mis', notwithstanding the words she uttered when the raid had been made:
"I'm glad of it! It'll stop that gambling, and I hope, Murphy's whiskey
selling," she was, nevertheless, sad-eyed, and all upset. All that day
she so remained, grew worse, if anything.

"Don't worry, Mis'," comforted Glenview kindly. "As soon as some word
comes from them, I'll hustle about and secure bail." But it was late in
the morning before any word came, and then, alas! It was a surprise.

There is a law in regard to gaming in Effingham, which makes the penalty
heavier if caught gaming during the week; whereas, it is lighter for
Sunday. Therefore, being well aware of the fact, no serious anticipation
was held as to how the gamesters would be dealt with, since they had
been caught after midnight Saturday night. In fact, when the excitement
attendant with the raid had passed, those directly interested, looked
hourly for those who were caught, to be released.

"What'll it cost them under this law?" inquired Wyeth of Glenview, who
appeared to be fairly well informed regarding the matter.

"Oh, not much," he replied. "Perhaps five or six dollars. You see," he
explained, "the city considers gambling through the week as a business
indulged in by professionals; whereas Sunday, they construe that they
may be workmen engaged in a pastime."

Wyeth understood, of course, but it appeared singular at first.

"They will be taken to the city lock-up," Glenview resumed, "and if
collateral to the amount of twenty-five dollars be offered and
approved, they will be allowed to return, and when they appear tomorrow
morning, they will be fined five dollars and cost. If they were caught
during the week, it would be ten and cost, and possibly more,
depending."

It was at the end of this conversation that they got their surprise.

Murphy came in. He seemed tired and worn; he was a picture, in fact, of
the result of such a raid. He sat himself down with a sigh that was not
altogether one of relief. All waited, with drawn breath.

"That's the worst place I have seen the inside of," he said, and shook
his head in emphasis.

"Where did the wagon pick you fellows up?" inquired Glenview. "I don't
recall hearing any."

"No wagon picked us up. We walked all the way. They didn't carry us to
the city pen, but to the county jail."

"What!" cried the Mis', while Glenview appeared to regard it with
incredulity.

And then all were silent, with a cold feeling creeping through their
veins, as the grim reality came upon them. It would now be thirty-seven
fifty, and not five dollars, for the county made no exception for
Sunday.

       *       *       *       *       *

All the day through, John Moore raised from his hard seat, and gazed out
through the heavy bars that penned him in. "Will they never come, will
they never come!" he cried to himself, but only the heat and multitudes
of <DW64>s greeted his gaze, as it eagerly sought the door to freedom.

And all day Glenview walked from one bondman to another.

"No," said the wealthiest <DW64> doctor, who had bailed out many. "I've
quit going anybody's bond. I don't think, from the experience I have
had, that I would be justified in going my brother's hereafter." He had
a few to jump them, and it cost him a pretty penny, he afterwards told
Wyeth, to get them back.

"He's worthless," said the druggist, apparently amused, at least
satisfied with his solution for the present. "He owes me two fifty for
medicine I sold him, and trusted to my sorrow. But I'll tell you what I
will do." He changed his tone to one of thought, then went on. "Now you
tell the Mis' if she will come down here and give me seven fifty, five
of this is going the bond that'll put the thief on the street, because
it is he who has been doing that stealing up there, and all of you don't
seem to know it, and the remainder, two fifty, is what he owes me. Tell
her to bring it to me in cash, understand, the long green, and out he
comes, to go back soon where he ought to be, for he has honestly no
right to be free."

Of course, Mis' never had such an amount, so Moore, insofar as this
source was concerned, was doomed to stay in the hot place for some time.
Glenview went to another.

"That nigga! Hell! Why I wouldn't go his bond to stay in Heaven, he is
so crooked and undependable."

That was the end of it for that day, and the night settled down.

It would cost ten dollars cash to secure release through professional
bondsmen; and, inasmuch as John had not the tenth part of that, he
reposed for several days in his new place of abode, and became very
dirty and bedraggled in the meantime. Always so clean and tidy--thus the
Mis' kept him, that he was hardly recognizable, when a few days
afterward, he returned. It was Murphy who secured bond, and Wyeth came
upon him in some surprise that evening. He sat quietly on the porch with
the Bible in his hand, so, greeting him, Wyeth asked how he "liked" it.
The other said:

"Whew! The worse place I was ever in." He had been in them before, but
not this one; but he did not, of course, deem it necessary to make this
mention. It had been made by others. "Two hundred nigga's in the room I
was in, and God knows how many more elsewhere. And they were one-armed
and one-legged, one-eyed and toothless, earless and one-eared; but the
whole bunch, every one of them, were filthy. And the place was rotten!"

Yet more than five hundred <DW64>s, most of them young men, preferred
the place to freedom.




CHAPTER TWENTY

_"I Love You!" She Said_


Miss Annie Palmer had about despaired of winning Sidney Wyeth, and by
this time was not nearly so considerate when he called, as she had been
some weeks before. And, besides, Wyeth had an insistent way of seeing
things, which was not the custom of her friends. When he called,
sometimes, instead of giving up to the easier things in life, and which
concerned the select few, he was liable to bring up a subject concerning
the future of the <DW64> of the south, as he is today, etc., etc., etc.
So it came to pass, that Miss Palmer was only good at times; and at
those times, she was liable to be good by fits and starts, and then she
"got cranky." Notwithstanding the fact, they were still friends, nothing
more, and, as Miss Palmer sometimes sighed to herself, "Will never be
anything more."

"You were, I thought," she declared one day, "the sweetest kind of a
boy. But of late you are so concerned about Y.M.C.A.'s, and libraries,
and schools, and the like, for our people, and how many are being killed
and all that, that I am sometimes serious in my belief that you are
losing your mind."

"I came to show you the article in _The Herald_, by the park
commissioner, with regard to the establishing of a park for <DW64>s. I
suppose you have read it? I am certainly glad to know that you have
white people in your city, who are showing some interest in the civic
welfare of our race; and from what he has suggested, with regard to this
park for our people, to be centrally located, there is conclusive
evidence, that the white people are coming to appreciate that the
evolution of these black people can be brought about otherwise than in
the chain gang."

"Please don't today, Mr. Wyeth, please don't," she begged. "Promise just
once that you will try to be, if it's only for a minute, as you were
when I became acquainted with you. Let's drop this matter about the park
and all that today. These <DW64>s here would do nothing with a park but
fight in it. And a library, they don't read; so what's the use." She
came to him, and before he could say a word in protest, she had gotten
on the davenport, and beside him very closely. In that moment, Miss
Palmer felt that she wanted to hear him say something about her.

"Listen," she said, in a voice that was full of feigned passion. "Do you
care for me?" It was so sudden that he did not know how to accept it,
whether as a joke or serious. He had, of late, been backing up on the
flirtation. However, she was evidently serious, so, with a jolly word,
he talked with her at some length about nothing. Presently she became
meditative. She spoke of her unhappy life with a sigh, and then fell to
accounts regarding her little boy.

"My entire hope is centered in him. I intend to make a doctor out of
him, and to do that, I will have to work hard and save money to put him
through school when he is grown up, and you see what that will call
for."

He was a lad of ten years, and the image of his mother. The future of
the American <DW64> was bright in his eyes; and he assisted commerce to a
degree, by consuming as much coca cola as he could buy, with as many
nickels as he could gather; likewise, peanuts, crackerjack and candies.

"He's _some_ boy," glowed Wyeth, enthusiastically. "I wish I possessed a
lad like him. I would feel proud."

"Wouldn't you like to have something to do with him?" she said, and he
replied jokingly:

"Sure."

She nestled close, very close. So close that he felt her hot breath upon
his cheek. "You do care for me a little, don't you?" she almost
implored. He was embarrassed, but replied:

"Of course, I _like_ you."

"I love you," she said. "I love you," she said again.

"Ooh, mamma!" cried her son, at that moment. "Come and see the funny man
coming down the street. Ooh, but he is so funny!" She moved away
guiltily. A moment later, he arose and took his leave.




CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"_Please Git d' Ole Man Outta Jail_"


"Ump-um-um! Man, you done bring dat book heah t'day 'n' I ain' got a
cent. Nary a cent!"

"Oh, but you're a good joker," he laughed, depreciatingly. "You drew
four or five great big dollars Saturday night, and I know you saved a
part of it for the book, as you said you would, didn't you?"

"Yesser, yesser, ah knows ah said I would; but sumpin' done happened
since then; sumpin' I wa'n't figurin' on. Sumpin' I sho wasn't lookin'
fo'."

"Oh...."

"Yes," embarrassed. "Y'see, it's lak dis: Ma ole man 'e went down town
Sat'dy night 'n'--well, 'e got'n a li'l trouble. Yes, lak a nigga, y'
know. Got in dis heah trouble, 'n it done took all I had t' get'm out;
'sides, I did'n' have 'nough 'n' had t' borra frum ma whi' people."

"That's too bad indeed," said Wyeth. Sometimes he said this freely, and
again, his voice carried a touch of disappointment and impatience,
because, sometimes he met a half dozen such instances, when he went to
deliver on Monday. As a rule, and since he was by now accustomed to it,
he offered sympathy to the unfortunate wife who had to pay so many
fines, and went his way.

"Yeh. 'Es allus gittin' in sumpin'. Las' yeah--ah maybe 'twas las'
month--'e got in jail, 'n' when I got 'im out dat time, I swo' I's gwine
let 'im stay du nex' time 'e went off'm heah and did'n' come back. 'N ah
did'n' get'im out right away dis time. Ah let'm stay tree days, but 'e
jes' keep sendin' up heah 'n' worrin' 'n' worrin' th' life outta me--'n'
I was worried anyhow--wi' 'Uh please ole 'oman, jes' please come'in git
du ole man outta jail.' So 'e jes' promis' so faithful, 'n' jes' begged
so 'a'd until I was at last p'vailed on wi' du 'elp a-Jaysus, t' git'im
out jes' this time--'n' you c'n jes' depen' on it, its the las' time I
gi'n git dat no 'count nigga a-mine outta dat place, so help me Jaysus,
du las' time!" And she bustled about her duties, with a determined set
of the head.

"How did he come to get locked up this time?"

"Ugh! Yes, yes. It's lak dis--so 'e said. 'E was down t' a s'loon 'n'
got t' argin' wid annuder nigga. 'N so den, dis udder nigga done 'posed
on 'im; 'n' den dey got t' squabblin' 'n' d' p'lice dey runs in on'm 'n'
line'm up. So d' wagin come 'long 'n' hurried 'm up t' jail. So, a'cose,
Jedge Douglass 'e 'poses a big fine on'm and dey is jes' waitin' fo'
somebody t' come 'n' pay 'is fine, 'cause, y' see, I done paid it a-fore
already. So dey is jes' waitin' fo' me t' come 'n' pay it agin, 'n' don'
send dis nigga t' du stockade, 'cause dey's done got so many triflin'
nigga's out dare, until dey hates t' feed so many, 'n' wou' ruther git
th' money 'f dey can."

And thus it went. Wyeth found the women, in a great measure, trying to
do right, as they so regarded it. But the men, from the saloon to a
tiger, thoroughly soaked themselves, regardless of the cost, so long as
they had it. And then, to a crap game, where they lost the remainder.
Evidently there must have been some winning; but Wyeth never happened to
find the winner. They were all losers. If he had their orders and
expected to deliver the book, he had to plan to deliver the same on
Saturday night, and before they found the enticing game. And for telling
the truth, they drew the line on that--refused to have anything to do
whatever with keeping their word. When he ran into a man who was as good
as his word, and which he did occasionally, he was so surprised that he
became nervous. Many of the white agents and collectors informed him,
that, with a few exceptions, they drew the line on any credit business
with the men, because they simply could not trust them. Of course this
was not among the so-called "best" people; but with them, he had a hard
time securing an order, since, to make appearance was their obvious
effort, in a large measure. When the cook advised him to see the
butler, he forthwith inquired whether he gambled or drank; for, if so,
he thanked her for her kindness, and made no effort to get the order,
for it was useless, in four cases out of five.

Hence it came to pass, that Sidney Wyeth learned that his people were
the victims of liquor and gaming, and this was the result of ill
training, ignorance, and lack of civic observation. If John Barleycorn
was at the bottom of most of the crime--which grew, in most instances,
out of discussions and differences of opinion regarding trifling
matters--ignorance was at the bottom of the indulgence.

On this day, when he had completed his work, he stopped at the library.
This was not open to <DW52> people, which he knew; but, since what he
desired could not be obtained elsewhere, he decided to go to the desk
and make known the fact, and leave it to the civil regard of the
librarian. He was ushered into a room to one side, which was not always
used, and they brought anything to him that he wished. When he took his
leave, he was invited to call at any time, and he could expect the same
accommodations.

Some time later he did, and while looking through the matter which was
the occasion of his visit, the librarian approached him, and said:

"You will perhaps be interested in hearing that it is the desire of the
board, to take some steps toward a library for the <DW52> people of the
city."

"Indeed!" he replied. "I am sure I am interested. Nothing, I assure you,
is much more needed."

"Yes," the other went on earnestly. "It has been the desire of the board
to do so for some time; but, owing to the fact, I regret to say,
that--well, those in your race whom we have waited for, and looked to,
to take some initiative with regard to the matter, have not appeared to
care much--well, not any, as yet." He paused a moment, while Wyeth
waited.

"I presume," said he presently, "that you are one of the professors."

"No, I am not. I am not connected with any school, in fact, I am not
connected with anything here, other than a book, of which I am the
author, and which is being circulated by myself here in the city. But I
am deeply interested in anything pertaining to what you mention."

"Oh, I see," said the other, and disappointment was evident in his tone.
"I had hoped, from the interest you show in literature, that you are
connected with one of the schools. But I will state what we have planned
on, and what would be necessary on the part of your people, in order to
stimulate such a movement.

"This city is, of course, unable to make such an investment; but it, the
board, is willing to cooperate with the leaders of your people, the
teachers and preachers, in bringing this to the attention of northern
philanthropists, and, with a little effort concentrated on the issue, it
is reasonable to suppose that, in view of libraries given to the
different  schools in the south, the securing of one here is
quite possible."

"That is the way I have been compelled to see it, through knowledge
gained in observation," Wyeth agreed.

"Oh, it can be obtained, it should be obtained." He paused again
hesitantly, then went on, somewhat determinedly: "This city has a
dreadful record for crime; and, while I regret to make the mention, yet,
I think you will agree with me--"

"That the great amount of the crime is among the black population,"
Wyeth assisted, unembarrassed.

"Exactly. It is a dreadful affair, this daily murdering of human beings,
and this continual herding to the chain gang. These people go there and
get in so much trouble, because their minds are untrained--and this is
due to their environment, which is bad. It is a distressing condition
which the state is facing. A library will, in time, have a marked effect
upon existing conditions. There is no park either, in fact, there is
nothing but the open street, the schools and churches for the 
youth; whereas, the white children have everything to help them become
the proper men and women. And yet, and here is where it becomes awkward
for the public to do anything. You are aware that the south is poor,
and, therefore, unable to give even their white population what the
north can in regard to uplift; but, as I remarked, the leaders appear to
show such little interest in betterment.

"Now, for instance, if the teachers and preachers would unite themselves
into a body, for the purpose of securing a library for the <DW52>
people of Effingham, and persist in this matter, eventually they would
have a building, and not less than fifty thousand volumes. But, as it
now stands, rarely do any of them call in the manner you do. And, before
anything can be done by the board, it is expedient on the part of these
people, to get some public sentiment, in favor of the proposal. Now,
what is your opinion of it?"

"Of course, I cannot be otherwise than heartily in accordance with such
a proposition. And, I regret to agree with you, that the people we, or
you, look to as our leaders, show little interest in this matter.
Publicity is necessary. I could, for instance, write an article calling
attention to such a movement, and have it published in the 
paper; but they would not read it with other than a passing interest in
such a sheet. I have had it in view for some time past of doing
something--or, I should say, saying something. I shall not yet, however,
state just what or how I will say it; but suffice that I am going to say
something, and say it at a time and in such words, that the <DW64>
public, as well as the whites, will, I hope, sit up and take notice."

"I am glad to hear that. Drop in at any time, and if we can help you in
any way, we will be only too glad to do so," said the librarian,
enthusiastically, and extended his hand.

When Wyeth got to his room, he thought long and deeply upon the subject.
And when he retired that evening, he had begun the formulation of a plan
that would wake up this sluggish resignation, which seemed to possess
the race to whom the white people looked to for initiative.

The following Sunday, when he received his paper, _The Herald_, an
article spread over the front page, double column, caught his attention,
and he read it through, as no doubt every one did, who was interested in
civic welfare. It was another by the park commissioner, and was in
regard to a park to be centrally located, and to be used exclusively for
the use of the <DW52> population of the city.

In Effingham, there are perhaps a half dozen small and large parks, and
all for white use exclusively. During the hot days of the long summer,
black people must roast in their stuffy little homes, perhaps a fourth
of which face alleys. Black children have no place to play, no place to
exercise their little bodies, or give free vent to their desire for
child play. Crime, therefore, is their greatest environment.

Stealing is so bad in this city, that the druggist remarked to Wyeth one
day, that if he should awaken at two A.M. and see a <DW64> pushing a box
car up the street, not to become excited or even be surprised. Since he
had been in Effingham, a man who lived to the rear of his abode, and who
owned a horse and wagon, had, on three different occasions, and in less
than two months, found it in a remote part of the city. It was tied to a
tree or a fence, or maybe not tied at all. It was nothing uncommon. The
horse was used to haul stuff that had previously been spotted and later
stolen. It is this that the <DW52> children see and become acquainted
with in their alley homes, and which makes criminals of so many long
before they are of age.

The article by the park commissioner dealt with these conditions, as
well as with the great amount of murder committed in the city. It was
the desire, to locate a park near the heart of the city, so that these
little children with the ebony faces, might find some relief from their
alley homes, and in that way, help a little toward the discouragement of
so much crime. The jail was overrun with both women and men prisoners;
the funds for the purpose of building a larger jail was not forthcoming,
so the city could do the least by giving these people some place of
recreation.

However, went on the commissioner's article, neither the city nor the
commissioner could be expected to make any move toward giving this to
the <DW52> people, until the <DW52> people themselves, through their
leaders, the preachers and teachers, of which there was estimated to be
in the neighborhood of three hundred, would show, in some manner, that
they desired it. To purchase the ground and remove the buildings
thereon, prepare and dress it down to a park, would, of course, require
a considerable outlay of capital. The commissioner, therefore, would be
glad to consult with this body of people with a view to that end. If it
was not convenient for all to come, he added, kindly write him their
views and desires with regard to the matter. But the commissioners would
consider it more demonstrative, if the teachers and preachers of the
city, , would call upon him in person; and, in conclusion, he set
a day, and requested that as many, if not all of them, would call at his
office on the afternoon of the following Wednesday.

Wyeth spoke of the matter to those he knew; few though, had concerned
themselves as much as to read it even; while others made idle remarks,
and so the day came.

Yes, it came, and to the office went, to be exact, five teachers and
three preachers out of a possible total number of three hundred. The
commissioner was too discouraged to keep these precious eight very long,
so, with a few words, announcement was made that a pasture, five miles
from town, could be leased for a small figure, and that a car line went
within a mile of it; so that it was moved and seconded, and the <DW52>
people got a park.

The following day, the papers were considerate enough to make small
mention of it, and that was the end of the matter.

When Sidney Wyeth had learned the details, he decided upon a plan which
will be unfolded in a later chapter.




CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"_This Man Is Losing His Mind_"


"Hello, stranger," said Miss Palmer one beautiful morning, when he came
strolling by. "I haven't seen you for a long time," she said, smiling
not overly pleasant. In fact, Miss Palmer looked worn, and acted
likewise. She did not present a hopeful example, as Wyeth saw her now.
She was sweeping the sidewalk in front of her place with a broom that
was worn to the last threads, and more. These had been cut, and only the
small wire held it to the handle.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, upon looking at it. "What do you call that?"
and pointed at it with a laugh. She looked sad and replied:

"That's my broom. Isn't it a shame? But it's all the broom I have. Won't
you buy me one, and give it to me as a present? You make plenty of
money, and I have five fifty in the house for you myself." She smiled up
into his face now wearily, and he was touched. He was, moreover, sorry
now for what he had said. But to make amends, he replied cheerfully:

"Sure, sis. Take any part of what is due me, and use it for that
purpose."

"That is so sweet of you," she smiled, gratefully. "I always believed
you were sweet, regardless of the fact that of late you have become so
awful."

"How's that?" he inquired, curiously.

"Oh, I have been constrained to believe you are losing your mind. You
have succeeded in criticising about everybody and everything, that
pertains to the good <DW52> people of this city."

"Oh, Miss Palmer," he cried, looking hurt, "I have not criticised
everybody and everything. I have only shown that I think a lot of the
so-called good people are four-flushers and selfish creatures, with no
real love for the race, nor any regard for the civic improvement of
these black people. But I know lots of good, kind, sincere <DW52>
people in this town, that I am proud of as members of the race."

"Come into the house," she invited, and presently they were seated in
the parlor. At once Miss Palmer took up the discussion of society, and
the buying of homes, which had reached a degree of impracticability
among the <DW52> people, notwithstanding the sound idea.

All over the country, during this pilgrimage, Wyeth had witnessed this
purchase idea with a mark of encouragement. And, to say that they were
succeeding, was a fact that meant a great deal to their future welfare.

Miss Palmer delighted always to discuss the buying of a home, and
marrying. Another teacher was visiting her that day, and likewise shared
her views. Wyeth did too, but he always had questions to ask, that
sometimes made the discussion rather upset.

Now he read the <DW64> paper, and had fearfully observed that an unusual
and alarming amount of foreclosures was the order. In conversation with
the numerous real estate dealers, he learned, moreover, that many of the
attempts at purchasing, were foredoomed to failure when made; that to
own a home, in a great many cases had become a fetish, and was,
therefore, not based upon a practical consideration in the beginning.

A very successful dealer, , had told him confidentially, that he
sold many homes, and would have bet, if it had been expedient, that they
would not be able to keep the payments up for a year.

"How does so much of this come about?" he had inquired.

"Notoriety. Too many people do not study, although they may have a
liberal school training among our people. It's the great ambition of too
many, to get into a home with the first object of being seen therein, to
show to their friends and put on airs. They buy with no idea whatever
as to value, liability or anything. They have simply stinted themselves
until they have managed to save a few dollars, and desire to get into
the biggest home possible, to be where they can be seen by their
friends."

"The rate of interest appears to be very high, I have observed," said
he, by way of comment. The other looked at him meaningly, and then said:

"Interest eats these people alive here; just sucks their life's
blood--but it is not that alone. Not one in five knows how to arrange a
loan. They permit themselves to be governed by some dealer, who, in
almost every instant, is the worst grafter possible. They will make a
loan with a life of three years, at eight per cent interest, and five
per cent commission. Now you know that no loan running three years, on
property that poor people are trying to buy on the installment plan, is
practical. Yet that is the kind of loan that most of these cheap sharks
offer to the masses of our people, who have no judgment. A <DW64> is
unable, as a rule, to realize that three years is a very short time. He
is compelled to learn by bitter experience. The worst feature of this
is, that at the end of it, he is so discouraged, that often he does not
benefit by this experience, because the failure has gotten his heart,
and he is done for.

"At the end of three years, which seems like three days when they are
trying to buy a home, the shark is around for a renewal of the mortgage,
and must, therefore, collect another cash commission of five per cent.
Think of it! In two-thirds of such instances, it takes every dime they
have paid in those three years. Sometimes more. Now how can people pay
for a home under such conditions! But there is another side of it. And
it all comes from the inability of our people to see further than their
noses.

"Almost all these purchases are made beyond the extension of the
sewerage, often the water works, positively no street improvements, and
side walks are rare; but, in three years, in order to boom the property,
the promoter is active in bringing some of these improvements within
reach of this property. That adds about one-half to two-thirds more to
the cost of the property he is trying to buy. Moreover, when these
people know anything, they will not buy a house built by these
promoters, for it is nothing but the cheapest shell they can get to
stand, but attractive from the outside. In two years, the occupant is
fortunate if he doesn't have to build another.

"Then comes the great day. These people cannot pay that commission over
again, and the loan company doesn't care to increase the loan, maybe, by
including the commission in a new one. If they are unable to make
arrangements with a bank, and that means they are going to deed them the
property, seven cases in ten, foreclosure proceedings are instituted.
The property is finally deeded by the sheriff to the mortgagee. Now here
is another phase: This piece of property can then be sold quicker than
before, for this reason: It is very easy to frame up a tale, to the
effect that a party who was purchasing the place was a shiftless
drunkard, or anything, and imagination can supply the rest; but,
inasmuch as they had taken the property back, they are now offering it
at a greatly reduced price and better terms. There are so many subtle
ways of drawing people in, that it would take a volume to relate them
all; but they come to the same in the end. Installment property at two
thousand dollars can be bought for about twelve to not exceed fifteen
hundred. Instead of commission and everything else, buying by the
installment plan in this, and every overboomed southern town, costs from
twice to three times what the property would actually cost, if the
purchaser could pay half of the purchase price cash, for, in that way he
could secure terms, and could pay interest rate on the remainder. In
time he would get the same paid, and have his little home."

"And that, you feel, is the reason for all this foreclosure?" said
Wyeth.

"That is the _cause_ of it. Why, advertising property for foreclosure
has become a feature of competition, between the three <DW64> papers in
this town. They get more money out of that end, than they do from the
advertisements through straight business, for the purpose of selling it
originally."

"It would seem that the people would get on to such methods by and by,"
Wyeth commented.

"Some, of course, do, and avoid it; but you cannot imagine how many do
not. It all comes about through a lack of general intelligence. Too many
of our people do not read anything; are, therefore, without any vision
or judgment of their own. They don't know. And, of course, are made the
goats of those who do."

"So that explains why a portion of this town to the west, and which is
occupied almost exclusively by our people, has such dreadful streets and
no sidewalks whatever."

"That's it. They will, perhaps, have none for the next twenty-five
years. Too much property is being bought, and so little is being paid
for, that it is a continual change about."

"I find a great many of the people--intelligent people--who do not care
to see this side of it," Wyeth remarked.

"Half of the school teachers, for instance, seem to wish not to see it.
And they get stung! But they are so anxious to be seen, and to be
referred to in a position beyond their means, no wonder."

So Sidney Wyeth had to take this man's point of view for more than one
reason. Like Attalia--but worse, these people considered literature, as
a whole, dead stock. More than sixty thousand in number, the demand
among them for books and magazines, was insufficient to justify any
one's running a place for such a purpose. It was not large enough to
justify either of the <DW64> drug stores carrying periodicals in stock,
even those that were carried by all white drug stores, excepting those
in districts occupied and patronized by the <DW52> people. And with all
this, there was not the least claim for that kind of knowledge. More
than a hundred churches never encouraged the people to read anything but
the Bible: apparently, the obtaining of a library had not worried any
but Sidney Wyeth; it has been seen how they worried over the securing
of a park. Is it a wonder, with all this under his observation, that
Sidney Wyeth, who came from a land where people read and thought, and
had some perspective, eventually came to be regarded as a chronic
critic? He had witnessed more murders than he had in all the days of his
life.

Having digressed to such a length, we will return now to Miss Annie
Palmer, who was possessed with the ambition to be established in a home
of her own, and to be seen by those who knew her.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Just think of it, suga'," she said to the other teacher. "You can get
the nicest kind of a home in the west end for a moderate sum, and only
fifty or a hundred dollars down on the best of them. The rest is paid
just like you pay rent, and no more." It was this, Wyeth recalled, that
got them. "It cost no more than to pay rent after the first payment."

"Um-um," from the other.

"And the sewers, and sidewalks, and streets and lights are all there,"
said Wyeth kindly.

"Oh, there you go for an argument," Miss Palmer retorted, angrily. Wyeth
grinned.

"Well, these things have all been completed to include this
property...."

Miss Palmer said nothing to him in reply.

"And you can get it after the first payment like paying rent," commented
the other teacher.

"Um-m," let out Miss Palmer, sweetly.

"What sweet real estate dealer offers such bargains and _easy_ things?"
said Wyeth, humorously. The druggist, who knew everybody's business, had
told him that Miss Palmer, at one time, was the object of every real
estate shark in Effingham. And then some one lodged her in the suburbs,
and since, she had been left alone. So he wondered whether it was
because Miss Palmer, as a lady high in <DW52> society, could not
conveniently get such an amount together.

"This man is losing his mind," she said, to the other teacher. The other
now regarded Wyeth dubiously. He grinned and then said:

"If you start buying, or biting on one of these _easy_ homes in the west
end that you refer to, you are going to lose your head."

"Oh, is that so," Miss Palmer essayed, with much spirit. "Do you
suppose, that with me teaching in the schools of this city for thirteen
years--" and she had begun at twenty-two, so she told him once--"I do
not know something! And if you infer that I haven't a hundred dollars,
then you haven't become acquainted with Annie Palmer! Don't you worry
about her, for she always has a roll convenient. And you never see any
collectors coming here, and leaving without what they came for." She was
very dignified now, as she went to the door to answer a knock.

The room in which they sat opened into a small hallway, which was
entered from the street by a glass door. It was at this open door, that
a man stood, who, however, could not be seen from where Miss Palmer's
company sat. He could be heard, though. And they, the company, couldn't
help hearing. They were not eavesdropping. It was then that Wyeth
learned Miss Palmer was vain. He could not help recalling, that if "no
collectors went away without what they came for," it was because they
expected nothing when they came. So, when Miss Palmer had completed her
trite sentence and sallied forth to answer the knock, they could not
help hearing her say very quickly, and with some embarrassment:

"Oh, you are too early. Come back tomorrow. I have my books to deliver
this afternoon, and will be ready for you tomorrow, so--"

That was as far as she got. And her company could not be censured for
overhearing the rest of it, that is, what the other made in reply. The
chances are the other was not aware of their presence, a few feet away,
but that is a matter for conjecture. Miss Palmer could be heard
attempting to finish with him, without his words that came in a flow.
She was nervous, but he would have his say, and so he said, cutting off
her discourse:

"I'm tired of this stalling, all this stalling you have been handing us
for months. This has got to come to an end."

"I'll bring it to the office, I--"

"You'll do nothing of the kind, and you know you won't!"

"I'll pay you tomorrow, sure, sure, sure!" Why didn't the man be a
gentleman and go, go, go! Plainly Miss Palmer was dreadfully nervous,
more, as she could be heard by those who were listening. She was plainly
in agony. The collector was on the warpath, and went on relentlessly:

"If you haven't made some disposition of it by Monday a week, get that
stuff ready for the wagon," and a moment later his steps died away in
the distance.

For one moment, Wyeth saw the face of her friend, but he couldn't
believe it! And still, when Miss Palmer returned and resumed her
discussion with regard to buying homes, he would have sworn that the
other had to smother very quickly a gleeful expression.




CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"_I'll Brand You as a Faker_"


"Eh, there! Get that car on switch A! Now, let her come back to the
left. All forward no-ow! Engineer, what's the matter with you today? Are
you drunk? Pull that train forward and back it up as I tell you, or I
shall report you to the superintendent! You're devilishly contrary
today."

"Oh, Sam," called some one.

"Aw, don't bother me today. I'm in a hurry. I am called by the board of
directors to talk over the purchase of the A.G.S. I am chairman of the
committee, and have no time to talk with you."

"Hello, Sam," greeted Wyeth, as this worthy came hurriedly by. Sam
halted a moment and gazed at him, then walked forward and extended his
hand, crying:

"Mr. Morgan. I'm glad to see you. I am called by the directors of the
Southern Railway, with regard to purchasing that line and merging it
with the L. & N."

"I see. Who owns the L. & N. now," he inquired, casually.

"Me."

"And the A.G.S.?"

"I only have a half interest in that now."

"I understand that you refused to buy out the controlling interest in
the Tennessee Coal and Iron Company."

"Yes, I refused. I don't like the line-up in the directorship. And,
besides, I cannot see my way clear to act as chairman of the board of
control, therefore, I considered it unwise to invest any millions in the
thing."

"Well, I won't detain you, since I know you are so busy. Good day."

"Good day, Mr. Morgan. Try to call at my office in the Empire building
before you leave town.

"Engineer, if you don't switch better, call at the office this evening
and get your time. I will fire you," and Sam hurried to his office, just
as John Moore came from another direction, sleepy-eyed, and looking like
the "last rose of summer". The Mis' was waiting for him, and as soon as
he was inside, she inquired with concealed suspicion:

"Well, where were you last night?"

"In jail."

"You seem fond of that place of late."

He shrugged his shoulders sleepily.

"Where did they get you this time?"

"Rosie's."

"You've been quite a frequenter about there of late...."

"That's mah business. Don't try t' hand me no argerment this morning.
Fix me something to eat. I'm hongry."

"Didn't you have breakfast up there; but then it seems you left before
breakfast? How came you back so early? I didn't look for you so soon."

"How did you know that I had been got? You are too smart nowaday's
anyhow."

"Who went your bond?"

He regarded her out of impatient eyes now. He glared at her, but said:
"I was eight dollars winner, and had two dollars besides."

"Um-m. So you give that to a professional bondsman."

"Hello," came a call from the outside.

"Hello," called back the Mis'. "Come in."

"Is John Moore here?" said a bad looking <DW64>, with a head like a
monkey and no chin at all. Moore looked uneasy.

"Oh, here you are," said the other, as he spied Moore. His tone was full
of contempt, and a touch of anger was mingled. "Where is my part for the
stuff you disposed of?"

"Ssh! Not so loud."

"Not so the devil! You can't shoo me away any longer. You ain't paid me
for the last bunch a chicken I brung heah; and now you want t' shoo me
away on this last stuff we done stole togedder."

"Will you hush. We'll talk this matter over outside."

"We's go'n talk it over heah, 'n' you go'n hand me ove fo' dollah's, ah
I'm go'in' t' take it outta yo' stinkin' hide!" He looked at Moore now
with an evil eye, and that worthy backed up and picked up a pair of
scissors, that he had brought in late one night from one of the
mysterious directions.

"Oh, you go'n push them things through me, eh! All right, ole nigga.
This is wha you 'n' me mixes it. I gi'n fix you ah you gi'n fix me," and
with that he started in the other's direction.

"Now, Sha'p Head. Ain' I done always treated you right?" Moore
whimpered.

"Naw, naw! 'n that's what I'm gi'n land on you cause!"

"Now just name a time when I ain'," Moore temporized, nervously.

"Naw, I say. Git out that winda 'f you don't wanta be killed. Git out
wi' out awgument, cause I g'in to make you run some. Don't you b'lieve
I'm go'n run yu?"

"'C'ose I b'lieve you. I b'lieve you go'n come in heah 'n' run me outta
ma house, outta ma house," cried Moore, piteously.

"Come pickin' up a pair a-scissors two feet long to push in me," roared
the other. "I got a notion t' run yu ontell yo' ankles gits hot. I'll
run yu six blocks, you lop eared bull dog!"

"You outta be 'shamed t' treat me that way, Sha'p head, 'n' you know you
outta!" went on Moore, soothingly.

"Come outside, John Moore, 'n' leave yo' coat inside. I'm go'n' run y'
six blocks, so help me Gawd!"

"All right, Sha'p Head. 'F you jes' gotta run me outta ma house, then go
on outside. I'm a-comin."

The other came through the room where Wyeth and Legs were trying to
play a game of checkers. He was puffing so hard, that he appeared to be
afraid of himself. "That low down skunk! I'm go'n run that nigga ontell
'is ankle's done be so hot that the streets go'n melt behind him!
Doggone 'im!"

"Are you outside, Sha'p Head?" called Moore, nervously.

"I'm out heah, you liver eater. Come out wi' yo ankle's greased, 'cause
you go'n run six blocks faster yu ebber did in yo' life; 'n' when you
gits to d' end of it, I' gi'n kill yu!"

"Bang!" went the door, and the key turned. To describe the indignation
of Moore for the next few minutes; what he would do; what he ought to
have done, would be beyond the possibilities of our pen. He was
positively so bad that he had much effort to keep from doing injury to
himself. Legs winked at Wyeth, and then, rising, unlocked the door and
slipped out quietly. A moment later, a terrible banging was instituted
upon the door. Wyeth held it closed, with a great feigned effort.

"Let me at him! Let me at him!" cried Legs from the outside, but John
Moore didn't wait to hear any more. A crash and a rattle as of falling
glass scattered about, showed that an exit was unconventionally made in
the rear. Wyeth and Legs came around in time to see him going over the
back fence. The next time they saw him, he was leading the other by
about two rods, as they went up the street.

"Jumped right into his jaws," laughed Glenview, as they watched the
chase from the porch.

Ten minutes later, some one tore into the house, and turned the key of
the door so quickly, that it seemed like an automatic spring lock.

It was John Moore.

"Let's go down to the drug store," suggested Wyeth. Legs didn't hang out
in that direction, so Glenview was the recipient of the suggestion. He
couldn't, so, presently, Wyeth went alone.

"They are going to fall down in both those towns, on the securing of a
Y.M.C.A. for <DW64>s, and I knew they would when they started," the
druggist was saying, when Wyeth entered.

"<DW64>s can secure nothing but churches down south," commented another.

"They have only a few weeks left, before the time limit on the
appropriations from the Jew expires. He offered twenty-five thousand to
any association where the people secured an additional seventy-five
thousand. Now six months after the campaign for the association in
Grantville," so said a mail clerk who ran to that city, "less than five
thousand in cash, out of a total of more than thirty-three thousand
dollars subscribed, has been collected to date. How can this--what is
the name of the secretary of the proposed association--yes, I have it,
Jacobs--Rev. Wilson Jacobs, figure they will be able to secure one in
that town?"

"It's all stuff. Nigga's down here would do nothing with an association
no way," said the druggist.

"I stopped at the Y.M.C.A. when I was in Chicago this summer," said the
bookkeeper in the Dime Savings Bank. "It appears to be conducted with
great success, and is surely a fine, clean, up-to-date place to stop,
regardless of the fact that almost everything is open to <DW64>s in that
city."

"Yes, but the <DW64>s in Chicago are civilized," said another. "These
<DW64>s down here would have to have a half dozen police standing around
to keep order, if they had one."

"But don't you feel such a thing in this town would act as a great moral
benefit?" suggested Wyeth, at this juncture.

"We now hear from Tempest," smiled the druggist. He had not been able,
as yet, to reconcile himself to the bet he lost some months before, and
had since a grudge against Wyeth.

"I see by today's paper, that Wilson Jacobs will address the people of
the city in regard to the Christian forward movement, and will be
assisted by several white men of high standing in the city."

"Well, speeches will be all right; but I'd bet a dollar to a dime that
they will never secure a Y.M.C.A. in the town he represents. As for
Effingham, no chance."

"You seem to be successful in getting the biggest kind of churches
here," said Wyeth.

"Yes," returned the druggist, "and they will be paying for them, as they
have been for the last--since I ever knew anything."

"But they have the churches, nevertheless."

"Oh, so far as that goes, yes."

"They must have had to pay as much as forty per cent of the cost, to
secure a loan for the remainder?"

"Yes, Tempest; but what has that to do with it?"

"Well, if the big church on the corner up the street could be secured at
a cost of seventy-five thousand dollars, half or more of which I
understand has been paid, then, a like amount should be available in a
town of this size, and which has an equal number of <DW52> people,
shouldn't it?"

"Tempest is out for argument," said the druggist.

"No argument, when almost every large city in the north--and some not as
large as this town--have a Y.M.C.A. for its black population. And more
than half that have such, have not nearly the <DW52> population that
this town has, and positively have not nearly the need."

"Tempest has been worrying about a library, a park, and everything else
for this town, in the months he has been here," the druggist said,
looking almost amused. Wyeth took exception.

"I _am_ interested in this town, and in another, where I see and read of
more crime and murder, than I ever dreamed was possible."

"Then, Tempest," said the druggist, naively, "you ought to get one. Or,
at least, you ought to awaken, by some initiative on your part, some
enthusiasm to that end. You see all we need, you do, a globe trotter,
and you have certainly criticised to that end, and now," his voice took
on a cold, hard tone, "I say: Do something to prove this criticism worth
the while, or I'll brand _you_ as a faker--a frost, with all your
premeditated ideas!"

Every one about was silent, while their eyes turned and regarded Sidney
Wyeth. About the corners of their mouths a smile that spelled of a
sneer, played subtly. If Sidney Wyeth didn't see it, he at least felt
it. And in that moment, he realized that he would not dare show his face
about this place, lest he be scorned henceforth, if he didn't take the
stand the druggist had taken.

"Very well, Dr. Randall," he said, rising. "_I shall do so._" He
regarded them all for a moment, with a firm sweep of his eyes, and,
next, he turned and left the store.




CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

_The Arraignment_


"I guess that will do," whispered Wyeth to himself, arising from his
typewriter at one-thirty the following morning. Carefully he placed the
typewritten pages in the drawer, and retired.

       *       *       *       *       *

"A <DW52> man to see you, Mr. Byron," said the clerk, to the managing
editor of the Effingham _Age-Herald_.

"Show him in," said the other shortly, and kept about his work. A moment
later, Sidney Wyeth stood before the editor.

"Well?"

"I should like twenty minutes talk with you, Mr. Byron," said the other
calmly.

The editor laid down his pen, and raising his eyes, he began at the
feet, which were somewhat large, ran the gaze up a pair of long legs,
and finally saw a chin, a nose and the eyes, and there they stopped. He
had been in the act of freezing, what he was confident was a crank, a
fool, or a knave. To walk calmly into the office of the managing editor,
and ask for twenty minutes of his time! It was incredulous. And yet,
when he saw the eyes of the other, something therein told him strangely,
that this man was no fool, nor a knave--nor any of the things he had
been feeling. He was--well, he was a <DW52> man, which made it stranger
still, for <DW52> men had not been in the habit of coming to his office
at all, much less asking for such an amount of time on his busy day. He
shifted his position, and finally, after swallowing guiltily, the words
he started to say, he added:

"Be seated."

"I realize that you are busy, very busy, Mr. Byron," Wyeth began
rapidly, not waiting for the other to say anything more. "But my
business is a matter of grave importance, of the very gravest
importance. And that is why I have called, and asked for the amount of
time which I am aware is not customary for you to grant."

The other said nothing. He knew of nothing to say; but, somehow, he
simply sat viewing Sidney Wyeth out of curious eyes--and waiting. The
other unfolded one of several papers; they were, the editor now saw,
previous issues of his paper. He wondered. He had been very careful to
kill stories that smelled of strife between the races.... He did not
conduct his paper with an appeal to race prejudice. Mr. Byron was proud
of the fact, too. Moreover, while he had doubts as to the hurried
evolution of the <DW64> race to a place in the least equal to the one of
which he was a member, he had always tried, when he could conveniently
do so, to say a word of kind encouragement with regard to the <DW52>
people. Only that week, he had run a strong account on the front page,
with regard to the governor's visit to Tuscola, at the invitation of its
principal, who had extended it. The invitation came for the purpose of
allowing the state government to see, by a personal inspection, whether
the  schools were entitled to a portion of certain funds, the
Federal government had appropriated for the purpose of farm
demonstration work. Following his return to the city, the governor had,
without reservation, announced that the appropriation would be so
divided, as to allow Tuscola Institute and another <DW64> school, a
liberal portion of said funds.

Steven Byron justly took some of the credit for this, and now is it a
wonder that he held his breath, while this young <DW64>, whom he had
never seen before, unfolded the paper and finally began.

Coming to the side of his desk, Wyeth reseated himself, and, pointing to
an article, said: "You recall this incident?"

"Yes," said the editor, still wondering.

"And this one also," said the other, with another paper unfolded and
spread before him.

"Of course."

And for the next few seconds he showed him others. The other was still
wondering, when Wyeth said:

"Do you recall following this particular Wednesday, when you published
this article in regard to the park for <DW52> people, the number of
teachers and preachers who presented themselves as the commissioner had
suggested and requested?"

"Well, yes. There were--"

"Eight, to be exact. Three preachers and five teachers."

"Yes." The other was still curious.

"Have you any idea what number of preachers and teachers you have among
the <DW52> people of this city?"

"Why, a great many, I am sure."

"Three hundred or more, according to the directory. I don't think they
got all that teach elsewhere, and make their homes here during vacation;
and I know they have not all the preachers, but that is neither here nor
there.

"In regard to this article about securing a library for the <DW52>
people. How many visits, can you recall, were paid you by any of the
teachers and preachers following the publication of it? And can you
recall how many letters you received, or anything else connected with
the instant?"

"I can quite well, I regret to say," replied the editor; "for the simple
reason I received no letters nor any visits."

"You requested, in your paper of recent issue, and which is before you,
that the leading <DW52> people--and of course this includes the
teachers--should call at your office to make arrangement for the coming
lecture in regard to the need of Y.M.C.A.'s for the <DW52> people of
the south. I suppose you have been favored with many visits?"

The other shook his head sadly, as he replied: "No one has called among
your people."

"Very well. Has it ever occurred to you, Mr. Byron, that an unusual
amount of crime appears to be the order in this city?"

"Who couldn't realize it, that lived here or knew of the place through
the columns of the papers?"

"And, unfortunately, eighty per cent of the murders are committed by a
certain two-fifths of our population. That two-fifths represents my
race."

The editor nodded.

"Then, in view of what I have just called to your attention, does it
occur to you that the leaders--or the should-be-leaders of my people of
this city, are indicating, by their actions, that they care a hang what
becomes of the race?"

The elements were beginning to clear now. The editor said: "It certainly
doesn't appear so."

"And yet how many of these people, in conversation, are ever ready, when
there is a mob demonstration, to exploit--which in itself is much in
order--the 'best' people. And what consideration should be shown them,
regardless of the ignorance and crime of the masses? Does it not occur
to the casual observer, that a great deal of negligence is the order
when it comes to moral uplift, on the part of the leading <DW64>s
themselves?"

"I cannot help but agree with you."

"Then, Mr. Byron, I have prepared an article arraigning this element of
my race, that I have brought with me, and ask you to examine it, with a
view to publication. I beg you to read the same carefully, and if you
feel you would like to run it, I shall appreciate it. And if you do not,
I will call tomorrow and get the same." Forthwith, he handed the editor
the typewritten pages he had prepared the night before, and, with a bow,
left the office.

       *       *       *       *       *

"The <DW52> man that was here yesterday, Mr. Byron, has called again,
and waits outside."

"Show him in, show him in at once," cried the editor, turning about, and
preparing himself for a conversation.

"Well, sir," said Wyeth, after greetings had been exchanged, "you, of
course, realize what I am here for."

"And I am certainly glad you called," returned the editor, with a
serious face. "I have read the article, and reread parts of it." He
paused, and was thoughtful before he went on, "and must say that it is
certainly strong. Whew! The <DW52> people are liable to lynch you for
such an arraignment, if I know them a little."

"I had considered all that before I submitted it," said the other,
resignedly.

"If a white man wrote such an article and brought it to the office, I
would not, under any consideration, publish it. But, since it has been
written by a <DW52> man, well, that makes a difference." He was silent
again.

"Do you know," he said, regarding Wyeth keenly, "I thought over what you
wrote all last night. I have thought of it in that way before, but it
would never have done to give utterance to it, me, a white man. But,
take for instance" (he drew out the manuscript, and turned to a certain
page): "You say here, that multitudes of these so-called leaders have
accepted the work and the teaching of the wizard of Tuscola, merely
because the white people have; and that, in accepting him and his views
for the welfare of the race, it has been merely to be on the popular
side, because the wizard is so much so; but that they have no sincerity
whatever in the words they say about him." He laid the sheets down, and,
raising his finger, said: "How true that is! Why I know personally,
scores that would kick him for the statements he has made, if they could
do so. But, as you say further, they seek to get into the band wagon, at
any cost. Now you refer, at some length, to the proposal to secure a
park.

"It is a positive fact, that the good white people of the south, are
made the object of bitterness by the northern people, on account of
something for which they cannot always be blamed. Now, who would believe
at the north, that the white people were willing and ready to give the
<DW52> people a park, a place for an outing for the children; and the
<DW52> people didn't want it?" Wyeth shook his head.

"Nobody!" declared the editor. "Nobody in the world, and yet here is an
example in this very town, which has more murder and crime among its
black population than any city in the world, regardless of the size! And
your race; that body of people, the teachers and preachers, to whom we
have naturally looked and asked for cooperation in securing a park, have
simply ignored our invitation!

"Now, in regard to the library. Here is the article, and which I, with
care, prepared myself. What good has it done? I have asked their
cooperation, not their money; but I have been ignored, the same as the
commissioner was in regard to the park. And before and since then, crime
continues.

"We know the law-abiding <DW52> people cannot be altogether
responsible, for the crime of the polluted and the criminal; but, Lord!
One would not suppose that they would so utterly disregard an effort on
our part for their civic welfare.

"In the end, you call attention to the churches and the condition of the
pastors. It is certainly time someone is calling to time ignorance in
the ministry. Frankly, I have long been of the opinion you advance in
the article, that an educational requirement should become a law with
regard to preachers, as well as to men in other professions. Think of
it! A profession, calling for the highest general intelligence, having
the lowest rate of intelligence!

"And, again, this church building bee has submerged the Baptist church,
among the <DW52> people. How can any of them be of any practical
service, when there is one for every one who can say 'Jesus!'

"You draw attention to the inability of the southern cities to secure
Y.M.C.A's, where the great masses of black people, of course, live. Not
a one is in operation, as they are conducted by the whites, or by the
<DW52> people of the north. It is easy to excuse the matter by pleading
poverty. But, while that is a plausible excuse, it seems quite feasible
to build great big churches for a certain few. They have two churches in
this town that would cost more than a Y.M.C.A. building, complete. And
yet, in Grantville, and the other town, and Attalia, they are required
to raise only about one-third of the amount necessary.

"What, then, is the cause of this failure? You have answered it in the
pages of this manuscript.

"I am going to publish it. And in doing so, I am forewarned that it is
going to arouse a world of indignation among your people, or I miss my
guess. But it needs to be done. Something should come before them, to
awaken this sluggishness with regard to uplift among their own. So you
may look for it--the entire article, on the front page of next Sunday's
issue. Good day!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"That was sure a dirty deal Dr. Randall and Dr. Bard handed Tempest,
wasn't it?" remarked L. Jones, editor and owner of the Effingham
_Reporter_, , to his assistant.

"I don't fully understand. What was it? I hear that Wyeth bet, or
rather, made a bet with Dr. Bard about something," said the other,
attentively.

"Made a bet with Bard and beat him a mile and Bard, through his
friendship with Randall, who has had it in for Wyeth since he came here,
over a bet that Wyeth won from him, hedged on it the dirtiest you can
imagine."

"Tell me in detail about it," requested the other. At that moment, a
private detective entered the office, and, upon overhearing the
conversation, said:

"I can tell you all about it, because I was there when the bet was made.

"It was like this, or came about in this way: Down at the drug store,
Wyeth has had the nerve--I guess that is how you can place it, since the
bunch, including Bard and Randall--especially Randall, don't appear to
appreciate that any one knows anything but themselves. At least, they
have been this way in regard to that fellow Wyeth. So an argument came
about that Wyeth got into. He quoted an editorial in regard to the
prosperity of California, and mentioned that California had more
automobiles, in proportion to population, than any state in the union.
Randall had no reason to take exception to this, further than he was so
anxious to put this Wyeth in the wrong. He started an argument, but, of
course, he had his dose last summer and knew--if he would have admitted
it--that Wyeth was not arguing on something he didn't know. But Bard,
who accepts Randall as the man who knows everything, and who has argued
so much that he would try to down anybody for the sake of it, was
regardless as to the merit. Bard took exception. Those fellows cannot
appreciate anybody's knowing anything, unless he is a doctor. So, in the
course of the argument, Bard offered to bet Wyeth five dollars, that the
state of Iowa had more automobiles than California, in proportion to its
population. Wyeth called him, and they put up the money.

"I heard Bard explaining to one of their friends, that Iowa had so many
automobiles; but was away down when it came to population. Wyeth
overheard him, and agreed that Iowa _did_ have lots of machines, but
that he was wrong in regard to its being away down in population. That,
in fact, Iowa had almost as many people as California. The crowd
ridiculed such an idea, and cited the big cities of California, as an
evidence of the fact. 'There is no call for argument when the same is
down in black and white. Look it up in the census,' Wyeth declared. Bard
, while Randall fished around in his belongings, and found a book
containing the last government census report. Now, what do you think of
a bunch that are always arguing, and not one of them knew the population
of either of those great states. Not a one, and most of them graduated
from college. Which showed that they have not studied what is around
them, while Wyeth had.

"The report they found, had Iowa's population for fifteen years before.
'Wrong,' said Wyeth calmly. 'Well, here it is in black and white,' they
all cried at once. 'But it's wrong, I say,' declared Wyeth. 'You can't
convince Tempest on anything,' declared Randall disgustedly. 'You cannot
convince me that Iowa has not increased in population in fifteen years.
The census you are poring over there, is fifteen years old.' They were
taken aback. They looked at the top of the page and saw they were all
wrong again. Not a word did they say. No, they wouldn't admit in words
to him, that they were wrong when it was before them. Wyeth called the
population, and when they looked just to the side, there it was. It was
the same with California. And still, not one of that bunch said: 'By
jove! He's right.' No, but they all knew then that he had won that bet.
And Dr. Bard was sick. Just sick, while Randall was sore with himself.

"Now here is how they hedged and kept from paying it: Wyeth wrote to two
of the biggest motor magazines, and to the department of commerce. The
department of commerce wrote back that the information he required,
could be gotten by consulting the magazine he had written to, and stated
what issues gave it. Wyeth brought the issues and the letters. They then
claimed that they would accept the information from the secretaries of
the states only. He wrote to these people, and, strange to say, they did
not answer. And that was how they hedged. There was only one of the
bunch that frequents the place regularly, who was man enough to tell
them how cheap it was, and that was Dr. Landrum. He purchased Wyeth's
book and read it, and told Wyeth that he had done finely for a beginner;
Randall has had more criticism to offer upon it than any one else, but
would not, of course, honor Wyeth by buying one."

"I guess he more than paid for one, from what I have heard," laughed
Jones, and related the incident of the bet, which had become known about
town.

"Well," said the detective, "they are giving him the laugh down there
now, about how Randall called him on his criticisms."

"I heard about that, too," said Jones. "But you take it from me. That
fellow is going to make a fool of those fellows yet. The man has
something up his sleeve behind all this criticism he is accused of, and
I am looking for him to do something. I don't know what it will be; but
I feel in my bones, that it will be something that we will all know
about."

"I agree with you," said the detective. "That fellow has no college
education like Randall and Bard, and others, that feel they are the only
fish in the pond; but he is a walking encyclopedia when it comes to
every day facts about our country and the people, and some day we are
going to hear from him otherwise than through the pages of his book. He
didn't know all about writing when he wrote that; but it's some book at
any rate," and with that, he rose and went his way.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sunday was a beautiful day. The air was calm and soft. A crowd was on
hand early at Randall's pharmacy, as was the usual custom on Sunday.

"Well," said Randall cheerfully, "today is fine. Wonder where Tempest
is." And he looked about at the others, amusedly. A tittering went the
rounds.

"He appears to be somewhat scarce about these premises, since you called
him some days ago," said Bard, whereupon there was some more tittering.

"Well, guess I'll look over the paper, since our wise friend isn't
around to teach us something," and, smothering his glee, he uncovered
the _Age-Herald_. Laying the funny pages aside, he allowed his gaze to
fall upon the front page of the general news section.

"What in Hell!" he exclaimed, in the next breath.

"What is it, Ran?" cried the crowd.

     "<DW64> SAYS RACE FACES DREADFUL CONDITIONS, DUE TO LACK OF INTEREST
     BY THEIR LEADERS. SAYS SELFISHNESS IS SO MUCH THE ORDER THAT THERE
     IS NO INTEREST WHATEVER TOWARD UPLIFT. PROFESSIONAL <DW64> THE
     WORST."

"Have you read this?" cried Professor Dawes, bursting in a few minutes
later. "What do you think of it?" He was very much excited. So were many
others.

"That <DW64>'s crazy!" cried Professor Ewes, of the Mater School.
Professor Ewes had read Wyeth's book, which was loaned to him by one of
his teachers, who had purchased it from one of Wyeth's agents, in two
payments. She had loaned it to Professor Ewes, and Professor Ewes had,
in turn, loaned it to Professor Dawes, and Professor Dawes had, in
turn, loaned it to another professor, and after all three had read it,
it was returned to the original purchaser, who had seen the
advertisement, that it was on sale at the biggest white store in the
south, and had been inspired to subscribe for it, on that account. When
the book was returned to her, she had read fifty odd pages and liked it,
so she told Miss Palmer. She further said, she hoped some day to know
the young man, who had written such a great story. And then Miss Palmer
told her. Forthwith, all interest became an argument.

"Do you mean to say, that fellow is the author of the book?" she
inquired of her professor.

"Oh, yes," he said.

When the agent called for the remainder due, he was handed the book,
with a statement that it was positively N.G. When the agent opened it,
as he was leaving the rear of the house of the wealthy white people, a
book mark dropped from between pages fifty and fifty-one.

"Did you read what he said about the teachers?" exclaimed a
supernumerary, stopping in at the drug store, and seeing everybody
excited over the article. Jones came in behind her.

"This is where you come in for a big article in your next week's issue,"
said Randall, who didn't take any <DW64> paper, shoving the article under
the eyes of the <DW64> editor.

"I'm afraid Mr. Wyeth has said all I would liked to have said," he
replied calmly.

"What!" several cried, in consternation. "Do you mean to say that you
would have talked about the best people as this man has!"

"I mean that I would have tried to. I do not consider that I possess the
ability to arrange it as he has. You see, his range and vision is beyond
mine, which has been confined to the southland. While he has studied
every section of the country we call the United States, and he has, as
you will observe, written this article in appreciation of that point of
view."

"But, great goodness, Jones," cried Randall, very much excited, and
likewise forgetting that he did not subscribe for nor advertise in
Jones' paper, which was the best <DW64> paper in the state. Because, he
said to everybody but Jones himself, it was N.G., and didn't pay to
advertise in it. "See what he has said about our teachers!"

"I have seen it. What of it?"

"It's dreadful--terrible!"

"About the park and library, you mean?"

"Sure!"

"How can you say that--or anything to the contrary, when you know all he
has related there is true?"

Randall hesitated embarrassed for a moment, then said: "But he needn't
have made such an issue of it!"

"But it's true?"

"Well--yes--of course it's true. But--"

"And about this crime, etc.?"

"Yes--but--"

"He shouldn't have told it where the white people can read it," assisted
Jones, grimly. Those about became quiet very quickly, and looked at each
other. Jones saw the lay of the land, and took his leave.

"At last, at last!" he cried to himself, as he went up the street, "the
turning point has been reached. When I write again of civic conditions
in my paper, and show up the fallacies among our own, it'll be read and
notice taken of it."

All that day, indignation meetings denouncing the article by Sidney
Wyeth, was the order among Effingham's black people. All the week
following, it was further denounced. And thus we come to the end of this
part of our story.

As for Sidney Wyeth, he left Effingham. He left shortly after writing
the article, and went to another city. In that other city, he came back
to where he started--that is, something had come back to him which was
his dream, when we met him in the beginning of our story.




BOOK III




CHAPTER ONE

"_That Gal's Crooked!_"


When Mildred Latham left the church, she hurried to her room, greatly
excited. Without delay, she threw her belongings together as quickly as
possible, and without care. When she had them tied and ready for moving,
she went out, locking the door behind her, and paused briefly to gaze up
and down the street. After a moment, in which she satisfied herself that
neither were in sight, she hurried down the street to where she knew a
man lived who owned a dray.

"Can you get a trunk and other matter for me at once?" she inquired,
subduing her excitement.

"I guess so. Sometime this afternoon. What number, Miss," he replied,
regarding her with admiring eyes. She bit her lips in vexation.

"But I would like it moved at once--right away," she said, quelling her
excitement as best she could.

"Oh, very well. Didn't know you were in such a hurry." He called to a
black boy in the rear, and, after instructions, turned to her and said:

"Fo'kes out, eh! He-he! Where you want it dumped?"

"Oh,----why, yes--oh,--you may just keep it here until I call for it,
please." Without further words, she hurried away. Down the street she
came to a boy with a push cart, directed him to the address, let him in,
saw to the loading of her luggage, and, when this was completed, slipped
quietly out behind him. When a few doors away, she paused long enough to
gaze longingly in the direction of the number she had just left. And
then, after a smothered sob, she caught a car that took her miles to
another side of town, and where the houses were recently built near a
new extension of the car tracks.

Two hours later, she had succeeded in getting a room from a woman who
had a daughter about her age. She would get her meals at a small
restaurant nearby, until she could arrange to cook them in her room, or,
maybe, she might be allowed to cook them in the kitchen, on the stove of
the family. She didn't request that privilege this day, for she was too
greatly excited to say more than she had to.

"It's terrible," she moaned silently, when alone in the room she had
secured. "I would not have left them like this for anything in the
world; but I could never stay there and take the risk. I could never
look in their faces again.... But, oh, how I dislike to be away from
them! It is almost the only real home I ever knew, and the only ones who
ever really loved me--but Sidney.... I must not think of him, I must
forget. But can I? That is what has worried me these months. I can never
forget how he looked at me that day; that day when he would have
spoken....

"And then he came.... That night--but that was the end, the end of my
dream. And yet, only yesterday, I don't know why, I couldn't seem to
help it; but I had hopes, dear hopes--but today----" She went to sleep
after a time, and all the night through, was asleep and awake by turns.
It seemed that morning would never come; and when it did at last, she
arose with heavy eyes.

She decided to go for a walk, and not canvass that morning. She was glad
now that Constance's work was in another part of the city, and she could
at least go about hers without any likelihood of meeting her.

"Did you rest well last night?" inquired the lady of the house, a
hard-faced dark woman, whose appearance did not appeal to Mildred the
night before, and now she was less impressed than before.

"Oh, very well, thank you," she replied quickly. So much so that the
other looked at her keenly, and when Mildred saw her eyes now, she
detected an air of suspicion therein. She flinched perceptibly. The
other saw this, and was more suspicious still.

"You seem worried, nervous," said the other, with feigned kindness; but
even in the tone, could be discerned a mockery.

"I never sleep well when I change rooms and sleep in a new bed," said
Mildred, calmly. The other nodded.

"This is my daughter," the other announced, as a tired looking black
girl came forward. Mildred accepted the introduction with forced
courtesy, and only returned the greeting. The other did likewise, while
her mother, appearing to wish to tantalize the feelings of her roomer,
said:

"You and she can be partners. You must take her, Myrtle, around to see
your friends." She now turned to Mildred and said: "Myrtle has many
admirers, so you and she can go out anytime and turn on a 'stunt.'" She
smiled a dry hard smile, that almost made Mildred shudder. She made an
excuse, and hurried into the street, preferring the outside air to the
evil atmosphere she felt within.

"That gal's crooked," said the black woman to her daughter, who had just
come in that morning.

"How do you know?" said the other coldly.

"How do I know!" she repeated derisively. "Do you suppose I have been in
this town and seen a thousand gals with her sweet face, and not know
that she ain' got a white man--maybe two or three--on her string."

"You're crooked--so crooked yourself, Ma, that you see everybody else
the same way," said the other, sinking into a chair and closing her
eyes.

"I've always tried to make you straight, and you know that," her mother
retorted grimly.

"A crooked mother can't raise a straight daughter. It's up to the
daughter--and I've failed." A moment later, she was snoring loudly. The
other regarded her now, with a pang in her evil heart. It always made
her sad to see her only daughter like that. She had fostered hopes,
while this one was growing up, that she would be a lady; she had sent
her to school with the funds she got in any way she could; but heredity
was too strong. They wouldn't have the girl after six months, at the
boarding school she attended in Grantville. No, they expelled her with
an emphatic letter, that she should not return the following season. She
swore when she read the letter from the president, and forthwith sent
her to another. The offense was repeated. She sent her then to a
catholic convent. But in some way she escaped from this, and when her
mother saw her two months later, she was living in adultery.

Mildred renewed her canvass that afternoon, and, under the spell of the
work, she was able, after a time, in part, to forget the worry that
possessed her. She returned to her room, humming a little song, much to
the surprise of herself. She hushed, however, when she approached the
house. The face of the black woman seemed more cruel every time she saw
it. She wished she had another place. But, since she had moved in, she
decided to make the best of it.

All that week she worked away diligently. She worked to forget what had
frightened her away from her friends, and her success was great. She
placed the book in scores of homes through her concentrated efforts, and
when she returned at night, she was invariably so much exhausted, that
she retired early, and fell asleep the minute she touched the bed, and
awakened each morning, rested and spurred on to a greater effort.

Sunday came again, and, having grown accustomed to attending church, she
knew it would be a long day for her without doing so. She inquired of
the people regarding a church, and was embarrassed to have the woman
remark:

"Oh, you attend church! Well, there's a big Baptist church down the
street and across five blocks; while there's a smaller one two blocks
up."

"Thank you," said Mildred so sweetly, that the other looked after her
with open mouth.

"I can't make that gal out," she said to her daughter, as they sat
together at breakfast.

"I'm glad of it," growled the daughter, without looking up.

"She's a puzzle. Sells a book; but I will never bring myself to believe
that she doesn't do something else on the side."

"Evil to him who evil thinks," said her daughter, still looking in her
plate. "I think I might possibly have been something, Ma, if you hadn't
been so evil. Now what right have you trying to trump up something
against that girl. Supposing she ain't straight, does that give you any
call for all time tryin' t' make her what she ain' showed herself t'
be?" Myrtle was impatient, and her mother had a way of hushing up when
she was in this mood.

"She c'n certainly make herself look good," commented the black woman,
as Mildred passed out, and went down the street in the direction given
to the big church.

"Has got some clothes, too," she commented further, as the other
remained silent. "She certainly knows how t' have her men. Don't none
of'm bother about where she lives; and 'she goes t' church on Sunday.'"
She laughed a low, hard laugh, but did not look in her daughter's
direction.

Mildred found the church. It was indeed a large structure. And a large
crowd attended it. She sat to one side, where a window was raised, and
the soft air floated in above her. As she caught the strains of the
mammoth pipe organ, and heard the music from a score or more voices in
the choir, she thought of her friends as never before, since she left
them. She had told Wilson--who was so good--that some day he'd be the
pastor of a big church. A big church like this, where thousands of
people attended. Only forty members comprised his congregation; he was
delighted, she recalled, when as many as one hundred attended. And she
had wanted so much to help Wilson Jacobs and his sister in their great
effort. As she recalled how unceremoniously she had left them, and at
the very time they needed her more than ever, she experienced a pain
that made her turn in the pew.

She heard the pastor now. He was preaching. She settled herself for a
long sermon. That was the kind the Baptists preached, she judged. Soon
she found herself listening to the words that came from his lips. He
told the story of Damon and Pythias. How glorious, she thought! Pythias
was a man--and so was Damon. They were strong men--with, what was that,
she was thinking of it all the time? Yes, they were strong men with the
strength of their convictions. "Amen" came all about her. And still the
pastor was preaching. And he was preaching a good sermon. She heard it
all, and it concerned men--and the strength of their convictions.

"To be a Christian," she heard him now, "you must be strong. You must be
courageous, and willing to sacrifice for your brother, as was Damon for
Pythias. There are those who are Christians with all the feeling--on
Sunday. Monday, they are like any other sinner. This version of
Christianity and religion, is the reason Hell is getting so many people
every day. Sometimes when I think it over, I don't wonder; because, all
my life, I have been constrained to observe, that too many people regard
Jesus as the individual, and not as the moral. It is the moral of the
Christ, his teachings and example, that we are to follow. We do not know
him, insofar as the Christian sense is concerned, as an individual. But
it is a fact that so many of our preachers wax eloquent, and literally
bring down the heavens, and, likewise, great demonstration from the
congregation thereby. But, to be a successful practitioner, one must be
strong; he must stand for something; to be a successful farmer, a man
must be practical; to be a successful business man, requires application
and fortitude; to be a good husband, and the father of a happy family,
requires strength--in short, to be anything in this life, requires
strength! Therefore, dear friends, fancy, if you can, how a weak man can
be a Christian. For, to be a Christian, requires the strength of all
things."

She was moved. Oh, it was a relief to listen to a good sermon! And she
was glad to hear a Baptist preacher speak so forcibly in such terms. She
was not so very well acquainted with this denomination and its pastors;
but, from her observation, she had almost concluded that they appealed
to the emotion, rather than to strength. She wondered now, as she saw
him making gestures in emphasizing his words, whether he had taken any
interest in the Y.M.C.A. She decided to find out, if she became an
attendant of this church.

When the sermon had closed, she contributed liberally to the table,
whereupon she was looked at closely by the man who took collections.
When she had reseated herself, and glanced in the direction of the
table, she saw the man pointing her out to the pastor, whose eyes, for a
moment, rested upon her in curiosity.

When she was leaving the church at the close of the services, someone
touched her arm. She turned quickly, with a pang of the heart, recalling
with fright, having been touched a week before. She had no need to fear,
however. It was the man who had taken collections.

"The pastor would like a word with you, Madam," he said, with his hat in
his hand, and all politeness. She blushed, and then, turning, followed
him back into the church, where she came upon the pastor, standing among
several people.

"Ah," he said, advancing as soon as she drew near. "And this is the
young lady we observed. Pardon me, Miss, but you are a stranger among
us. We wish you to feel welcome in our church. I hope the service didn't
bore you." He was a good man. Her ideal of a true Christian. She replied
with embarrassment, and blushed fearfully:

"Oh, no, indeed not, Sir! I enjoyed the service--oh, ever so much! And I
am delighted to be made welcome here. I hope to come to services very
often--every Sunday. I think you preached a wonderful sermon!" She
paused now, too embarrassed to go on. He saw it, and made haste to
dispell it. Introductions followed, and invitations were the order.

It was over now, and she was happy. At that moment, she felt at peace
with the world. And this included the evil black woman with whom she
roomed, and who didn't attend church. She grasped the hands that now
sought hers, and murmured kind words. Then she turned, and before her
stood the man with the scar. She uttered a low cry, and the next moment,
fell prone upon her face, in a dead faint.




CHAPTER TWO

"_It Was In That Church Last Sunday!_"


The Sunday following Mildred's departure was a sad one in the Jacobs'
household. Since she came to it months before, Sunday had always been
distinguished from other days. It was then that all talked and smiled,
and indulged at length in other pastimes that make home happy. And that
is why today was the saddest day they--Constance and her brother--felt
they had ever experienced. Neither could keep their gaze from wandering
to the empty chair, and down in the hearts of each was a constant cry,
though both surpressed it with a mighty effort: "Where is she today?"

It was Wilson who broke the silence. Was it perhaps the one woman who
had filled that empty chair only last Sunday, gay, cheerful, happy and
hopeful? Wilson Jacobs felt as though he should choke. Constance saw his
emotion 'ere he spoke, and experienced a choking sensation also. She
hadn't become reconciled to the absence, and all the week through, she
had been like one in a trance.

"Can we ever give Mildred up, Constance?" Constance did not reply. She
did not raise her head for fear he might happen to see her eyes. But
after a time, she could hold back the tears no longer. All at once they
came in a flood, and her whole being gave up to convulsive sobs.

"There, there, dear," he cried, rising and coming hurriedly around to
where she sat. Whereupon she became worse. He raised her to a standing
posture, and took her affectionately in his arms, but the weeping went
on unchecked. He held her and stroked her hair with his hand, but said
nothing. He could not, for he was too overcome himself. By and by, he
knew it would pass, and then they would speak of her in the terms they
had known her. She was a good girl.

"Oh, Wilson, I will never get over it--never, never, never!" Constance
moaned and gripped him convulsively. "Just think of it, too, and when we
were beginning to realize how much she was to both of us. And just think
how she acted about the Y.M.C.A.! Went to the bank and drew all the
money she had saved this summer, walking by day in the sun to sell the
book, and gave it, every dollar of it, to the cause of our people!" She
cried harder now than ever. He drew her closer, and as he did so, one
tear dropped from his eye upon her hair. She never felt it, and he would
not have had her know for anything. He was a strong man, and had ever
kept from tears.

"If we could only do something, only help a little," he said now, in a
constrained voice. "I would give the rest of my life to the cause of
that girl," he said, with words that spelled of fire. "Whatever this
lurking evil is that has driven her from the protection of those who
love her, _it was in that church last Sunday_!" He paused now, and while
he stood silent, his sister released herself, looking at him for a
moment sympathetically, and then sank again into the chair.

Their breakfast had been neglected, forgotten, and was growing cold.
"Come, Wilson," she called softly, and pointed to his plate. He heard
her and obeyed. They ate in absolute silence, automatically putting from
their minds the emotion that had possessed them.

And even as he ate the food, with the strength it required to force it
down, his mind played about the incident connected with her strange
leaving. He tried vainly to recall who was at the church that he did not
know. And it occurred to him that there were many. Yes. There were many;
then he remembered suddenly how cheered he had been, when he saw his
little church filled to its capacity. He recalled with a pang, that, as
he stood at the rostrum, Mildred had passed, and, upon seeing him, had
glanced at the congregation that had gathered, and then back at him and
smiled. He continued his meal, but he knew he could never forget that
smile.

Mildred Latham had wanted to help him. And when she saw his small church
filled with people that day, some there purposely, while others were
merely curious, she had, in that smile, shown how glad she was. It was
that unselfishness about her, which was evident in many little ways, and
which had finally won him.

And she had played and sung that day with all the strength of her body
and soul. She had struggled in every way she knew how, to help him in
his great effort. She had gone to the bank and drawn all she had saved
in the months he had known her, as further evidence of her regard for
this human welfare. She had acted, in doing so, at the most opportune
time. With such a sum from an unknown girl, others, during the week, had
surprised even themselves by subscribing sums that made the success of
his work seemed assured. And cash was given where it might not have been
otherwise. He knew his people a little. And when someone started the
ball rolling, by means of patience, fortitude, hard work and application
to the task, others can be found who will keep it going.

And why had Mildred Latham done this? Certainly she had not done so
because she was in love with him. She had never shown any affection for
him in that way. She had been interested in him, because she felt that
he was sincere in his effort to help his fellow men. And she had given
the sum to the proposed Y.M.C.A., because she was _interested in
humanity_, and that was her mite to prove it....

And on the heels of this, she had--almost in the same moment, been
driven from the place she had appreciated as home.... Who was this
beast, for positively he was a beast.... When he got to a man in the
case, he could never go further. For, think as he might, he could not,
in some way, connect her with a man. A man it might be; but he felt
positive she had no relation with anyone. And yet, what was it? Just
something, and after that, all was blank.

They had finished their meal now. And he rose and strolled out upon the
porch. He drew a cigar and, lighting it, started to smoke. It was a
beautiful morning, and one to make even the sorrowful happy. But Wilson
Jacobs was not happy. He gave up to the delight of the moment, and for a
time, he forgot the harrowing sorrows.

The trees that lined the street were heavy with foliage, and gave forth
the sound of many song birds; while a soft wind made the leaves rustle
ever so little.

Presently, a man came down the street. On he came until he was even with
the house, and then, for a brief spell, he paused at the gate. Until
then, he had apparently not observed the man sitting on the porch. He
glanced up and saw him. Then, with something akin to an air of guilt,
the stranger passed on, and, as he did so, Wilson gave a start. His
thoughts flew back over the past, with electric rapidity. Where had he
seen that man before? "Where, where, where?" His thoughts were fairly
alive. His lips grasped the cigar so tightly, that the lighted end fell
to the floor, for he had bitten it in two, in his excitement. He kicked
it from him with impatience, while he ransacked his brains in deep
thought. "Where, where, where?" he cried, now almost aloud. And, strange
as it seemed, in some way he connected this man with the disappearance
of Mildred Latham. He raised his hands to his head to steady the
thumping there, which by now had reached a state of violence. Just then
the sexton rang the bell of his church next door. The same broke forth
upon the clear morning air in stentorian tones, and floated beyond, and
then Wilson Jacobs sat up quickly, bolt upright.

"I have it! _I have it!_" he cried in a subdued voice, while his very
frame trembled. "It was at the meeting. That man came in late, I recall
it all now. He came in late and I saw him. He, I recall now, appeared to
have no interest in the service; but his eyes sought something, and then
I caught him looking at Mildred with a cunning expression!" Why had he
not thought of this before? It was all clear to him now, as he arose.

And then it occurred to him to follow. He tore into the house, and
seizing his hat, hurried out and through the yard, came into the street
and looked in the direction which he had seen the other take. No one was
in sight. He hesitated a moment, and then hurried forward in that
direction. He presently came abreast of a house where people sat upon
the porch. He halted a moment as they called out his name pleasantly,
bidding him good morning. He calmed himself, and after returning the
greeting, inquired quite casually whether a man had passed that way
recently, and he gave a description of him.

"No; but such a man as you describe came down as far as the corner back
there," one of them explained, "and turned in that direction," and he
pointed west.

"Thank you," he nodded calmly, and then retreated until he came to the
place the other had turned. He stood for a moment, apparently lost in
thought, while the people on the porch stared at him carelessly. A
moment later, he passed in the direction the other had taken.

But, while he had been advised that the other had gone in that
direction, no one was in sight, he now saw with sinking heart. He walked
for two blocks, making inquiries as he went, but no one had seen such a
man. He was downcast for a time. Presently, he returned to his home in a
disappointed mood. As he came by the church, the doors were open, and
his few members were filing scatteringly in. He hurried into his
clothes, and a few minutes later, stood before his congregation reading
the text.




CHAPTER THREE

"_Uh! 'es Got'im a Nigga!_"


When Mildred awakened, she found herself stretched upon a pew, with her
head in a woman's lap, while the pastor and many others whom she had met
a few minutes before, stood about with anxious expressions. Two ladies
were fanning her face vigorously. She awoke with a start, and recalled
quickly the moment she had fainted. She had never done so before, and
had often wondered how people must feel when they fainted. She knew now;
but that was not what she thought of, when it became clear to her. The
man was her chief concern. She sat up and looked about her quickly. If
she saw him, she felt that she must certainly lose consciousness again.

He was gone. With a sigh, she sank back into the arms of the woman for a
moment. The fanning was more vigorous now than ever. All was quiet about
her. She did not first understand it. Was it because they were afraid it
might disturb her; or was it--had they seen--and _understood_? She was
too weak just then to speculate about the situation; but she was
delighted to hear the pastor say, a moment later, stroking her forehead
kindly:

"You feel better now, Miss?"

She nodded, and felt now like crying. She understood facial expressions,
and they had not seen. She was so relieved--for the present, and did not
think then of the future. She had that to worry over later, and for this
moment at least, she was relieved. These good people hadn't suspected
the cause of her swoon. She sat up now, smiled with thanks upon those
about her, and wiped the cold perspiration from her forehead. Someone
held her hat, which they now handed to her. She placed it upon her head,
covering the mass of hair that many were looking at a moment before,
with natural admiration. Thanking them again in a kind and embarrassed
manner, she turned and left them, while they followed to the door, and
went their many ways.

When she got back to her room, she experienced a spell of nervousness
when she entered. She saw the black woman's face for a moment, and was
again relieved. The other had not been there, so she nodded coldly, and
entered her room. She closed the door, and, removing her apparel, got
into a kimono and threw herself upon the bed.

She had no thoughts for a time, but surrendered herself to idleness for
perhaps a half hour, and then her mind began to react. It took the form
of reminiscence. Sidney Wyeth came back into her memory, and for a long
time she lay thinking entirely of him.

It was he--and he never knew what had started her on this strange
journey. She now recalled--or tried to recall why. And then after a time
she knew. Yes. She loved Sidney Wyeth, and it was that which had made
the difference. But what kind of love was this that had no hope? And yet
did she not hope?

As she lay with the hot air floating in upon her, she gazed out into the
street, where a dozen or so little black boys played. She thought, with
her mind idly drifting, and she saw these boys as men, in her idle
fancy. They gathered presently in a circle, and when she watched them in
her half-conscious, half-waking manner for a few minutes, she saw they
were shooting craps. Think of it! These boys, ranging in years from
eight to twelve. And they were already engaged in that demoralizing
pastime. She trembled with sorrow as she watched the game proceed. Soon
she saw that an argument of some kind had come up. They became very
demonstrative, and while this was going on, suddenly, from a remote
direction, a blue-coated policeman appeared upon the scene. There was a
scramble and they flew in many directions. All escaped, with the
exception of one. He was a <DW36>, and as he tried to hobble away, the
burly cop swooped down upon him. He grasped him, without regard for his
infirmity, and disappeared up the street, dragging the <DW36> with him.

And that was a common occurrence in this city. Hundreds of young
men--boys--were started on a career of crime by premeditated arrests.
They were often placed in jail when they were so young, that it was a
tragedy. When they came out--for the courts could not bring themselves
to sentence below a certain age--they were then pointed at as having
"been in jail." And since they had the name, they often thereafter
diligently sought the game.

As the policeman passed up the street with the pitiful <DW36>, she
rushed to the window to look after him. A little boy stuck his head
through a broken fence, and she heard him say, as they went by: "Uh! 'es
got 'im a nigga!"

Mildred stretched herself upon the bed again; but her thoughts were now
of something else. The Y.M.C.A. and Wilson Jacobs. At this same hour
last Sunday, she had been with him in his effort--his great effort. And
the need of such an effort had just been demonstrated a few minutes
before, almost beneath her very eyes.

There was no place to go; no place, as a rule, where young men would go,
and this helped to make it so bad. Young men will play pool, some of
them, and they will seek some kind of diversion, other than the church.
Their natures call for these things, and she knew it. Since freedom, the
<DW64> has not been sufficiently practical to appreciate this point of
view. Plenty of churches are available, and services are held all day
Sunday. And it is easy, so easy, to say they ought to go--everybody
_ought_ to go. But _does_ everybody go? _Would_ everybody go? And the
most discouraging part of it is that _everybody does_ not go.

Some young men, if there were a clean place to go and indulge in the
pastimes that are a custom with many of them, would be glad to avail
themselves of the opportunity. Yes, they would be glad. And, by so
doing, they would perforce meet others, who were likewise seeking
amusement. Thus brought together, they would know and appreciate the
good in each other. And still further, when they would go their many
ways in life, they would naturally spread the gospel of good, or
whatever was worth while. Such was the natural tendency of environment.
She had just witnessed such an example, a mere incident in the city's
life. Those boys had not all known the game when they began to play. But
those who did know it, and had likewise learned it from somebody else,
had, of course, in turn taught it to these others, who would in turn
teach it still to others, and so on. Evil environment, bad influence.
She had seen these lurking evils in so many places in this city of the
south. And, as the months went by, they took heavy toll in startling
numbers among the black children.

The effort of Wilson Jacobs would not soon be appreciated. It would take
years for all these young men to see and know the real worth of such an
institution. But it was the duty of society, nevertheless (and what was
the church but the center of society), to put forward all its efforts
toward the evolution of its members.

Oh, some day Mildred Latham hoped she could do more. Apparently, for the
present, she had done her best. But, as to how she could continue doing
that which she loved better than anything else to do, helping others,
she could not now see clearly. She had no plans whatever for the future,
as she lay stretched across the bed this warm afternoon. She had no
thought of leaving the city, and still, she now knew that it was only a
question of time when she would hear from this man again. He had said
nothing, but she had read evil in his eyes. He _would_ strike sooner or
later, of that she was sure. But she was now resigned to the inevitable.
She decided to continue her work the next day, and to be brave. She was
away from those whom she would dislike to see embarrassed. Maybe he
might go about his business, if he had any, and let her alone. That was
all she asked. If he spoke to her again, and forced himself upon her,
she would ask him to do so. She would even beg him not to annoy her. And
in the next thought, she realized how useless this would be.

She was in the street now, and was walking along. This part of the city
stood upon a considerable hill, and some distance away ran the mighty
river. Its muddy water could be seen from where she stood. In that
moment, she wanted to be within its shining ripples. They led to the
mightier ocean, hundreds of miles below. Impulsively she now sought the
river, and decided to walk all the way. She had walked to it when she
had stayed with her dear friends--yes, very often. And then, as she
thought of them, a fear arose in her bosom, that she might possibly meet
them. That would never do, and she turned back. Oh, why could she not
meet them? How much would it have meant to her to feel herself in
Constance's arms; to feel those kisses upon her cheek, and to know that
someone loved her. Yes, to see Wilson, and appreciate his great
kindness. When these pleasant thoughts had spent themselves, she
realized they could never be anything more to her. No. She could go back
there, and they would take her in and ask no questions; they would be
good to her, and appreciate her desire to do good; but it would always
be different--now. No. Her life was before her--she must work out her
own destiny. Whither would it lead? She made no effort to answer this
question.

She thought now of Wyeth. She formed his name with her lips, and spoke
it aloud, and was made strangely happy and forgetful of that which
troubled her, when she heard it pronounced. She repeated it: "Sidney."
Oh, but to hear him call to her now as he did that day! The day they
danced, and she had heard him stifle the passion; she had seen his eyes,
and they had hypnotised her; and, in that moment of sweet insanity, she
had not resisted the kiss that she saw he would imprint. No. And she had
never been sorry. Somehow, that one moment had been her guiding star.
She would continue into the future, and thus it would always continue
so.

She arrived at the place--not home. She could never call this place
home; but where she had her room. She came around to the rear; she did
not know why. And then she was sorry too. Ranged about, without regard
as to how they sat, were men and women. Their faces were flushed, while
their smiles were amorous. She almost choked as she begged pardon, and
hurried around to the front. She had not gotten out of reach of their
voices, when she heard the men say: "Gee! Some kid! Who is she?"

"Aw, she's a little nicey, nicey girlie, that don't drink, nor smoke,
nor chew, nor--anything; but goes t' church on Sunday," the black woman
answered, and laughed a nasty laugh.

She was in her room and was glad she was shut away from the comment. To
forget it, she busied herself with the names of her subscribers, and
worked over the same until the sun had disappeared for the day, and
twilight was in the air. She lit a small lamp, drew down the shade, and,
taking up _The Tempest_, read until sleepiness drove her to bed.




CHAPTER FOUR

_"Please Go!" She Cried Hoarsely_


Weeks had passed, and Mildred Latham had not seen the man since that
Sunday at church. She had become an active worker in the big Baptist
church. She had no thought of becoming so, but, somehow, she couldn't
keep out of it. Such a great crowd of people attended it each Sunday!
But they are not the select class of people she had met at the
Presbyterian. They consisted of all classes, and from every walk in
life. Among them, she met many of her subscribers, and was pleased to be
remembered by them. They impressed her, all of them, as being good
people. In fact, she could never believe many of them bad. They were
simple and too free in their thoughts--when they had any. They impressed
her, at times, as so many children. Many of those who came to the church
regularly, did not, she observed, pay the least attention to the sermon.
For the most part, the large majority could not even have remembered the
text.

And yet they came every Sunday in great numbers, in droves even. Many of
them were very beautifully dressed. There were no kinky heads among
them, albeit, the original had been so. The most of the hair which was
theirs by birth was all straight, while the acquired portion was
beautifully matched.

But the point that reconciled her, was the fact that the pastor was a
good man, and a fit one. He preached always the sermon that spoke of
practical uplift. And this, she judged, after a time, was why he was not
liked by all, and why also, a great many made not the slightest effort
to listen to his sermons.

"Aw, Reverend Castle don't preach this religion lak I wants to hear it
preached," some complained.

"Um--m!" exploded others.

"They ain' no 'ligion no mo' '<DW41> the people; they is all out fo'
style!" still others said.

And thus it went. "Out for style," was, in a great measure, quite true;
but Reverend Castle's sermons could easily be understood, if those who
attended made any effort whatever to do so. But they did not, and
Mildred could never reconcile herself to this.

Back in Cincinnati, she recalled when she used to attend a certain
theatre. The only reason <DW52> people were allowed to purchase
admittance, was because they did not come in great numbers. There were
theaters where they were denied entrance, because they made such
disgusting disturbances. And it was only because they would come and
make no effort to understand the performance, unless it was something
below par, and something entirely comic.

In this city, she had attended a great motion picture drama. It was a
play built upon an incident in the history of the struggle for
Christianity--the effort to overthrow the power of Caesar. Above all, it
was a play for Christians, which these multitudes professed very loudly
to be. And yet the entire performance was disturbed by the gallery,
where only the _black_ people were allowed to sit. They were assigned
this portion, because so few understood or made any effort to understand
the play. These were some of the facts in the lives of her people, which
exposed the <DW64> to the contempt of the white race.

Wilson Jacobs and Reverend Castle were preachers of a new type, and
there were many other such ministers; but the masses continued to preach
in the old style, regardless of the fact that many had prepared
themselves to preach as these men did. The old type still continued to
work upon the emotional fibre of the congregation. And, likewise, in so
doing, others were disturbed who wished to be taught. But the sermons of
Reverends Jacobs and Castle were not disturbed by emotional
demonstrations. The people were, if the truth be known, inspired to
higher ideals and a more lofty conception of life. Christ was pictured
in such sermons, not as the moralist, but in the highest type of
perfection, as an incentive to noble conduct.

       *       *       *       *       *

Autumn finally came with its many varied tints, and the leaves were
falling. Jack Frost had placed his feathery designs for the third time
upon the window panes, and, in the meantime, the work for social
betterment went on apace.

The effort toward the securing of the  Y.M.C.A., as it was
referred to, had proceeded to the extent that it was on everybody's
lips. Wilson Jacobs had proved to be a secretary of unusual efficiency.

Mildred kept herself informed of it through the columns of the papers,
and was always delighted to see that subscriptions were being paid to an
encouraging degree; but she saw that, of the thirty-five thousand
dollars to be raised by the <DW52> people of the city, only six
thousand dollars had been paid in, after two months campaigning. This
was encouraging, nevertheless, for Grantville, with a much more
intelligent <DW64> population, had only secured two-thirds of this amount
at the end of six months. Yet twenty-nine thousand dollars were to be
paid in. This amount had been over subscribed, but, getting the money
was a different story. Would the black people of this town pay the
twenty-nine thousand dollars before, or by the first of the coming year?
For, on that day, the time limit of the Jew's contribution would expire;
also, that from other sources; but it was the money from the Jew
philanthropist, that figured most prominently. Frankly, when Mildred saw
it, she smothered her doubts as to their ability of obtaining the
desired amount.

Rallies for the purpose of raising money were given weekly, but
winter-time was approaching, and <DW52> people very often had little
set aside for such a purpose. Then, already work was shutting down, and
had shut down in many cases. Hard times had been felt for some time, but
were beginning to be felt more so. Men by the hundreds walked the
streets in search of employment, and found instead, trouble. Arresting
for vagrancy had been stopped by the order of the court. Many preferred
being locked up, for they complained it was so difficult to secure
bread, and even at times an impossibility; whereas, while locked up,
they could eat. And that meant much.

Churches were now begging for money to buy coal; the annual interest on
indebtedness was past due, and Reverend Castle did double work--the
Y.M.C.A. and his church.

And it was about this time, when one evening Mildred returned from her
work, and was informed by the black woman, that she had a caller. She
was surprised, and looked it. The black woman was too, and she likewise
looked it. Moreover, she made comment. Mildred had never had a caller
before.

"A gentleman," said the other, when the look of surprise spread over her
face. The other winked and continued: "Some guy, too. Yes, swell," and
laughed in a way which Mildred always disliked to hear.

"Who was he?" she presently inquired, thinking of someone with a growing
fear.

"Didn't leave no name; said you wouldn't know it nohow," whereupon her
black face took on a look that was tantalizing. Mildred ended it by
going to her room. She felt the call would be repeated. And then would
come the climax. She experienced a tired feeling. This being sought by
one whom she did not seek, was nerve-racking; but she steeled herself
for the ordeal. She hoped, since she now felt that he would call, that
he would come again that same evening, and she would have it over.

And he did.

She was about to retire, but not to sleep. For, as the time passed, her
nerve began to break under the strain of waiting, and she was fatigued.

"The gentleman has returned, Miss," announced the voice of the black
woman, as her fingers played upon the door. Mildred opened it forthwith,
and--yes, there he was. He pushed himself in without being asked, and,
being surprised at the intrusion, Mildred let go the knob, whereupon he
grasped it, and closed the door. He smiled at her now; a smile that
lurked, that boded no good; and she felt this, with a heaving of the
breast.

"Haven't seen you for some time. Why don't you bid me welcome?" he
leered. Her eyes stared at him coldly, but her bosom heaved,
nevertheless.

"Don't stare at me as if I were an iceberg," said the other, with his
smiles. "Just an old acquaintance from"--and he jerked his thumb in the
apparent direction of Cincinnati. He smiled a cruel, hard smile, as he
did this, dropped uninvited into a chair and lit a cigarette.

"Have one?" he invited, and then snickered. "You are real cute
now-a-days, I observe," he tortured. "Quite a church lady, ha, ha!" And
he gave up to his mirth for a few seconds. "Quite cute with the
preachers. Wilson Jacobs is 'bugy' 'bout you. Awful bad for you t' get
up and steal away so mysteriously." He looked at her now with ill
concealed glee, and then continued: "I didn't know you'd 'beat' it until
the next Sunday; when I passed I didn't see you sitting on the porch
with him; but, instead, he sat there alone, looking like the devil
before dawn. About the time I saw him, he saw me, and looked at me as if
he had caught me trying to break in his house, or something, so I lit
out. I 'hunched' you'd fled d' coup then, 'n' as I was 'beating' it down
the street in no slow gate, I see's a drayman a-greasin' his old hack. I
had a premonition this guy, the way he regarded me, was likely to
follow. So I just slips into this old crow's nest, and gets behind
some-a-his junk, and gets int' conversation with him, and, sure enough,
it wasn't three minutes before this 'preacher' comes walking by
a-lookin' right and left for me. I laffed in my sleeve, and continued
talking with the old skate. A bent key encountered my hand on the
ground, 'n' I raised it up. The old buzzard spied it, and cried: 'That's
a gal's key that come down heah t' have me move her in a hurry las'
Sunday. I oughtta sent it to'r, but 'lows I ain' got the time.' Just lak
a flash, I get's wise, so I says t' 'im: 'Was she the girl that stayed
up at Jacobs'? If so, I'll carry it to her, since she's a'friend
a-mine's.' 'By gad,' he coughs, ''n' I'm the one that'll let y' too,'
and looked grateful. 'Where did she move to?' I inquired like I didn't
care, and then added: 'Y' see, I know the place by sight, but I can't
find it 's I'm turned around down here a little.' He puts me next, and I
beats it up to where youse 's roostin' 'n' I comes up, I see this ole
black hen a-workin' away with the house all open, 'n' nobody about, I
dopes at once that you, sweet little girlie, is off some'eres to church.

"You know the rest," and rising now, he came toward her. "You ought t'
be willin' t' give me a kiss now, honey, for showing how hard I'm
willin' to hustle for a sight a them eyes." He advanced to where she
stood. He smiled as he came, while she recoiled from the sight of him,
and retreated. That appeared to please him, and he began a merry chase,
dodging behind chairs and jumping up and down playfully. "Wants t'
tease, eh? That's a way with you little women, yu lak t' tease! Ah!
That's what makes us lak yu'. 'N', kid, I sho' does lak you. You are a
pretty little wench--I mean little gal," he corrected, continuing his
chase.

"Please go!" she cried hoarsely. "I don't know you. I don't want to know
you. Why do you torment me!" He only smiled now, and looked grim and
determined, as he at last cornered her. Between them was a chair. She
got behind it, and grasped the back of it. He halted on the other side,
and showed his teeth for a full minute, before he said a word, or a word
was spoken.

"Did you hear me! Why don't you go! If you were a gentleman, you'd go!"
His eyes narrowed to mere slits, and then he suddenly opened them wide.

"Just a kiss, dearie, why all this argument. Sometimes it goes so far
that it spoils all the sweetness. Just allow me to turn this chair until
I can be seated, and then I will draw you down, nicey, upon my knee, and
everything is O.K.--see!" He now grasped the chair, which, despite her
efforts to hold it as it was, he twisted slowly from her grasp. The next
minute he had succeeded, and nothing was between them. He made one step
in her direction, whereupon she recoiled in fright. He caught her wrist
with his right, and then with the left, he proceeded to encircle her
waist. The next moment, she felt his hot breath in her face, and then,
with her free hand, she struck him a resounding smack full on his cheek,
with all her strength. He released her so quickly, that he staggered
backward blindly for a moment. The next he had recovered, while his face
was  with the blood she had brought to it. His eyes were narrower
now than ever, while his voice, as he spoke, came in gasps.

"Why, you little wench! You little imp! You little fourflusher! You
little ---- strike me, when I have kept my head closed all this time,
while you sailed about here with these big <DW65>s, the nicest little
nicey. Ha! _Nice_--_Hell!_ How long do you figure these church people
would kite you about, if I told them _what you were back in Cinci'_!"

She flew to the door now, and jerked it wide. A bundle of meat with
clothes on, fell in with a scream. It was the black woman, and she had
heard all.




CHAPTER FIVE

_The Time Limit_


"What is the total, Constance?" her brother inquired wearily, as his
sister poured over a long list of figures on a balance sheet before her.

"In a minute," she said and continued her figuring. Presently, with a
sigh she straightened up, and handed him a sheet, showing a list of
names, at the right of which was registered various amounts.

"Seven thousand six hundred fifty-nine dollars and fifteen cents," he
repeated, half aloud. He looked at his sister, and saw in her tired
eyes, failure staring them in the face. Unless something extraordinary
occurred, the chances of securing a Y.M.C.A. for the  youth of
the city was doomed to failure. He laid the sheet down, and picked up
another piece of paper--a letter. He had read it several times, but now
he read it again. He didn't want to believe what was written upon it,
and signed by the Jew philanthrophist. But it was before him in plain,
typewritten words, and was to this effect:


     _Mr. Wilson Jacobs_,
       _Secretary Y.M.C.A._

     MY DEAR SIR: Receipt of your letter of December 1, is here
     acknowledged. I note carefully what you say in regard to your
     efforts in relation to the securing of funds for the Y.M.C.A. for
     the  youth of your city.

     You are of course aware that my offer, made five years ago, in
     which I agreed to give the sum of $25,000 to any city, where an
     additional sum of $75,000 was forthcoming from other sources. The
     time I made that offer was five years ago January of the coming
     year. Therefore, the time will expire at twelve, December 31, this
     month.

     With regard to extending the time limit on these gifts, I regret to
     say that I have made no such provision. Moreover, with the present
     condition of the financial outlook, I cannot see my way clear to
     do so. However, all cities that report favorably up to that date, I
     will fulfill my agreement.

     Regretting that I cannot write you more favorably, but hoping it
     will be possible for you to comply with my offer, I beg to remain,

     Very truly, J. ROSENTHAL.

He laid the letter aside. He had known before he wrote, what to expect,
for announcements had come from Grantville, that the philanthropist
would not extend the time on his gifts for this purpose. Hard times had
spread over the country, until not enough was being collected to
maintain the cost of the office and advertising, notwithstanding the
fact that they secured it at the smallest possible rate. Both were
compelled to acknowledge now that a failure seemed imminent. To secure
the gift of the Jew, it was necessary for them to raise still more than
twenty-seven thousand dollars.

Could he raise such a sum in view of prevailing circumstances?

"Have you received a decision from the railroad president, who
personally contributed five hundred dollars, Wilson?" Constance now
inquired.

"The hoped for appropriations for such purposes have been deferred
indefinitely," he replied. "So there is no hope now, only from the local
interests, and they, I fear, are hopeless."

"And you see no place where such a sum might be raised--in so short a
time?" she asked again, a trifle nervous.

"Only to go north, and try to enlist the sympathy of other philanthropic
persons."

"And--will--you go?" She looked at him now, anxiously.

"Yes, I will go," he returned.

"May God be with us!" she sighed, and picked up the afternoon paper. She
glanced over it, and saw the usual accounts relating to the shutting
down of various industrial concerns, and, as she looked further, there
were the same accounts regarding the <DW52> people. The business of
fighting and stealing and getting drunk went on more actively than
usual, if such were possible. She laid it aside presently, and picked up
her subscription list. She was still selling the book, and had a great
many sales for the holiday trade.

When she paid the charges on a consignment of books a few minutes later,
and unwrapped them, she thought of her dear friend who had brought her
attention to the work. How much she would have liked to see her, she did
not conjecture; but she was glad now she had taken up the work. The
returns from the sale of it, had meant a great deal to the home in the
past months. Wilson, who usually made some money otherwise than what he
received from the church, which was small, had been unable to look after
or give his time to anything but the work of the Y.M.C.A. Therefore, the
money from the sale of the book had come in at an opportune time.

As for Mildred, the earth seemed to have swallowed her, insofar as they
had been able to ascertain. Wilson had worried to a point where he now
looked ten years older than he had six months before. Grantville had
given up in despair. Five thousand dollars was all they had been able to
raise, and, therefore, realized how useless it was to continue the
effort, which had subsequently come to an end. She believed in her
brother; she was confident he could raise the amount necessary, if he
had the time. If the gift from the Jew could have been possible a year
hence, she was confident he could raise the balance; but, with less than
four weeks, it seemed hopeless.

And yet, "as long as there is life there is hope!" He would go north the
coming Monday--this was Friday--and she hoped he would be successful.
Until he returned, she would not despair. She made preparations for his
departure, by packing his steamer trunk, washed his handkerchiefs,
purchased many little necessities from her own purse, and placed them
along with the rest of his belongings.

"Will you go to New York or Chicago?" she inquired as they sat at
dinner.

"I suppose the chances are better beyond New York. I shall, of course,
go directly to New York, but from there I will go into New England. I
have credentials from several well known white people, as well as
letters from the secretary of the white Y.M.C.A. here, and at Effingham
and Attalia, so I think that part is quite sufficiently looked after."

When Reverend Wilson Jacobs had dined, he felt like walking, and,
drawing on a light overcoat and cap, he strolled out into the chill
December night. The air was still, and the stars gleamed brightly, as he
strolled down the street in the direction of the river. When he had gone
three blocks, he decided to walk to the river, and look out upon its
water for a spell. So, increasing his speed, he walked briskly in that
direction.

To reach the river by the street he was following, it was necessary to
pass through a district of the town that had not the best reputation. It
was a part of the town, inhabited in former days by denizens of the
underworld, and was interspersed with many halls and buildings that had
been built for such purposes. Since liquor had been voted out of the
state, and the city likewise, while the women had also been forced to
scatter, due to the enforcement of the law relative to their profession,
the neighborhood had been given over largely to bootlegging. Places
operating under the guise of soft-drink shops, sold liquor as freely as
the saloons had, when they operated in the same places a year ago. And,
in this district, holdups and other cases of outlawry were a common
occurrence.

He had arrived, and was passing leisurely through this part of the town,
when, ahead of him, a figure crossed the street, and entered one of the
dives. Something about the swing of the arms, made him recall that he
had seen that person before. He thought it over, as he approached the
place the other had entered. He had not reached it, when the other
emerged, and made his way up the street ahead of him, only a few yards.
He studied the character, and when he turned into another place a few
doors up, he recalled where he had seen him. It was the man who had
paused before his gate months before, and whom he had started to follow,
but who had eluded him. He saw no reason for paying him further
attention now, and passed on to the river.

He returned by the same street, and as he came abreast of an open door,
he overheard voices and caught a glimpse of the man again. He halted,
and leaned beside the door in the shade of the building a moment, out of
sheer curiosity. The voices came to his ears plainly, as he stood there.

"I have reason to believe she has money," said one, whom he surmised was
that of the man he had seen.

"If she has, you have spoiled your chances of getting hold of any of
it."

"How do you figure that out?" said the other gruffly.

"Well, what you should have done was to have communicated with her while
she was stopping up here with that preacher and his sister, and made her
come across to keep you from putting them next. Now, 's I figure it out,
you blows in on her with your recognition game, and frightens her out of
her wits, and she flies the coup. And then, to make matters worse, you
trail her across town to where she 'beats' it, and, instead of using a
little diplomacy, you blow in on her and frighten her away from there.
You played a deuce of a game, you did." The tone was impatient, and,
from the way the other shifted, it was quite obvious that he was not
playing a clever one either.

"Well, she was such a good looking little wench that, to be truthful, I
lost my head over her," the other laughed a low, hard laugh, as he said
this.

"Lost your head, hump!" growled another. "I can't get into my nut, how
you blame nigga's get in your ugly knots, that a gal that's got the
sense you say this gal has, is going to fall to a cheap nigga like
yourself." The voice showed that the speaker was plainly disgusted.

"Aw, old shine, I've had some a's good looking a gals as her on my
string, don't fool yourself 'bout that," the first speaker retorted.

"How much sense did they have in their nuts? None! If they had, they'd a
never fooled with you."

"Well, I'm still trailing her. I ain' give up yet. I'm determined I'll
bring her to time, or I'll know the reason why," the other declared,
determinedly.

"Don't the ole cat down where she was roosting, know where she has
gone?" inquired the other now.

"Don't know a thing. Swears that she don't, and I b'lieve her. She's a
little sore 'cause I blew in and scared her away. Funny, too, 'cause
that old woman's so crooked she cain' lay straight in bed. And, say, you
know Lizzie, the good looking black gal that comes over to <DW55>'s place,
and licks up so much booze?"

"Who, Slender Liz? Sure! Why?"

"That's her ma."

"The dickens!"

"Sure is!"

"That beats the devil. I know her; but I didn't know until this minute
that Liz was her brat. And you mean to say this little gal what you lost
your head about and chased away, was stopping with the old woman?"

"That was where she slapped me blind at."

"Well, I'll be darned. I shouldn't have thought she'd have stayed around
her very long, when she got next to what was going on."

"Well, the little wench was so frightened when she left this preacher up
here, that she didn't know where she was going, and she got into the
place hurriedly, and then after she had got tied up there, she seemed to
have decided to stick it out until she could do better. Then, besides,
the old woman told me that she don't think the gal knew she sold liquor,
and ran a crap game every Saturday night. Her room was so located that
the gamesters came and went without going near her room. Then, the gal
kept herself shut in like a prisoner, when she was around, besides."

"I wish you hadn't spoiled this deal. I believe we could have dug enough
dough out of her to stake us into a game, when we're settin' 'roun'
broke like we are now."

"I'll get her, just be patient. I don't believe she's left town; but I
can't pull the old woman for any more information. Besides, she ain' got
over me frightening her away, 'cause she said the gal was sure a fine
roomer, and that she is sorry now that I found her at all. These old
crooks can be won over when you come clean at that."

"Bet your life they can. And when you get the friendship of one like
that, they'd go through fire for you."

There was a shuffling about now, as if someone was coming toward the
door. Wilson hurried away, and walked rapidly in the direction of home.




CHAPTER SIX

_The Black Cavalry's Charge--"Onward Boys!"_


"Mildred, my Mildred, where are you, dear heart?" said Wilson Jacobs, as
he hurried in the direction of his home, after he had overheard the
words of the two men. He was in a turmoil of excitement. He had reached
no decision as to what he would do, that is, as to how he would find
her; but he was determined that he would search the city to the very
doors, until he found and brought back that girl to his home.

"She is being persecuted, being hounded out of her life, as she has been
out of the place she called her home--and by those brutes." And he
trembled with anger, as he thought of the dastardly creatures who were
pursuing her.

"I could corner that brute and make him confess what is behind this
mystery; but then I have overheard him admit that she has eluded him;
therefore, that would be useless. Until he ascertains her whereabouts,
it would be foolish even to whip the cur for his villainy." One thing he
decided on 'ere he had gone far in his reflections, and that was to keep
it from his sister. It would only serve to upset her more, and she was
worried enough already.

"My poor, dear little girl; my brave little girl; and you must bear this
burden and sorrow all alone," he murmured in a strained voice, as he
approached his abode. "Somewhere in this city she is in fear tonight, in
fear of these dark creatures. I would give half my life to find her this
very night. Oh, that I had some clue! She would not have me find her,
but that is a matter that I would waive aside. Her happiness, even her
very life, is in danger. And, whatever this evil may be, I will never
believe, even from her own lips, that Mildred Latham is guilty of any
act that would not become a lady. Somewhere in the past, she has, in
some way, become involved, and this, in some manner, is the occasion of
the mystery; but I have faith in her above all others." And so, with
this thought, he entered the house and his room, where he walked for
hours trying to form some plan of action.

"I will find her. I _must_ find her," he declared, with compressed lips,
time and again; but, as to how, no way seemed clear. "I must leave
Monday on the mission, and I must try to find her before then. I don't
care what it is--has been, and might be in the future--I love you,
Mildred, I love you--nothing else matters. I have faith in you; I
believe in you above all others; with your presence, under my
protection, I feel I could do the things you had faith I could do!" He
almost raved at times, during the still hours that followed.

All the kind words she had said to him in the months gone by, came back
to him as he trod the floor--thinking, thinking, thinking. "You will
succeed; you will become, 'ere long, a leader of men," she had said
once. "For it is you, courageous, with the strength of your convictions,
this race needs; and it is you they will eventually find."

She had said this with all the fervor of her soul. And he had listened;
he had hoped, and then he had worked. Yes, Wilson Jacobs had worked hard
to raise those few thousands, that would revert back to the donors in
four weeks, if a preponderous sum was not raised by midnight of December
thirty-first. December thirty-first, midnight? God, how that sounded in
his ears now. The fateful night! One minute after that hour, sixty-seven
thousand dollars, waiting from other sources than the black people of
this town, would be no longer available. Seventy-three thousand dollars
for the future moral welfare of thousands of young men of this race
would no longer be available, unless he, Wilson Jacobs, could raise
twenty-seven thousand dollars in a day over three weeks.

That was his burden.

If he, Wilson Jacobs, could raise such an amount, innumerable black
children yearly, and until the end of time, oh, how long.... _Until the
end of time_, would be saved and have their chance, their great chance,
to become _men_! How much they needed it, these black youth! Only to see
any daily, _every_ daily paper, would answer this! And how much would
they appreciate it? Yes, how much would they appreciate it?... And yet,
what did that matter?... Yes, there were plenty who would say off-hand,
"They would not know how to appreciate it; they are incapable of
appreciating it." ... But that was from those who did not think
deeply--and, yes, the majority, by far, of this race to which he
belonged, did not think deeply. But Wilson Jacobs did. He had made it a
part of his young life to think deeply, and in the interest of those who
needed him.

And _now_ they needed him. Oh, _how_ much they needed him, and how
_much_ strength he needed to raise twenty-seven thousand dollars before
midnight of December thirty-first!

"Black people _do_ appreciate that which is for their good; but, _be
merciful, dear God_, they know it not. But they _will_, and when they
_do_ come to know it, how _much_ life, how _much_ feeling and enthusiasm
they will exert! _And may we not say the same of all of us!_"

He had been a very young man when his country--yes, _his_
country--regardless of the fact that many of this race now said, with
pent up anger, "This is not _our_ country, it's the _white man's_
country." How much bitterness they put into the words, he could not soon
forget; but this _was his_ country, and he proclaimed it as such, and
had enlisted and gone away to that little island to the southeast.

He was with that cavalry; that cavalry of black men. And when thousands
of aimless bullets poured upon America's greatest cavalry (commanded by
the greatest American citizen since one immortal one, who met his death
cruelly, but for _this_ country), and tumbled them from the saddles like
so many playthings, he would never forget that battle cry, "Onward
boys!" And from another direction, they came, _black men_. Up a hill
that was forbidding in the abruptness of its ascent, they went. Under
the heavy fire of the enemy, they did not flinch.

What they did on that memorable day in our modern history, the world
knows. And if a part of our citizens _did_ not appreciate it at this
date, one did. And he proved it in after-years. So, when he heard these
poor men of his race now bemoan their fate, crying "This is a white
man's country. We have none!" he sighed, and felt pity in his heart for
them.

After the war, he had gone to Arizona, and spent one summer there at a
ranch during his vacation. And this ranch was among the Navajo's. Dull,
listless, inert creatures they were. They did nothing to make this
country a better place in which to live, and they had _never_ done so,
nor were they ever likely to. But, in spite of that, they are the
primitive inhabitants and heroes; but not in the best sense, could
anyone live among those people three months and conscientiously regard
them as _men_. And yet they were given every consideration, while black
men were thrust aside. And this was after three hundred years, out of
which two hundred and fifty were spent in developing that which is
called Dixie.

And, in spite of these conditions, Wilson Jacobs was the most optimistic
of all men. He conscientiously believed that this was a black man's as
well as a white man's country. Yes, he heard those others say: "This is
a white man's country!" and they said it very loudly; but these same men
were the scions of those who had tried, at the price of all their wealth
and blood, to divide it. He never let his memory dwell upon this. Other
black men did, though. So much so, that they made themselves unfit for
this new generation. What has been done, he always considered could
never be undone. If prejudice against his people was the custom here,
prejudice against the Jew elsewhere, was usual also. "But it isn't
right!" they would deplore. And, of course, he could only agree that it
wasn't. To hate thy brother, is contrary to the laws of Christianity,
under which we live.... But the prejudice remained after all that could
be said. "It's growing worse!" they cried. "Yes, it appears to grow
worse," he also agreed. "Then, what have you to say?" And he answered:
"Nothing!" And then asked: "And you?" "Nothing!" "Then, what are we to
do? Become examples of dull inertia by grieving over it, or shall we
struggle to become _men_, and through the strength of our mind and
bodies, make this a better place in which to live, if only for
ourselves? For live, we must. Not since the beginning of the world have
ten million souls sunk into oblivion." The pessimist always departed at
this point.

After all, Jacobs felt sorry and pitied both--the ones who bemoaned
their fate, and those who boasted. Both were in error. For, regardless
of what was said, he loved America, his home and "_a man's country_"!

So, when college had given Wilson Jacobs his degree, he drifted about
for a year among his people. He had never thought of the ministry as a
vocation. And it was only when he had seen his people as they were--not
altogether as they _ought_ to be, did he appreciate the fact that he
might be able to help them. He had learned while at school, but more in
actual life, that Jesus lived and died as a moral example. But his
people saw only the individual.

So back to school he had gone, where he studied five long years, to fit
himself for his present calling. His success was yet to come. Mildred
Latham had said _it would come_. "Oh, Mildred! For you I would go
through eternity," he declared feverishly. But only the silent walls
answered him.

After many hours, he retired. The sun was shining, although it was
December, when he heard Constance calling him to breakfast. How much he
would have liked to have said: "Constance, Mildred is somewhere in this
town, our Mildred! She is being persecuted, Constance, our Mildred is
being persecuted--being hounded out of the sweet life we know she lived,
and inspired in those about her!" And he knew that Constance would say:
"Go forth, my brother, and find her; bring her back into our home, that
we may love her and make her our sister, for it is as such she was, and
more, these many months." That was the spirit of the Jacobs. But he kept
his peace, and ate in silence.

Monday came, a cold, dreary day. Snow fell all over the country, and
Dixie land, far south, was white mantled. Wilson Jacobs went to the
depot, for he was leaving on a great mission. Would he succeed? He hoped
so; others hoped so; and Constance hoped so, as well as Mildred Latham.

But he never knew.




CHAPTER SEVEN

"_Please Stop--and Save Me!_"


"Breakfast is ready, my dear," said Mother Jane, for as such she was
known and called by all who knew her. She was speaking to Mildred
Latham.

A moment later, Mildred came out of her room and seated herself at the
table, at the head of which sat an old gray-headed man, and at the foot
sat Mother Jane, whose head was white also.

"And did you rest well, my dear?" inquired Mother Jane of Mildred,
bestowing upon her a smile full of kindness and tenderness.

"I slept beautifully," Mildred replied as kindly, and beamed upon the
old soul with all the consideration--maybe more--of her own child.

"And you sell a book?" inquired the elder woman, after a moment.

"Yes, ma'am, I sell a book. A book by a young  author."

"By a young  author? I do declare!" exclaimed the other, with
enthusiasm. "It is delightful when I know we have young men who are
doing something else besides making convicts." Mother Jane was known for
her wit.

"What is the text of this story?" she inquired later.

Mildred told her.

"Delightful, to say the least." The elder woman had secured some
learning in her childhood, and had studied by consistent reading, until
she was well informed, and used the most perfect English. "Went out into
the great west. To the _Rosebud Country_. Well, well. I read all about
that country when it was opened to settlers some years ago. I wanted my
son to go; but--he went elsewhere," and she paused to swallow, while a
tear shone in her old eyes. Mildred spoke of other things. The other
didn't say, but quick intuition told her that son had gone to the chain
gang.

She had found this place two days after the visit that was paid her by
the unwelcome guest. It was far removed from the black woman, and she
was glad of it. And yet, when she was taking her leave, that apparently
evil creature had shed tears and begged her to stay, saying that she
would not be molested further. Mildred felt a human pity for her, but
she knew she could not have stayed on. The longer she lived, the more
she was learning that secrets are not good things to share with others,
or for others to be in possession of, regardless of their good will
thereto. She now knew that the only way she would have people to know
these things, people she might chance to live with, would be to tell
them before she moved into the house. To have them find out afterwards,
and from others, would be, she felt, an infringement upon their
kindness. As for the man who had, with his persistency, driven her from
two places, she hoped he would not succeed in finding her in the
present.

The following day, she went about her work with heavy heart. She felt
she must continue in the work as long as she was in the city; and
besides, she had accumulated many orders for the holiday trade, and
could, with her efforts, secure many others. But it was not this alone
that held her in this city, it was something else.

She was following the effort of Wilson Jacobs to secure the Y.M.C.A.
Each week, she carefully noted the details in regard to the same, and
had fearfully observed that it might fail. She was aware of the time
limit, and she was worried over the lack of the twenty-seven thousand
dollars. "How can he raise such a large sum in so short a time?" she
asked herself many times each day. And yet she still hoped he would,
even when less than four weeks were left in which to do so.

She had managed, by dint of economy and hard work, to accumulate almost
two hundred dollars since she left them, and this she would give at the
right moment, when she saw there was any possible chance of his
succeeding. She would have to send it anonymously; but desire for his
success was her gravest concern.

Sunday came, and she stayed at home for the first time since she came to
the city. The sound of the bells made her feel terribly sad and lonely.
To have heard Wilson Jacobs, or Reverend Castle, would have been a
privilege of which she would have been thankful to have availed herself,
but fear kept her confined to her room all that day. She felt positive
that he would visit all the churches in search of her that day, and
other Sundays. So, with this pleasure denied her, she felt more lonely
now than she had ever felt before, since coming to the city.

She purchased a book, a new novel, the evening before; so in this she
concentrated her mind all that day. It was an unusual story, which made
it more interesting. It seemed that, in England, where the plot lay, a
postmaster was likely to be removed through subtle influences. To save
the position for him, because of her love, his wife, who was all to him,
made a sublime sacrifice. It came to his attention, and in doing so, the
fact of her past was also revealed. It was a terrible book, to say the
least, but between the lines was a moral that the reader was compelled
to appreciate. In the end, the man was redeemed to her through the
church--the Baptist church.

Two weeks passed without event. Her work went along nicely, and she
succeeded in delivering to almost all of her holiday customers. It was
about this time that she became deeply concerned with regard to the
possibility of securing the Y.M.C.A. Wilson Jacobs had not returned, nor
had any word come from him, so far as the public knew, as to whether he
had met with success. But Mildred entertained grave doubts regarding the
matter. If he were succeeding, it was her opinion, that some word would
be wired that cheer might fill the hearts of the anxious ones waiting.
She wished she could go to Constance, and comfort her during these
anxious days. That desire became so uppermost in her mind and heart,
that it was with difficulty she kept herself from rushing madly to the
house, and throwing herself to the other's feet. She felt strangely
guilty. She had convicted herself in their eyes, by fleeing. It couldn't
be changed now. No, she could not go to Constance, as much as she wanted
to. And, as she looked into it deeper, she came to realize that she
could never go to Constance again.... That was the hardest part of it.
Never to go to her again. Oh, the anguish it gave her when this was
regarded as a reality.

"Constance," she prayed on her knees that night. "Constance, will you,
can you forgive me; can you forgive Mildred? She loved you and your
brother, and it was because she was weak; because she felt that she
could never have stood to see both of you know--felt me otherwise than
as you knew me. Oh, I have suffered, Constance; I have died a living
death. Daily I long for you; I pray in the only way I know how that he,
your brother, whom I know to be so strong, and noble and good, may
succeed in this great effort; this effort which these others so much
need. Some day, oh, Lord, may it come to pass--though my mind cannot now
see it, I hope to feel that love again."

And then it came to pass, the next day she met the other upon the
streets, He smiled upon her through his ugly teeth, and in soothing
words, offered greeting. She passed him by, but knew, without looking
back, that he followed. She had completed her work for that day. Many
copies of _his_ book she had placed in other hands, and that night many
eyes would begin an acquaintance with those years in the west. And now,
at her heels followed her vendetta. He would follow her to Mother
Jane's? And then she trembled. She could never allow Mother Jane to even
think she was any other but "her dear daughter." For it was such Mother
Jane now called her. Anywhere now--but there.

She increased her steps, made them faster in a direction that led
to--she knew not where, nor cared; but anywhere but to Mother Jane's.
Supper would be awaiting her there at six-thirty, as it had waited for
her every day these past weeks; but Mother Jane would be disappointed
this evening. Mildred Latham would not see Mother Jane at that hour
today, and maybe she, Mother Jane, might never see "her daughter"
again....

On she went. Before her, over a hill, came a car. She could not catch
that one, but others would come that way soon. Maybe by the time she
arrived beside the tracks, another might meet her. She hurried. She
never looked back. She was too frightened. But intuition told her that
he followed. She wished she knew how far he was in the rear. Maybe if
the car came before he arrived, she could elude him. Oh, if it would!
She was trotting now. She was so near the tracks at this time, that they
glistened like steel rays in the distance. From a direction, which was
not the way the other car had come, she heard another car. It was
approaching, and now it flashed into sight.

The sun had disappeared long ago, and the stars stood out like a million
diamonds in the skies above. The evening air was chill, and she
rushed--she was running now--past the houses. The car was almost at the
crossing. Would she make it? She cried out and waved her hand
frantically. It was going to pass her, although she had arrived at the
crossing, and regarded it with eyes that were frantic--wild! "Please
stop, Mr. Motorman!" she cried piteously.

"Please stop--and save me." It tore by her, the front end. In the rear,
she heard the crunch of feet upon the gravel street. She saw the side of
the car. It dazzled her. She was lost. She could almost feel the
presence of the other. One terrible moment she swayed, and the next, the
rear end of the car was before her. Welcome did the inside seem. She
_must_ catch that car, she felt--_or die_. A brass rail touched her
hand. Like electricity, it closed over it. She was raised and then felt
her body speeding through space. A cry from the inside and a "ting,"
then a shutting of brakes, and the car came to a stop.

"My God," the conductor was saying, "why did she grab that rail? This is
the only line left with cars with the open entry. None of the others
can be caught without the consent of the conductor." She looked about
her. She sat in the rear of the car that was now speeding into the
business section. About her were many anxious faces.

"Why, oh, why," their eyes and lips spoke, as soon as they saw her, "did
you take that terrible risk?" But she did not see their eyes, or hear
their words--for her eyes were looking for another. He was not there.

And they never knew.




CHAPTER EIGHT

_What Her Eyes Saw_


"Our daughter is late tonight, Gabriel," said Mother Jane, coming from
the door, where she had been many times. "It is now almost seven, and
she has not yet arrived. I am uneasy. But I will be patient. Maybe she
had to wait on some of her customers. It is so near the holidays, that
some may have been downtown buying presents for their friends, and she
is compelled to wait. Of course, she has never been late before, which
doesn't mean that she might not be late today--but, oh well, I'll wait."

Gabriel, her old husband, played with his fork and said nothing. He
never said anything. He had not said anything since '65. The rebels at
Fort Pillar stopped him from saying anything further, for since then he
had been speechless.

"We will have a big Christmas this year, Gabriel," said she. "Mildred's
being with us will make a difference." She was silent now, listening to
the fire that cracked in the grate. Presently her eyes sought a place at
the table. It was the place Mildred occupied, but she was thinking of
another. This other had been all to her, for he was her son. Tears came
to her eyes now, as she thought of the years gone by, and the times she
had fixed that place for him. Yes, she had fixed the plate there for him
a thousand times. But he did not--had not eaten from it for many a meal
now. No, he ate _elsewhere_. As she looked at the place today, strangely
she felt he would never eat there again. And he was her only child. If
he failed to carry the name beyond his present circumstances, then the
name of Gabriel Ware ended with her mute husband, who sat waiting
patiently.

"It will be so nice, Gabriel, to have her with us this Christmas. And
she stays right at home and reads to us both every night. She is a sweet
child, is Mildred. She has been our own daughter since she came here. It
has been a treat for me, because I love so much to read; while you have
liked since '65 to hear me; but my old eyes cannot follow the lines with
the accuracy they used to. No, the lines run together so often now, and
when they become clear again, it is so hard and tiresome to find the
place. But since she came, with her young eyes, her cheerful smiles, her
endless patience with old people, who at the best are hard to get along
with, I appreciate that things have been so different."

Gabriel nodded. They lived easily, these two. This may be a "white man's
country," but our "Uncle" took care of Gabriel and Mother Jane
comfortably. These many years, he gave to them many dollars at the end
of every quarter, and he had increased this, until now Gabriel received
ninety dollars four times a year.

A step sounded upon the porch. "There she is, God bless her," said
Mother Jane, and flew to the door, opening it wide, and then, alas! No
Mildred stood on the threshold--but a man.

His teeth shown, and his hat in hand, he stood with a bow, and inquired
if Miss Mildred Latham was within.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the main street of the town, where all cars find their way, Mildred
alighted, and, crossing the street, she waited for the car that would
take her to the suburbs which was near where Mother Jane lived.

When Gabriel and she had built and settled, it was far from the town,
and they had not dreamed, that some day before they died, that their ten
acres would be surrounded. But the city grew, and they had sold the ten
acres long since, in lots for big prices. They had money, she now knew,
a part of which they had received for the lots, and they owned other
houses. But a part of what they had was gone. It had been invested in a
shoe store, incorporated and conducted by <DW52> people. They knew not
how <DW52> people act in such capacity, so, in due time, they failed;
therefore, going the way of thousands of such attempts in Dixie. For,
you see, these black people had not known how to conduct such a
business. They only knew how to wear shoes, when they were fitted by the
other race.

"Now for home," Mildred sighed, as she settled back and listened to the
hum of the car, as it sped on its way. "Oh, how glad I am that I eluded
him," she breathed happily. "I'll be late, which I dislike; but it's
better late than never. Blessed old dears," she added, impulsively. And
then fell to planning for the Christmas day. It was so near now, that
she would have to hurry in her few plans. Months ago, she had hoped she
was going to spend a real, genuine, merry Christmas with her friends,
the Jacobs; but now, long since, of course, she had given that up. But
she was glad that she had found this new place, and had been there long
enough to be so high in their favor, as to be the star guest for their
holiday.

They were industrious, and raised almost all they ate in a garden of a
half acre in the rear. And chickens! Mother Jane had raised two hundred
fifty. So they had this meat almost every day. For supper they would
have some surely, so, soon she would eat, and then the two would prepare
for the coming event. She was impatient to be there.

It was freezing outside. Ice could be seen from the car window,
gathering wherever there was water. A nice hot fire they would have, she
knew; while she had a good new book that was half read through. After
all was done, she would read to them, and so all three would be made
happy.

She fell to thinking, to thinking of others, and Sidney Wyeth came to
her mind. Last Christmas she had received two nice books from him. He
wrote no letter, nor did he autograph the same--he didn't even let her
know by word or letter that they were from him, but she knew.

Where was he--where had he been since? She wished she knew, for if she
did, as she thought now, she would send him a nice book for a Christmas
present. But he would never know it was from her. Her pleasure would be
in the giving. That was why presents were given. For the pleasure of
giving a token of remembrance. Some people did not consider it that way,
but then they were not Christians. She wondered, as the car sped along,
how many people who belonged to church did not know they were not
Christians.

"I wish I knew where he is," she said again, this time half aloud.
"Somehow I believe he would--forget--for a day." And then she thought of
Wilson Jacobs, and in doing so, recalled that, in the months gone by,
she had seen him at the end of a talk, and was forced to look away. She
could not stand the pain in his eyes. Did he care for her? She wouldn't
trust herself to believe it. It wouldn't be right. No. She was glad now
that it had gone no further. It wasn't right that he should be allowed
to do that, and then learn the truth. Oh, the truth! That was _her_
burden. The other had learned the truth, and then he went away. He would
never return. No. And Wilson Jacobs would do likewise. She had struggled
these months to keep it from him. If he learned from other lips, it
would be as sad; but she would at least not have to face him, and see
another suffering in his eyes. With Sidney Wyeth, it now seemed
different. As she had grown to feel, she believed she could meet him.
She felt now that if she could find his whereabouts, she would go to
him. Yes. She would go to him and see him, and let him see her. Oh, as
much as she loved him--for her love had never died--she believed now she
could look in his eyes and ask him to forget. She suddenly made up her
mind to leave and seek him. "But I can't," she moaned. "I can never
leave here until I know the worst in regard to the Y.M.C.A. No. I would
never be happy to leave them to their fate until I know the best--or the
worst." Somewhere in the great north, Wilson Jacobs had either by now,
succeeded or failed. Which? Until she knew, she couldn't bring herself
to leave.

By this time, she had arrived at the getting off place. She sprang
lightly from the car, and walked briskly to where a light shone, for one
always shone from Mother Jane's window. And it was this light which
guided her now. She skipped lightly along, humming a little song as she
did so. Again was she at peace with the world, and forgave all who
sinned against her. She had no malice in her heart against anyone, as
she approached the house--the house of the Wares'--where already the
smell of nourishment was in the air.

"Oh, how delightful it is to have a home. A place where someone with
love in their hearts awaits you, and, when the door is opened, gathers
you in welcome." She thanked Him that is Holy, for being so kind to her.

She had arrived at last, and with a delightful sigh, raised her foot to
the step, and as she did so, her eyes glanced through the window. The
next moment she fell back, and placed her hand upon her breast, while
her heart thumped violently within.

Then she turned, and disappeared into the night, while those inside
waited.




CHAPTER NINE

"_Wha's Y' Man?_"


On she flew. Across the car tracks she stumbled, but she didn't stop,
nor did she look to see whether anyone was coming or not. She thought of
nothing, but to be away, away, away! Down the street that was dark and
rough, and led to where she did not know, nor did she even care. She was
going away, away from everybody. She would hide herself from the world.
She could go to another city, but there was no use in that either. She
cried half aloud as she hurried along: "I can stand it no longer, I can
stand it no longer! I want to die, oh, I want to die!"

"I know," she choked at last, as she stumbled down the middle of a dark
alley, in which she now found herself. "I know," she cried again. And
she hurried on, as soon as she had caught her breath. "It is the river.
Yes, the river." She quickened her pace as she came into a street that
was at the end of the alley. It was wider. She hastened down a hill that
seemed to her a mile long, and maybe it was more. But when she had
hurried two blocks along this, she left the middle of the street and
took to the sidewalk, and slowed to a walk. "I can't go on like this. It
will excite people. I must walk, but I must hurry, hurry, hurry!"

She had covered many blocks, when she came abreast of buildings occupied
by <DW52> people. There was a barber shop where men were being shaved,
and a restaurant where others were eating; a soda fountain also, and she
wondered whether the people who conducted it made any money this time of
the year.

The night seemed to have grown much colder, from the frost that was on
the windows, but Mildred Latham did not feel it. Her face, she felt it
for a moment, was flushed. And then it occurred to her that her throat
was dry. Oh, yes. She knew why, now. She had cried all the way from
Mother Jane's to here--wherever it was. And her face was hot, her throat
was dry, and she wanted water. She must have water, or she could no
longer swallow. For a moment she hesitated before the soda fountain.
Then she opened the door and entered. A man who sat in the rear
approached. He was a neat man, with a heavy mustache. He invited her to
a chair at a table that was near a glowing fire. She took it. He waited
her order politely.

"I would like some--a-soda water, if you please," she said hesitatingly.
He looked at her a moment keenly, winked his right eye, and then his
left--then his right eye again, twice. She looked at him without
understanding. He repeated it. She wondered what he meant. Presently he
moved behind the counter, and returned with her order.

While she drank it, another, a woman came in. Mildred watched him
incidentally. He repeated the winking process, while she glanced at the
other, who repeated it. He went now to a room in the rear, and when he
returned, he handed her something in a package. The woman gave him a
half dollar, and waited for no change.

"You're a stranger about here, Miss?" he said, observing her a bit
dubiously.

"Yes, sir," she replied, "I am a stranger about here."

"Oh, I see," he said, now gazing at her very keenly a few moments.
"You're one of the solicitors for the Y.M.C.A., I suppose," said he,
after a moment's thought.

"No, sir, I am not," she replied with a start, and wondered why he asked
her.

"They was a-planning t' have a meeting overhead here t'night, was why I
asked," he said.

"Oh, is that so," she commented, and then added: "I am not connected
with it in any way, but I am very much interested in it."

"Well, it's too bad," he said thoughtfully, "but I don't think we will
ever get such a thing in this town. It's going to be a failure, so I
hear."

"Indeed," she echoed, "how so?"

"Well, unless they get twenty-seven thousand dollars together in a week,
it's sure to be. And 'f anybody c'n raise that many dollars, 's hard's
times is now, I'd lak t' see them," he smiled grimly.

She wanted to ask him about Wilson, but hesitated. Had he returned? He
was speaking again:

"They ain't had no word frum the secretary since he left. He went north
some time ago, and it was hoped that he might succeed in raising the
amount among the wealthy northern people. But it's dollars t' doughnuts
that he don't. 'Cause I figure it's lak this: 'f he'd a-had any success
up there, some word-a come back by now frum 'im."

So no word had yet come from Wilson Jacobs, and as she thought of his
possible failure, all thought of herself and what had been in her mind a
moment ago, left her. When she left the place she was calm. But where to
go now was another problem. To go back to Mother Jane, never entered her
mind. She wandered about for an hour. She now recognized the locality.
She was on the same street she had found upon her arrival in the
city--Beal street. She walked up this for two blocks, and where many
<DW64>s were assembled. Several picture shows greeted her, but she had
no inclination for such amusement.

Presently she turned into another street that led down to the river. It
was narrow and poorly lighted, and the people, what few she saw, were
ragged and dirty, and forbidding. She walked some distance on this,
until she came across another that led in another direction. Into this
she turned aimlessly.

She had gone about three-quarters of a block, when her eyes, in glancing
up, caught sight of a house, dark and weather beaten, with a glimmering
light on the front, under which was written:

     LODGING FOR MEN OR WOMEN
       RATES RIGHT

She paused. Her hand touched her forehead; it was hot and throbbing.
She felt tired, and her eyes were heavy with sleep. She hesitated,
turned into the gate, and approached the door timidly. It was a
forbidding place, she saw as she came nearer. The door hung weakly upon
its hinges, while light came through the many cracks. She shuddered. How
different it was from Mother Jane's, where everything was spick and
span, clean and well kept. Oh, if she could be home now with Mother
Jane! She wrapped lightly upon the door, and it seemed a long time
before someone shuffled in that direction.

Presently, after a turning of bolts, or it seemed more like someone was
drawing a peg out of a staple, with a squeak, the door opened about a
foot. In the dim light, the face of an old woman looked out from a very
wrinkled face.

"What d' ya want?" she asked gruffly.

"I see you have a sign up here," and she pointed upward, "that says
rooms," she replied, timidly.

"Yeh. Is yu 'lone. Wha's yu man?"

Mildred shuddered, and then she recovered. She was tired and wanted to
sleep. Tomorrow she would try to do better. She replied as politely as
she could; "I am alone. I have no _man_."

"Hunh!" grunted the other, opening the squeaking door wide as she said:
"Come in!"

Mildred entered and stood looking about her, while the old witch
regarded her suspiciously.

"So you're alone, uh? Got no man. Hunh! That's funny." She hobbled to
where a lamp set, with chimney smoked, and upon which a crack had been
patched with paper. "There's a chair. Sit down, gal." She shuffled
about, and when the light was better, by turning it up a bit higher, she
came near where Mildred sat, and took a seat in an old rocker which had
a sack filled with straw, to make it more comfortable.

"How much do you charge for your rooms?" Mildred inquired.

"Two bits when you're alone. Thirty-five cents if yu got a man." Mildred
had surmised that would be the charge, and had the amount ready. She
didn't care to have this witch see that she had money. She handed her
the quarter. The old creature took it, held it to the light, and
examined it a moment before she dropped it into an old pocket.

"Wantta go t' bed now?" the other inquired, a little kinder than she had
spoken before.

"I feel sleepy," said Mildred, and looked it.

"All right," said the other, rising with much difficulty. "Ah, gal,
that's rheumatiz. Bad. When you gits lak dis, life don't hold much fo'
you."

Mildred tried to look sympathetic as she followed her, and murmured
something inaudible.

They had entered a room now that corresponded with the remainder of the
house, except that the ceiling seemed to be lower, and the room was a
bit cleaner. A small fireplace was in one side of the wall, and the bed
stood in an opposite corner. Two chairs, a table, a bureau, a wash stand
and a pitcher with a clean towel spread over it, made up the meagre
furnishings. A rag carpet covered the floor.

"I don't fu'nish fiah," said the other, when she saw Mildred's eyes rest
for a moment upon the fireplace. If there were a fire, she now felt she
would rest better.

"I should like to purchase some fuel of you to make a fire, if it is
possible," she said.

"I'll sell you a nickel's wo'th."

"Very well. Bring it in." When the other was gone, she took fifty cents
in change from her purse. She displayed this that the other might see
and feel that she possessed little. A few minutes later, she was alone
with a fire cracking in the grate, that soon made the room quite
comfortable.

She retired when the room had become warm. The heat, in contrast with
the air she had just come out of, made her yawn. So, after barring the
door securely, she retired, and was soon fast asleep.

She might have slept for an hour, or it may have been only a minute, but
she was slowly awakened by a stream of light that poured in through the
window. She sat up suddenly, and blinked as the rays fell across her
face, and saw that she had forgotten to draw the blind and that the
moonlight was streaming into her room.

But it was not that alone which had awakened her. There was some
commotion in the street, or rather, in the house next door. A wagon
stood at the front, and into it, policemen were pushing men and women.
The wagon was a police patrol, and they were making a raid. In a few
minutes it was all over, and, dropping back, she was soon asleep again.




CHAPTER TEN

"_Kick Higher Dare, Gal!_"


Christmas day had come and the whole country was gay and festive. In the
city of our story, the sun shone beautifully, and from the way the birds
sang, it was hard to believe it was late December. The streets, at an
early hour, were filled with pedestrians seeking the open air, freedom
and merriment. Fire crackers filled the air with noise; while the
discharge of blank cartridges and an occasional gunshot, as well as a
cannon now and then, added to the confusion. The sharp noises made many
people start suddenly, and then smile when they recalled that it was
Xmas day; the day when Jesus, our Saviour, came into the world, and
began a Christian civilization.

But there was one person who was neither gay, merry, nor festive;
although she had cherished hopes, dreams, and desires for that day.

Mildred Latham lurked in the confines of the room she had taken, seeing
the world--a small part of it--from the window of the room she had taken
a night or two before. She had remained in it ever since, venturing out
only to get something to eat and drink. She was almost oblivious to the
fact, that it was Xmas day, until the discharge of firearms and crackers
came to her ears from the street. And then she awakened to the reality
of what she would lose that day.

A Chinaman ran the restaurant where she bought her meals. At one of
their stores, she had purchased a few dishes and a knife, spoon and a
fork, so she brought the meals to her room, and ate the same at the
table. She had no plans now for Xmas day. She tried to forget it, but
the noise from the street did not permit her to do so. As the sun rose
higher, the revelry became more pronounced. She tried to forget the day
Mother Jane and she had planned to spend together. She tried to shut out
of her mind the day she might have spent with the Jacobs. And she tried,
likewise, not to see the dreary day she must now perforce spend--alone.

The sun rose higher and higher, and the day became warmer. So warm about
noon, that she raised her window and permitted the soft breeze to float
in upon her, filling her lungs with it, and sighing contentedly. She
watched the few people that passed that way, and noted that they all
appeared so happy. They were all apparently carefree and desirous of
getting all the enjoyment that the day afforded. Presently it occurred
to her to venture forth and get something. It was bad enough that she
must spend it alone; but to hover in the four walls of that little room,
was a fact she could no longer submit to.

She passed into the room that may have been called a sitting room, and
where the old woman was stewing some meat on the rusty stove. Before the
other turned at the sound of her footfall, she scrutinized her for a
moment, meditatively. She wondered who this old woman was, who lived
thus alone. She fancied what her life must be; she had other roomers,
she had observed; but they came in late and left early, so she had no
idea who they were, or what kind of people stayed there. She hesitated
for a second, and then the other turned and faced her.

"Uh, gal," she creaked in her shaky old voice, "be goin' out t' see a
li'l' Xmas, ha, ha! Sho' you might. Cain' stay shut up in that room all
time!" And she grinned, which made her features repulsive to Mildred.

"Yes, ma'am, I thought I would step out and look around a while," she
answered kindly. "I shall be back presently."

As she went toward the gate, the hag looked after her and shook her
head, as she muttered: "That gal's a puzzle, a devilish puzzle. I cain'
make her out; but of one thing I'm certain, she's straight. Huh! Yes,
she's straight," and she continued shaking her head.

And it was that fact that made her a mystery to this old woman.

She walked along slowly when she got into the street, looking from one
side to the other. At the end of the street, in the direction she had
taken, was the warehouse district. In the old days, this had been a
prominent shipping point by water; but now this had been largely
substituted by railroads. The yards were quiet today, as she made her
way along, while scarcely a wagon was in evidence around the many large
buildings.

She walked in the same direction until she came to a street that led
down to the river. She turned into this, and followed it until she stood
on the banks of the stream that flowed gently southward. It was filled
with a number of boats, while ferries plied back and forth to the other
side. For a half hour she stood thus, with her mind free of all care,
and enjoyed the stiff air that came with the breeze from the river. When
she presently turned to go, she felt strangely invigorated, and decided
to walk about more.

Without regard to direction, she finally found herself on Beal street,
which she recognized at once. She paused briefly before venturing into
it, but the street was filled with music; while across the way, several
electric shows invited the crowds that poured in and out. So she went
forward timidly. She stopped at length before a black boy who was
turning a street piano. The music was exhilarating, and she gave him a
nickel when he was starting away, whereupon he dropped the handles and
played her three of the popular airs. She gave him another nickel, and
he took delight in turning on three more. By this time a crowd had
gathered, and, thinking quickly, she slipped away and continued her way.

She stood before a large picture show for <DW52> people a few minutes
later. At the front were gorgeous pictures, advertising the show within.
She hesitated briefly, and then, fishing a five cent piece from her
purse, she entered the show, and took a seat to one side. In a minute
her attention was centered on the screen, where a western play in which
red Indians and cowboys were in a mimic battle was being shown. The
play aroused much interest in the audience, which fairly raised from the
seats at times, especially when there was a gun play; and since gun
playing seemed to be in evidence, much excitement was attendant during
the whole time the reel was being run.

She recalled suddenly, what she had read in the book of Sidney Wyeth,
with regard to Indians. He had dwelt at some length upon this subject,
and had concluded a chapter with words to the effect that the Indian, as
he was today, and had been for years, was in no wise what he was
pictured upon the screen, or in novels, but a shiftless being, without
spirit. In truth, only an example of dull inertia.

The next reel was much more original, she thought, and, therefore, more
interesting--to her; but it wasn't to many of those about her, who, as
she heard them, made little effort to catch the moral of it.

It was a play of present day life, in which the hero was a man employed
as floor walker in a large department store, while the heroine was a
girl, employed in the most insignificant position in the basement of the
same. She studied the play, and was carried away with the great human
interest conveyed in the plot. It was a difficult task to keep her mind
and thoughts upon it, however, because all about her, many remarks came
from impatient creatures, who continually muttered aloud, demanding that
it be hurried off, and something with "ginger" put on.

"Hu'y, hu'y, 'n' git hit off! Git a gal out the' 'n' some song 'n'
dancin'," said one who sat next to her, and who, she observed, was
ragged and dirty in the bargain; his long, kinky hair stood erect on his
head, and made him resemble something recently departed from the jungle.

When the vaudeville in connection therewith was put on, she was filled
with disgust. It was not refined vaudeville, and in no way corresponded
with the pictures that had preceeded it; but of the most vulgar sort. It
brought shrill cries from the throats of those about her, and remarks
that showed the character of the crowd.

"Put the sof' pedal on it, kid, ke-ha!"

"Dat gal sho kin' sing, nigga, believe muh!"

"Kick higher, dare, gal! You ain' done nothin'," growled one, who was
not satisfied.

Mildred arose to go out. To get to the aisle, she must pass about ten
people, mostly men in rough clothing. "Set down, gal, don' git in
front-a me!" one next to her complained.

"Don' spile my gaze when dat gal's showing up lak she is," said another.
With a sigh and a disgusted feeling, she sank back and made herself
patient, until the disgusting performance was at an end. She had no
trouble then, for all those between her and the aisle filed out ahead of
her. Apparently they came to the show for the purpose of witnessing the
vaudeville only.

When she was on the street again, the sun was getting toward the west,
but she did not feel like going back to the hovel she called a room yet.
The noise and music seemed to make her forget her troubles and worries,
and, mingling with the masses that now filled the sidewalks, she
followed them aimlessly along the street. She stopped before other
shows, and, when, at last, finding one that appeared to have no
vaudeville in connection with the pictures, and which did not appear to
have such a big crowd about the entrance, she entered and took a seat
toward the rear.

She had been seated about half an hour, when she chanced, upon looking
back, to see someone whose face was familiar. She looked toward the
front, and then, after a few minutes, in which she tried to recall where
it was she had seen it before, she turned her head slowly, and looked
again. Behind her, and just seating themselves, were not only three
women belonging to Wilson Jacobs' church, and with whom she was well
acquainted--they had been her best friends, and had admired her playing
and singing--but in their midst, sat Constance herself.




CHAPTER ELEVEN

"_My Wife--Sick--HELL!_"


It was the day before New Years, and the city was in the grip of a
severe blizzard that has swept down from the northwest, and had driven
the people from the streets and into their homes, where they stayed
closely shut in. From her little room, Mildred Latham peeped out through
the small window, and was glad it was an ugly day without; for, being
so, she did not feel as lonesome, and so desirous of going forth, as she
had the few days previous; or, since Xmas day.

She would never forget the moments she went through, wondering how she
would extricate herself, when her friends entered the show and seated
themselves behind her.

She had sat with her heart beating a tattoo against her ribs, and hardly
dared to breathe. The play was a deep one that flashed upon the screen,
but her attention had wandered. She was trying, with all her senses, to
think of some way out, and the way would have to come quickly, for if
not, at the best, it would be only a question of minutes, possibly
seconds, before one of the trio saw and recognized her. She was almost
choking when there was a noise in the rear. All eyes turned quickly, and
then there was a snapping of films, or something; but, whatever it was,
the place was dark in a moment.

Now was her chance, she thought, as the theater was suddenly plunged
into darkness. She arose. Could she make it? In a flash the lights might
be on. "Great God!" she trembled. "Suppose they should be turned on!"
And with this fear gripping her heart until the perspiration started,
she struggled toward the door. She stepped on many toes, while growls
and complaints came from the lips of the owners, but she felt her way
resolutely forward and toward the aisle. It seemed like an age before
her feet found it. Through the place now, matches were flashing. She
glanced for a brief second in the direction of those from whom she was
fleeing, and, as she did so, someone struck a match. In that moment, the
faces of the four came full into view. "Oh, my God!" she cried
inaudibly, "they are looking straight at me." But before the flare had
died, she breathed a sigh of relief, for, at that moment the lights came
on, and they were looking toward the screen.

She passed quietly out, and, when once outside, hurried in the direction
of her room.

They had not seen her.

       *       *       *       *       *

The day was fading into twilight. The sun had set, and with it the wind
had fallen; the air had become still, and the stars shone brightly from
above.

"If I don't get out of this place for an hour, I will surely die," cried
Mildred, walking the floor in a fit of impatience. Having become
accustomed to plenty of exercise, the days that had come and gone since
Xmas day had seemed like an eternity. Perhaps it was hard for her,
because she had not been further than the restaurant since that day. She
admitted to herself that she was afraid to go anywhere now. She had not
the courage to run the risk of being seen again, and had, therefore,
remained confined to her room.

She paused before the window, and looked long and earnestly into the
street. Never before had anything seemed so inviting. She was simply mad
to be in it, if for only a half hour; but to be in it, she felt she
must. After a time, she resolved to run the risk. She fixed herself as
best she could, and shuddered when she realized that she had not changed
her clothes for a week. At last, with a suppression of her excited
nerves, she slipped out of the house, and entered the street just as
darkness had set in, and the stars were the brightest.

She hurried along, and when she had arrived at the end of the street,
she turned into another, and in a direction she had not been before.
Along this she hurried, feeling the sting of the air, which brought the
blood to her cheeks, and made her feel real life, after many days of
fear and worry. She had been downtown one day before Xmas, where she
dispatched a telegram, and now, as she hurried along, it occurred to her
to go to the office again. She walked boldly in that direction, and a
moment after she had entered, she came out with a satisfied smile
playing about the corners of her mouth.

"Now," she whispered softly, "where shall I go?" Without answering her
own question, she began walking. She walked until she had exercised her
limbs, and they were tired. So she felt like sitting down and resting.
Still she continued the way she was going until, in turning a corner,
she ran fully into someone and fell back with: "I beg your pardon!" And
then suddenly the other fell back.

"Why, Miss Latham!" the other exclaimed, amazed.

"Miss Jones, I declare!" echoed the other, and stood abashed.

"I have not seen or heard of you for months. Indeed, I thought you left
town long since!"

"No-o," Mildred mumbled, frightened and embarrassed, all in one.

"And--what--what are you doing--in _this_ part of town!" the other
exclaimed, now regarding her suspiciously.

"_This_ part of town?" she echoed bewilderingly. "I--I--don't
understand. _Why_ this part of town?"

"Yes, _this_ part of town." She paused a moment and surveyed Mildred in
wonder, and then went on: "Why, didn't you know? _This_ part of town--is
the _restricted district_!"

"Oh--Miss Jones!" she wailed. "Heaven help me! I didn't know!"

The other looked at her keenly and a little dubious, and then she said,
with a toss of her head, as something seemed to have occurred to her
when the other looked at her strangely:

"I guess you wonder _what I_ am doing down here, too."

The other started, and her lips opened to say she had not, but before
she could say anything, the other continued:

"Well, I don't mind admitting what _I_ am doing down here, since I see
_you_ here, also; but I have been coming down here for a long time. Yes,
you see this is not the first time. I have been down here before," and
she laughed a hard laugh, as she ended with another toss of her head.

Mildred stood frozen. She could not collect her shattered wits to say
anything, but she was thinking. Miss Jones was a member of Wilson
Jacobs' church and sang in the choir. "It can't be possible!" she
murmured inaudibly. "It can't be possible!" And then, all of a sudden,
she felt sorry for Miss Jones, because she had liked her, and thought
her very sweet. And now she met her face to face _in the worst_ part of
the city! How could this be explained! Miss Jones being encountered in
the _worst part_ of the city!... And Miss Jones had, with her own lips,
admitted that 'she had been there before. _She had been coming there for
a long time._' "Oh, God," Mildred cried almost aloud: "This is
terrible!" _Why_ did Miss Jones come to this part of town?... Miss Jones
came to this part of town and _knew_ she was doing so.... Then, if that
were true--which it surely was--Miss Jones was _a bad girl_.... Miss
Jones a _bad girl_? She could not believe it; and yet, before she could
get all this through her whirling brain, she heard Miss Jones speaking
again. What was she saying? It couldn't be true! Surely Miss Jones could
not mean what she was saying. Oh, horrors! If Miss Jones meant what she
was saying, then, Miss Jones regarded her as a _bad girl_, too. "Miss
Jones, Miss Jones!" Something in her now was crying, although her lips
moved not. "Please don't, please don't! I am not that way. I am not a
_bad girl_, oh, no, please, _please_!" And still her lips had not moved.
She stood like a dumb person; but she heard Miss Jones clearly:

"Let's go over here to a place _I know_," she said. "It's safe--nobody
but a swell bunch goes there, no tramps or _talkers_."

She felt all she had heard a moment before now running through her mind,
and yet she did not speak. Miss Jones was speaking again:

"We are both in the same boat; one's as _bad_ as the other. No questions
asked...."

"Oh, Miss Jones," Mildred heard again, but her lips still were not
moved. "How can you, oh, how can you!" Why _didn't_ she do something?
She heard herself, but words were not spoken: "Why _do_ you stand,
Mildred Latham? Why do you not go--_hurry_? You have stood _too_ long
now. Hurry, hurry! To Mother Jane's--to Jacobs! Yes, to anywhere; but
go, go, go!" And still she stood in flesh, and made no reply.

"A swell bunch from the north, railroad fellows with plenty of coin.
Some good time, kid. Come on at once. Let's don't stand here and be
looked at."

She was in a trance now. She couldn't stand there; she was aware of
that. That would be worse. How to get out, she did not know, for she had
now forgotten how she came in. But she had no notion of following Miss
Jones. No. She would go to Mother Jane's--no, she would go to Jacobs.
Jacobs? _Who_ were they? Oh, yes. She remembered now. And when she knew
the Jacobs, she had known them for _the truth_. If she went to them and
told them she had just came from the----oh, no, no, no! She couldn't go
to Jacobs.... But now she had it. She would go to Sidney Wyeth.... Yes,
that was where she would go. He would welcome her. He would be good to
her; while she--she--_would tell him everything_--yes, _everything_. Oh,
she was glad she had thought of him in time. Because if she had waited a
little longer, she _might not be fit_ to go to him.

They were going now, Miss Jones and she. Miss Jones was going, where?
She didn't know, but she, Mildred Latham was going to her lover, Sidney
Wyeth. Oh, how she loved him--she had always loved him; but now she
loved him more than ever. And she was going to him, and when she
arrived, the first thing she would do, would be to get on her knees, as
she did when a little girl, at her prayers. She would tell him all. All
the truth from the time she was old enough to remember, until today.
Yes, she would tell _him all_. She would show him how faithfully she had
worked in the sale of his book. And she would tell him how she had been
driven from place to place, until she had no home nor friends; but,
withal, she had remained clean. _Clean?_ Yes, that was why she had
struggled so. She had fought _everything_, to keep clean.... And he, oh,
he--would be happy. Oh, he would be _so_ happy. And then they would
both--yes, _both_ go to the _Rosebud Country_ together. Wouldn't that be
delightful? They would go to the _Rosebud Country_ together and live
happily.

"Here we are," she heard Miss Jones saying. She rapped on the door in a
peculiar fashion. Presently the door opened, but no one stood beside it
or behind it. It had opened from the top of a stair, which they mounted
the moment they entered. This led to somewhere, but she followed.

Now they were at the top, and paused for a brief moment; then, turning
to the right, they crossed a hallway and entered a room. The door closed
behind them, and it was some time before her eyes became accustomed to
the darkness within. _Why_ was the room dark? She wondered; but just
then it became a blaze of light. She looked all around her
bewilderingly. It was a beautifully furnished room, with a soft, heavy
carpet, while about the room were many heavy chairs. In the center was a
table, and around the side were smaller tables. "What was this place?"
she asked herself, feeling the back of one of the heavy chairs. To one
side of the room was a huge buffet with a number of glasses, all thin
and of many varying sizes, artistically arranged. On the other end was a
piano, with an electric cord reaching it from above. And as she stood
looking at it, a light within it flashed, and it began to play a song
that made the room resound.

"Hark! What was that!" she cried, with her lips closed. She saw the eyes
of her companion, as her ears listened to the music. A smile, a wild
smile danced in the eyes of Miss Jones. She caught Mildred suddenly
about the waist, and before she was aware of it, was whirling her about
in a waltz. And the tune--was the _Blue Danube_!

In the midst of the sweet old tune, the door they had entered a moment
ago swung open, and two men entered. They were striking looking men and
were dressed in the latest style of clothes. They were both smoking
cigars, and the room was soon filled with the aroma. But they must have
been good cigars, because the odor they gave off was pleasant--so
Mildred thought.

Miss Jones dropped her at once and flew to one of them, who gathered her
in his arms, and dreadful, before the others he kissed her. As Mildred
swallowed, she turned and nestled in his embrace, and with his hands he
pulled her head back until her round throat stood out beautifully, and
kissed her again and again.

Mildred was shocked at such immodesty; but before she got over it, the
other stood over her, smiling down into her face with eyes that danced
like fire. She fell away from beneath his amorous gaze, and ran across
the room and got behind a chair. She turned and looked at him wildly
now. He hurried after her. His lips were pursed to say something funny,
and then he saw her eyes. He stopped suddenly and fell back a step,
while his smile died and his gaze, as he saw her now, grew pointed.

"Thunder!" he muttered slowly. The others disembraced themselves, and
regarded them for a moment. They looked from one to the other, and then
three pairs of eyes rested upon her alone. At first they were dubious,
and then, as they saw the frightened look, they changed to something
akin to contempt.

"Aw, kid," cried Miss Jones--and Mildred had never imagined she could be
so coarse. "'Cut' it. He's a _good_ guy, he is. A _thoroughbred_!" She
looked at the man now, who appeared a trifle angry. "You're spoiling it
all. He'd _like_ you; but he don't want too much of the kid play."

"These good lookers are always hard t' land," said the man. "But this
trick appears the hardest." Then to her he said: "Come on kid. Look
over my hurry of a moment ago. That face of yours, I must say, got me
'daffy'," and he laughed with a toss of the head.

Her tension relaxed, and she permitted herself to come from behind the
chair. A moment later they were seated around the large table in the
center of the room. A waiter now stood over them, with eyes askance.

"Little Sunny Brook'll do me," said one of the men. The other nodded the
same; his eyes rested upon Miss Jones, who tossed her head gayly, and
said:

"Aw, Dickie and Joe, I don't like it straight. Make mine a dry martini."

He attended Mildred now, while the others conversed. She did not know
what to say. She had not thought of anything to drink; but in that
moment she knew she would have to order something.

"A coca cola," she said quietly.

Three pair of eyes regarded her then with surprise evident. As it became
clear to them, all threw their heads back and laughed loudly. The waiter
stood with a little smile about the corners of his mouth, which showed
he possessed a sense of humor.

Mildred was silent and looked at them in surprise. Presently, when they
had quieted, Miss Jones said a little impatiently:

"You're a good one, kid. I must say so. Coca cola! ha, ha! But they
don't carry coca cola at this 'joint'," whereupon they laughed again.

"Yes, ma'am," now spoke the waiter. "We carry _coca cola_, but it's used
as a wash." They laughed long and earnestly.

"Bring us a quart of Sunny Brook," said the man who was nearest her.
"And--yes, bring this little girl here a coca cola--for a wash."

He lit a fresh cigar, and smiled.

"Play cards, kid?" he inquired, and looked at her. "Why don't you say
something, sweetness? Gee! Has the cat got your tongue?" he complained a
trifle nervously, as he flicked the ashes from the cigar.

The waiter had returned now with many glasses and bottles, and their
drinks were before them. Before her was placed a small bottle of the
drink she had ordered, while two glasses were arranged beside it, while
a larger glass filled with ice stood beside them. The others had before
them likewise, all except Miss Jones, whose drink was in a peculiar
glass with a long stem, and flashed green in the electric light.

The others poured their glasses about half full, while Mildred poured a
part of the fluid in one of the glasses before her. It foamed! She
stopped, and when it quit foaming, the glass was only about a third
full. She had not observed how much it lacked of being full, when
suddenly the room resounded with the music of the electric piano. It
took her so much by surprise, that she turned quickly and looked. When
she saw that it was only the piano, she turned to them again, as they
raised their glasses. She took up hers, at a sign from them. It was
full. They all drank together.

She had a mighty effort to swallow hers. When she had succeeded, she
made a wry face, and tasted the stuff gingerly. She had never drunk coca
cola that tasted like that before. The others smiled naively. She felt
strange. She raised her hands to her head. It felt stranger still. She
wondered at such a strange feeling after a drink of something she was
fond of? She had drunk as many as a half dozen bottles a day, and as
many as three bottles in an hour. But three bottles had never any
effect; while now, her head was whirling terribly. Everything about her
swam. She saw the others smiling, and then she heard herself talking and
laughing; but she was not aware of what she was saying.

It was perhaps an hour later, or it might have been only a half, but she
was on the street. She was trying to walk, but apparently she was not
succeeding, for the man she had run from was supporting her. He had his
arm about her waist; while his free hand held both of hers. She was not
talking now. She was resting. Her neck was limp. Presently they turned
into another place. She did not know where. Before them raised another
flight of stairs, and up this they walked--that is, he did and almost
carried her. A full minute it took before they reached the top. An old
woman met them. Mildred saw her for a brief moment, and recalled that
she resembled the one where she had a room.

"My wife is sick," she heard the man say, "is sick. I wish to get a
room."

"His wife?" she repeated, but that was all. Darkness was all about her
now; but the man repeated his words, and at the same time handed the old
woman a half dollar. A moment later a door closed behind them, and the
next a key turned.

But Mildred Latham didn't hear it.

The old woman looked after them a moment, as she rubbed the new coin in
her palm. She raised it to her lips and kissed it with a smack. She
regarded the door of the room in which they had disappeared, and then
she burst into a fit of laughing.

"My wife--sick--_Hell!_" And went about her duties.




CHAPTER TWELVE

_Midnight, December Thirty-first_


Wilson Jacobs sat in his study, gazing across the room at a clock. It
"tick-tocked" as it always had. The minute hand slipped from notch to
notch. There was nothing whatever wrong with it. It was a good clock. As
he gazed at it, he recalled that in the years it had stuck to the wall
there, it had never stopped; it had never varied from standard city time
more than a minute or two during those years. And yet he watched the
clock as though it were something strange; something uncanny; something
that spelled his end.

For it was, and it marked the failure of his great effort.

In a few hours now that clock would show another year, for it was the
night of December thirty-first.

In a few hours, it would tell him, as it had told him before, that a new
year had come. Yes. But this year it would tell him more. How much more?
It was hard to estimate. He made no effort to do so. He had already done
that in the past few days--the days he would always remember as the
darkest in his life of hope.

A noise in the other room came to his ears. It was a sigh. It was
Constance, and he was sorry for her. Yes, Constance had hoped until the
last minute that he would succeed. But he had failed....

Vainly he struggled in the great northeast, to secure those thousands to
complete the amount necessary. He had gone from town to town. The people
were kind; they were considerate, and they listened patiently; while he
waxed eloquent and forceful in his appeal for this great purpose. He met
the nicest people he had ever met--he knew that. So refined, and how
much they appreciated his great cause, was shown in every town, large
or small. They took him through many of the buildings. They were perfect
pictures, and the management was the best. The per cent of people who
could not read or write in those parts, did not include any of the
native born. He had never, he recalled this now strangely, met people
who were so courteous. He had been so long in Dixie, and, therefore,
accustomed to the country there, that he found it hard to believe that
white people could be so courteous to a <DW64>. True, but they held to
their money. They shook their heads and pointed across the water--and he
knew.

He had raised less than three thousand dollars. He lacked almost
twenty-five thousand of having the proper amount when he returned home.

His sister met him with a kiss. She looked hopefully into his eyes at
the same moment, and knew he had failed. So they had said nothing about
it. Others came in as soon as they learned he had returned, and it was
with a heavy heart that he told them the result.

"Well," said the professor of the  high school, "you made a brave
fight, Reverend. Yes, you made a brave fight. More than ten thousand
dollars in such a short time is going some. You beat Grantville by twice
the amount, and did it in one-third the time."

"By the way, Doctor," said a mail clerk, as he was passing out. He
stopped, and lighting a cigar, continued: "What ever became of that
young lady who played at the church, and who started the cash
subscription?"

"Yes," said the professor, "I have intended to ask you myself."

"My friends," said Wilson, "it is the strangest thing I ever knew; but
we have not seen that young lady since the day you were here--in fact,
we have not seen her since she left the church that Sunday."

"Indeed!" both exclaimed. "That is strange!"

"The strangest thing, I should say," he declared. They spoke of it at
some length, and then they took their leave. Others had come, and made
it harder for him to tell. Words of consolation were given by all, which
made it still harder.

He arose after a time, and walked back and forth across the room. He
thought of the Y.M.C.A. in a northern city for <DW52> men, and where he
had stopped. Such a delightful place it had been. There was a pool hall,
a cafe, a barber shop, a complete gymnasium, a swimming pool, a reading
room with piles of the latest magazines; in fact, there was everything
to keep young men out of bad company, and, at the same time, provided
for them a place for clean, manly sport. He had stopped there three
days, and during that time he had observed the great good it was doing
the young <DW64> men of that city. The <DW64> population was not
one-fourth that of this town, and still the schools there were the best;
while almost everything in the way of public conveniences was open to
the black people. If the Y.M.C.A. could be of such great good in a
community of that sort, words, figures, estimates, all were inadequate
to describe what a great benefit it would be to this town.

And, until the last day he did not despair. He hoped and he worked. "The
administration has balled the financial situation up so badly, that it
is useless to seek subscriptions for anything," one had told him.

"A million and more dollars he has given away," said the secretary of a
millionaire he had consulted. "Yes, I will arrange an appointment," but
from the way he said it, he was sure it would do no good.

"Crime and evil environments have undermined the foundations of our
society; those people, for whom a million men went to battle fifty years
ago and freed, have reached a place in our American society, where it is
the greatest mistake of a decade that they are not provided with better
surroundings." He said this time and again, and the people heard him
through, but in the end it was the same.

By some he was greatly encouraged. If the gift of the Jew could be
extended a year, all would be well, he was sure; but that had been
settled.

"I am asking you for assistance, because we have at our disposal
three-fourths of the amount necessary; but, without your assistance in
this, this three-fourths reverts back to those who have offered it."

"The country is in a bad shape," and they pointed again across the
water.

And now he had returned, and had to admit to himself and the others that
he had failed. He forgot his own desire; he wanted the association for
the great good it would do his people.

He seated himself, and mechanically his eyes sought the clock again. It
tick-tocked the minutes away, and the minutes became hours, and every
hour drew him near the end. If he could present twenty-five thousand
dollars to the Y.M.C.A. by twelve o'clock that night, it would be saved.

Suddenly it occurred to him to go into the street and walk about for a
time. Maybe he could forget it. He picked up his hat, that he had thrown
on the floor in his absentmindedness, and drawing on his overcoat, made
his way thither. It was a crisp night, and the chill, as he struck the
street, made him quicken his steps, and he walked briskly in the
direction of the river.

He observed with a start, presently, that he was going in the same
direction and the same street, he had taken before going north. The
incident and the words he had overheard came back to him, and he thought
of Mildred with a pang of the heart. "I wish I could see her now," he
said; and then, in the next breath, he said no. "I would have to tell
her that I had failed, after her kind words. She said I would succeed.
Yes, she said that--and meant it." He walked on, and finally fell to
talking to himself aloud.

"Yes, Wilson Jacobs, with all you have been through, you have come to
this in the end. You've failed." And then something somewhere in his
mind said: "Yes, you have failed, but don't despair. All may not be
lost. As long as there is life, there is hope." He laughed at this, and
wondered then at the strange caprice of the human brain. "Wonderful," he
commented. "I wonder how did man ever come to be. In the years when he
was wild, that was different. But now he is becoming so wise, that
almost miracles are accomplished. He continues to grow wiser as the
years go by, until I wonder what it will all come to in the end."

By now he had reached the place where he overheard the voices of a few
weeks before. It was dark. Not a soul nor a sound came from within. He
stood where he had heard the voices, but no voices came to him that
night. He presently retraced his footsteps. He could, at least, be home
and comfort his sister. She could not be allowed to be alone while the
old year died and the new sprang into being. He dragged himself along in
an aimless fashion, not hurrying. As he figured in his mind, he had yet
two hours.

When he arrived at the house and entered, he resumed his seat in the
study, and, since there was nothing else to do, he resumed his task of
watching the clock. Not as much time was left as he thought for. It was
now almost eleven. In one hour and a few minutes, it was goodby to
seventy-five thousand dollars for the purpose of building and
establishing a Y.M.C.A. for the black youth of the city.

He heard Constance in the other room, breathing heavily, and wondered
whether she was sick. He watched the clock now as a man who waits for
the death knell. Time seemed to go slowly, he thought. He would call his
sister when the clock reached a quarter of. Yes, and together they would
watch, watch, watch. He dozed off to sleep. Suddenly he awoke with a
start. He had slept the old year out, was his first thought. Then he
looked at the clock. No, not quite. He rubbed his eyes.

And then he listened. Had he heard someone, or something? "Of course
not," he muttered half aloud. "This game is telling on me," and he
raised his hand and grasped his head. And still he felt something had
happened. He arose and walked back and forth across the room, and then
sat down again. As he did so, his eyes saw the clock.

It was now eleven thirty-five.




CHAPTER THIRTEEN

_Into the Infinite Long Ago_


"That is the Ponca, dear," said Sidney, taking her hand, as they walked
up the road.

"But you did not call it that in your story, Sidney," said Mildred,
squeezing his hand fondly. "I have never been on its banks. When are you
going to take me there?" she now said poutingly.

He placed his free hand under her chin, and dared her to look into his
face with such a frown. She failed, and laughed instead.

"But I want to go," she cried, swinging the hand she held back and
forth. "Won't you take me soon--take me today?" she begged.

He drew her to him, placed his arms about her, and kissed her fondly.

A moment later they walked down the wide road.

"And this is the _Rosebud Country_," she said, allowing her eyes to
stretch over a land to which she saw no end.

"Yes, this is the _Rosebud Country_," he said contentedly.

She regarded him a moment closely, before she spoke. In that look, she
appeared to see him as she had never seen him before. This man was her
husband, and he had spent the prime years of his life in this land to
the northwest. He loved it, and now she would love it, because he did.
In the years gone by he had hoped--he had built his hopes here, and into
that life had come another. After that things had been different. Yes,
things had been different, and that was why she was here. But she was
happy. Yes, she was happy. He was too, so that made her more happy.

"See those rocks on yonder hill?" she heard him say, and she allowed her
eyes to follow the direction of his finger.

"Yes, and oh Sidney, I gaze each day at them, and at the smaller one
just this side of it. Tell me of them, and of the little one, too."

And as they strolled together down this prairie road to the valley of
the Ponca, Sidney Wyeth, her husband, told her the story of the two
hills.

"Many, I know not how many years ago, yon hill was the scene of many a
crime, so the squaws told me." And he sighed, as he seemed to look back
over the time. She placed her hand now in the curve of his arm and held
it closely. It seemed to satisfy him, and with a glance at her, and a
far away look in his eyes, he proceeded to tell the legend of the hills.

"It was before the days of the mighty Sitting Bull, and Red Cloud, too;
before the days of the cowboy--and even the squaw man. It was in the
days of Chief Stinking Eye, who was the bravest--so the Indians say--of
all the great Sioux warriors. Stinking Eye and Chief Bettleyon loved one
and the same maiden--the daughter of Chief Go-Catch-The-Enemy.

"Go-Catch-The-Enemy was a great chief, and owned all the land in what is
called the Bull Creek district now, while Bettleyon lived with the tribe
of his father in a part of this country far to the west, in that part
which is now called the Cottonwood Creek district.

"This vast tribe of red men lived by hunting principally; but their
women discovered that crops could be grown in this soil, and, with rude
plows and hoes, and whatever they had, they dug little patches in the
soil along the creek, and in springtime, they planted these patches in
maize and beans; so, when the zero weather of winter made the wigwams
the most comfortable place, they kept from starving by feeding thereon.
Of course, that was in the day when the buffalo was plentiful, and they
had meat; but with cornmeal this was made more delicious. So, in this
way, the Sioux Indians came through many cold winters, and went to war
again in the early springtime; that is, the men did, while the women
repeated the task each year, of planting the patches to Squaw corn or
maize.

"How they fought, and bled and died, is a matter not trivial. About this
time, there came a man. He rode a pony, and he had on boots--not
moccasins--and he wore a hat on his head. He carried a rifle in his
hand, and that was the first time _these_ red men had seen such a
weapon. Strange, as it was to them, he talked fluently in their tongue,
and withal his cleverness, he became a favorite among the many. Before
long he was, in reality, chief over all. From the Niobrara across the
Keya Paha, including the Ponca, the Mastadon, on to the Whetstone and
Landing Creek and to the White River, he ruled. They named him
Rain-In-The-Face, and he made them all believe that he was next to the
great white father.

"There came a day when he made love to Go-Catch-The-Enemy's daughter,
Winnetkha, which was her name, and she was said to have been the most
beautiful daughter of the Sioux Indians the _Rosebud_ had ever known.

"This, as you might expect, made enemies of Young Chief Bettleyon and
also Chief Stinking Eye. But the white man was shrewd. He thought at
night, when all was quiet and the Indians slept. So the mornings were
used in carrying out the thoughts of the night before, while the Indians
had to think of war.

"So, before any knew, the white man had made Winnetkha his own, and took
her to live in a real house, that he had made the Indians build for him,
of straight ash logs, with bark peeled off and hewn on the inside, until
the white wood glistened like silver.

"That was the beginning of the breeds, and after that, many became
crossed and have not stopped until recently; but Bettleyon and Stinking
Eye never got over it, and when the pale face was spending his time
herding the cattle that were now replacing the buffalo, they intrigued
cruelly against him.

"Winnetkha overheard their plan, and informed him when he came from the
herd that night, and so he kept watch. They came late, with a band of
picked men and loyal followers, and began at once to make war on the big
house. All night they fought, but the Indians were shrewd this time,
and fought from long range. They shot at the house with arrows that were
heated red hot on the point, until at last they set it on fire. This, of
course, drove the white man and his squaw out. They managed to escape
and reached safety ere they were discovered. But the white man was
angry, and he swore to have revenge, so, loading his rifle, he saddled
his horse and came down single-handed on the Indians and killed many,
and routed the rest.

"He was not bothered any more for years afterward, but the Indian, you
know, never forgets, so, one day, when he was grazing his herds near the
top of the hill, he looked up to find himself almost hemmed in by the
skulking red devils. He rushed to safety behind the rocks at the top,
where you see them. Here he fought until his ammunition was exhausted,
and he was without defense, with the Indians all about him.

"And it was then that he looked about for other weapons of defense, and
discovered a den of rattlers. Then, one at a time, he allowed the
Indians to approach him, and as they did and went to look for him, they
were struck in the face by a rattler. More than twenty were bitten, so
'tis said, and more than half died from the effects. And then they
killed him.

"Old Go-Catch-The-Enemy made war on them afterward and a reign of
outlawry began; but to the white man, his son-in-law, he gave a great
funeral, and did not bury him on a tree top, where buzzards picked the
bones, as had been the custom; but the Indians preferred such a burial
rather than that a coyote should dig them up from the earth. He was
buried on the top of the little hill to the side, as you see, with
stones arranged about him, and so deep in the earth, that the wolves
never bothered.

"So, that is the legend of those hills that you see, and they are the
land mark. Those who live here will not soon forget it."

They stood on the banks of the Ponca now, and listened to the happy
birds that filled the air with music like thousands of little bells. As
they stood, arm in arm, they appreciated all that life held in store for
them.

Suddenly from the west came a great noise. "Hark!" cried the husband. "A
prairie fire? Of course not. The settlers made that impossible long
since." He looked anxiously in the direction from whence came the noise.
The sun could not be seen, and everything at once grew dark. "A
tornado!" cried Sidney, and, grabbing his wife, he started to fall to
the ground, but too late! A sudden wind seemed to pick him up, and a
moment later whirled him into the air, while Mildred cried out in
agonizing tones:

"Sidney, Sidney, come back, come back; don't leave me!" But on he flew,
with the wind raising him higher and higher into the air, while she
moaned until she felt her heart would break. Everything was so dark
about her that she could not see, and then, suddenly it began to clear.
Darkness was not about her, for overhead burned an electric light. She
lay across a bed. She stood up and looked about her.

Her brain throbbed terribly, while she tried to recall where she was,
and then slowly it all came back to her. Miss Jones--the visit to the
blind tiger--a bottle of coca cola--"Oh, my God!" she cried in piteous
tones. "I'm lost! I'm lost! I'm lost!"

She rushed to the door. It was bolted. She paused a moment as she stood
by it. Where had _he_ gone! She had a watch on her wrist; she looked at
it. She had not been there long. She recalled looking at it just before
drinking the stuff in the glass. That was exactly an hour before. It was
fully a half hour later when she had been brought to this place. But
_where_ was the man.

She looked across the room to a chair. Over the back of it lay the
overcoat he had worn. Then it became clear to her. He had stepped out a
moment to get something perhaps. She walked to the door quickly and
tried the knob. It was locked and the key was gone. She became frantic
as she ran around the room. She tried the window again. Useless.
Besides, when she peeped under the shade, it was too far to the ground.
She stood dumbly for a moment. Presently, mechanically, she walked to a
dresser that stood to one side, and peered in the glass at herself. She
recoiled when she saw her face. It was swollen, and her eyes looked
strange. She could not believe herself. She looked again. "Yes," she
whispered, "this is _I_!" She looked away. The top of the dresser was
covered with a newspaper. Mechanically she found herself looking over
it. It was not a city paper, she could see, so, somewhat curiously, she
turned it over and saw the front page. Her eyes chanced to fall on an
article two columns in width. She read a few lines, and then, with a
muffled cry, she staggered backward, clutching the paper. She sought the
chair or the bed--anything, she was too weak to stand now. But, ere she
had reached either, she suddenly stood stiffly erect, while the blood
seemed to freeze in her veins.

A step sounded in the hallway, and a moment later, a key rattled in the
lock. The _man_ was returning.




CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"_Go Brother! In God's Name, Go!_"


"I am truly sorry to see the <DW52> people of this town fail in their
effort to secure a Y.M.C.A. for their youth," said the secretary of the
white Y.M.C.A., as he rested his elbows for a moment upon the cigar
case.

"And they won't get it after all," said a young man whose father had
given five hundred dollars to the cause. "They certainly need something
of the kind. The crime and condition of the <DW52> people of the
southern states, give this section a bad name in the eyes of the
enlightened world," he commented, lighting a cigarette and sprawling his
legs in front of him, when he had taken a seat.

"I regret it more because that fellow, Wilson Jacobs, the secretary, has
been a faithful worker, if there ever was one," the secretary said
thoughtfully.

"How did they happen to fall down on it? I understand that the white
association has subscribed twenty-five thousand dollars?" inquired
another.

"So did a Chicago Jew, and likewise seventeen thousand dollars were
subscribed from the city and other places, by the white people; but only
ten thousand dollars could be raised among the <DW52> people--or
rather, only about five thousand. He secured about the same amount from
the white people here and in the north."

"I met that fellow down here one day, and say!" exclaimed another, "he
impressed me as much as any person I ever met, I want to tell you!"

"How did they ever come out with the effort over at Grantville?"
inquired another.

"They failed," said the secretary, and then added: "The gift from the
Jew philanthropist has run for five years, and expires tonight at twelve
o'clock." So saying, all eyes sought the clock that hung on the wall
above them.

"They have only a few minutes left, according to that," smiled one.

"Say, wouldn't it be a sensation, if that fellow came tearing in here at
one minute to twelve," said one, and laughed. The others joined in, but
the secretary did not share in the joke, notwithstanding that it was not
meant to be depreciating.

"If he should," said the secretary, walking from behind the case, "I am
authorized to acknowledge the same, and the <DW52> people would get
their association. But, of course, I do not anticipate such miracles
tonight."

A moment later, they all filed to another part of the building, where
hundreds were gathered to watch the old year out and the new in, and
where music soon made them forget the subject they had been discussing.

       *       *       *       *       *

Twenty minutes of the year was left. In five minutes Wilson Jacobs would
call his sister, and together they would watch. But the new year would
bring no joy to their hearts. It meant that a great struggle would end
in failure. He watched the clock by the minute. It was now eleven
forty-one. Nineteen minutes left.

Presently he heard a light footfall. He looked up and saw his sister
coming toward him. She looked tired and worn; the strain she had been
laboring under was plainly evident in her face.

She came straight to him. What was it that made her regard him as she
did. Had she seen, in these last minutes, how much it hurt him to have
to pronounce his great effort a failure. She advanced to where he sat,
and impulsively bent over and kissed him. As she raised up, both pairs
of eyes saw the clock, and both pair of lips murmured:

"Eighteen minutes left." And then his lips said:

"Yes, sister, eighteen minutes left to raise twenty-five thousand
dollars for the Y.M.C.A. for our people." He lowered his head, and
sighed long and deeply. She placed her hands about his forehead, and let
them slip back over his hair.

"My poor brother, my poor brother!" And then, for the first time she
observed a package. With womanly curiosity, she inquired:

"What is this, Wilson?" and pointed toward it. He sat up quickly as
though he had been asleep.

"That," he replied, blinking. "Why, I don't know. I declare. I didn't
know it was there." He was thoroughly awake now, as well as curious.

"Wonder what it is," she said, curiously.

"I don't know," he breathed, turning the package over. "And you are sure
you didn't put it there?"

"Oh, no, but I am curious to know what it contains," and she turned it
over, while her face lit with a little smile that was carefree. He saw
it, and said:

"Why dear, if it will please you, open it as the last thing in the old
year."

"Oh, brother, that is so nice of you," and she took the knife he handed
her, opened it, and quickly cut the strings. A package was enclosed,
tied with paper. She pursued the task of cutting strings, and then, as
she unwrapped the paper from about it she mused:

"Oh, I wonder what it can be!" It was open now, and two pairs of eyes
opened their widest, while her voice cried:

"Wilson, Wilson! My God! It's money! _It's money to save the Y.M.C.A.
for our people!_" Both now regarded the clock. Fifteen minutes was left
to reach the Y.M.C.A. building thirteen blocks away! It was she who
spoke:

"Go brother! In God's name, go!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Had it been any other night but the night of December thirty-first, a
man who tore wildly down the middle of the street, bareheaded, and with
a woman with hair flowing loosely behind her, the officers on duty would
surely have made an arrest. But as it was, they only smiled amusedly, as
they remarked a new freak of meeting the new year. How little did any
feel or know that upon that wild run, depended one hundred thousand
dollars for the salvation of thousands of black youth, until the end of
time....

The papers carried the account in large headlines the following morning.

     "REVEREND WILSON JACOBS SPRINGS A COUP

     "Energetic worker and secretary of the Y.M.C.A. for the <DW52>
     people raised twenty-five thousand dollars, and completed the
     condition of the association at two minutes of twelve o'clock last
     night. Two minutes later, more than seventy-five thousand dollars
     would have been unavailable for the purpose."

In a column and a half, the people of the city and elsewhere read the
account of the wonderful victory that meant so much for the <DW52>
people of the city, of which the population was two-fifths. It was
likewise a victory for the white people, all of whom could appreciate
the fact. In securing the same, the city, with the unenviable reputation
of being one of the most criminal cities in the world, now took first
place in the line for uplift among the <DW52> people, as it would be
the only city in the south to have a Y.M.C.A. for its black population.

The fact made thousands of black people buy the blind tigers and
drugstores out of whiskey on New Years day. _It was their greatest day
since freedom!_

In Grantville, everybody wondered how they had done it, and in Effingham
and Attalia; and then the people of the fortunate city wondered too,
after their excitement had cooled and they could think. Wilson Jacobs
wondered likewise, and so did Constance. Everybody wondered.

But they never knew.


END OF BOOK THREE




BOOK IV




CHAPTER ONE

"_'Scriminatin' 'G'inst Nigga's_"


"Do you read d' papers?"

"A' co'se I does. Wha' kind-a 'sinuations y're tryin' t' pass on me,
nigga?" said one, whose feelings were, at that moment, very much
injured.

The heavy train pulled cumbersomely to the summit, and stopped a moment,
while the switch engine attached to the rear, was uncoupled. A moment
later, it continued on its way.

Miles to the rear and below Effingham it struggled for one brief moment,
and then, as a curve in the mountain was being made, it finally
disappeared from view.

Sidney Wyeth settled back in his seat in the front end of the Jim Crow
car, and, with his feet spread over the seat ahead, prepared himself
languidly to enjoy the four hundred odd miles that were before him.

Only half a car, possibly not that much, was given over to the use of
the  passengers. It was as comfortable as the other part of the
train, however, so no discrimination was evident. The portion given to
them was, of course, next to the baggage car; while far to the rear, as
he observed when the train rounded a curve, fully eight or ten cars were
more or less filled with white passengers. About half the number were
Pullmans.

"Den 'f y' read d' papers, yu autta know 'bout dis 'scrimination dat is
a-goin' on up dere in Washington," he overheard between three or four
<DW64>s a few seats to the rear.

"Ah reads th' papers eve' day; but I 'on know wha' you's a-drivin' at,"
contended another.

"Den you do'n read d' papers den, case all dis accurred up dere las'
fall, 'n' dere was a big awgument 'bout it, 'n' all de no'then papers
done took sides agi'nst d' president."

"Aw, sho!" cried the second speaker now quickly. "Ah knows what youah
talkin' 'bout now, sho thing!" And he nodded his head understandingly.
The other observed him nevertheless, dubiously, but was patient while
the other enlightened him.

"Yeh; you 'ferrin' t' dat bill dey had up dare about 'scriminatin'
ag'inst nigga's. M-m. Yeh. Des 'ere bill was a pretest from--well,
somebody up no'th, a'-cose; but it's to make dem stop havin' nigga's
eatin' in d' kitchen, dat us it, sho," and he looked about him into the
faces of the listeners.

The first speaker, confident at first that he was going to show the
other up as not knowing as much as he, looked a trifle disappointed; but
he didn't grant the other the benefit of the doubt.

The second speaker went on:

"Yeh, I don read all 'bout dat. Yu see," he explained very
ostentatiously, "dare was 'n' editor, a sma't nigga frum Boston who had
done _been t' school 'n' graduated frum college, and knowed ebreting_,
'n' 'e 'as a bill down dare t' Washington, 'n' eve' body says t' 'im:
'Why 'on' you take dat bill up 'n' make d' president sign it!' So dis
nigga 'e finally git mad 'n' takes it 'roun' to de president's office,
'n' shows it to'im 'n' tole him: 'Sign it!' Now, dy president he look at
it, and read it over a little. Then 'e jumped up outer 'is chaeh, 'n'
says: 'I won' sign tha' bill!' 'N' dey says 'e got awful mad, 'n'
sto'med aroun' fo' 'n' houh.

"So dis Boston nigga 'e got mad den, too, 'n' den 'e got du' president
tole. Says 'e: 'I voted fo' yu; 'n' so did a lotta udder crazy nigga's,
'n' now we 'us about t' be drivin outta du race, kase why? So now, I dun
come all d' way heah frum Boston wi' dis bill that I wants you t' sign,
t' make dese secretaries quit fo'cin' nigga's t' eat in d' kitchen!' Den
du president 'e got madder still, 'n' wants t' fight. But they pa'ts 'm,
but d' president 'lows: 'I won' sign dat bill, I won' sign it!' 'E
stamps 'is foot den, 'e be so mad. But dis nigga, 'e ain' no southern
darkey 'n' 'e stans pat, an 'monstrates dat 'e will sign it, ah dare
won' no mo' nigga's t' vote fo' 'im fo' president. Well, du' president
'e is so mad dat he sto'm, 'n' finally says: 'I won' sign dat bill, I
won' sign hit! Befo' I'll sign that bill--'n' 'e strikes 'is desk wi'
'is fist--'I'll qui' mah job!'"

"But," said another, who, up to this time, had taken no part in the
harrangue, "the president, ah taut, ain' axed t' sign a bill ontell it
had been acted on by congress."

The others looked at each other now, in some surprise. Then they
observed the speaker, in a manner that was serene with contempt, for his
apparent ignorance. (?) Then the second speaker said:

"Aw, dis bill, y' see, 'us a secret. Dey wa'nt but three people knowed
'bout it. 'N' dey was du editor and du president--'n'--," he was
thoughtful now, as he meditated for a moment, and then said,
"_Roosevelt!_"

By this time the train had gotten under way, and it thundered on its way
southward, down among the scrub pines that stood back from the single
track. Croppings of iron, Wyeth observed, reached far to the south of
Effingham, while the country, as far as soil was concerned, was a
desolate lot of red clay and rock. The train tore through numerous
little towns, consisting of a number of shacks, built mostly of plain
boards, standing straight up and down, with smaller boards nailed on the
cracks. Before some of these shanties played white children, whose
appearance showed the life they lived, which was apparently that of
poverty; while at some distance, he also observed were other houses, not
as respectable as those behind which white children played, and occupied
by <DW64>s. Little patches of cleared land that was scratched over,
denoted that agriculture was attempted in even this poor soil. By the
slenderness of the dead stalks, he could see that it would take many
acres to produce a bale of cotton.

On to the south the train hurried, and as they neared the capital of the
state, he observed, with some encouragement, that the soil grew a little
deeper; but, at the best, would have been laughed at back in the
_Rosebud Country_. And the same sight met his gaze all along. This had
once been a proud, aristocratic state; but, he wondered if it became so
by the returns of crops from such poor land. Yet he was seeing only a
small part of it from the car window.

A cotton gin greeted the traveler at almost every station; while
everywhere the scrub pines and rocks were largely in evidence. If all
the state was like what he saw from the car window, with the exception
of that which lay about the capital for a distance of fifteen or twenty
miles, he scarcely wondered that so many <DW64>s preferred the city,
where wages were sufficient to give them something in life.

It was a cold, disagreeable day in the beginning; but, as afternoon wore
on, he was cheered to see the elements clear, and the air become warmer.

The highlands were behind them now, and had given place to great trees,
while back from the track log houses interspersed the forest here and
there. The further south the train pulled, the deeper became the swamp,
while the trees towered to heights that could not be fully estimated
from the car window. The atmosphere, which had before been dry, was now
charged with a peculiar dampness, that seemed to rise from the earth,
which melted away from the tracks.

After many miles, in which the afternoon sun barely penetrated the deep
forest, the train passed through another pine district. The trees were
slender and scattered, while thousands of stumps stood lowly and darkly
about. As he looked closer, he saw that among the standing timber, at
the base, were little buckets. He made inquiries and was told that this
was where turpentine came from. He laughed then at his ignorance. He had
forgotten entirely that it was the south which produced the greatest
amount of this article.

"And when they have tapped the tree for such a purpose, I suppose it is
of no further good but to be cut down?"

"They cut them down at once, and make most of them into cord wood,"
replied the person of whom he asked.

"Now these people," said Wyeth, pointing to the black people, "they
attend to the most of it?"

"Yes; the women to the turpentine, and the men to the timber."

The train had now come into a land of swamp. As far as eyes could see,
there was a profusion of vines and palm leaves. He wondered if that was
where the palm leaf fans came from. If so, the harvest was abundant. For
miles and miles the swamp was thick with them, and they appeared to be
all of fan size. Water stood a foot deep, while the track rose, perhaps,
upwards of four or five feet above it all. The trees were a strange
variety to him, while nowhere for miles did it appear possible for
anyone to live. The mosquitoes, he judged, must surely find this place a
haven when the days were warm; while fever could fairly thrive.

Now the train had left the deeper forests, and was rolling across
numerous trestles that stood high above the water. Great lagoons were
crossed, where large birds, sea gulls and others not so large, flew
about undisturbed. Miles away at last, rose church spires and ship
hoists, and he then knew they were approaching a city that was a great
seaport.

A half hour later, they stood in the station. He found his way out over
the tracks and into the station, where he entered the  waiting
room and lunch counter. They were supposed to stop twenty minutes there;
but, before the lunch he had ordered was served, he observed the train
pulling out. He tore out and was about to pass through a gate that was
open, but was halted by a young white man, who informed him that it was
the gate white people passed through.

"But I'm traveling on that train, and it is pulling out," he cried
frantically.

"Don't make any difference," said the other coldly. "Enter through the
<DW65>s' gate," and pointed to the rear. Wyeth tore down there, but it
was closed and locked. He gave up. Aboard the train was his luggage,
while he must stand and see it go on without him, simply for the sake of
a rule, that <DW64>s and whites cannot walk through the same gate. He
was disgusted over such an occurrence, and stood watching his train
disappear. It had gone well toward the end of the yards, when it came to
a stop, while the locomotive attached thereto, whistled two or three
times. Another man came to the gate, and Wyeth said to him:

"I'm traveling on that train. Can I not pass through this gate and catch
it?"

He was permitted to, and breathed a deep drawn sigh. As he passed the
<DW2> who kept him back, he gave him a look, and wished they were both in
the _Rosebud Country_ at that moment....

A waiter, who had seen him go into the station, had the vestibule of the
diner open, and it was through this he entered, as he caught the moving
train.

"I knew you would get balled up!" he exclaimed. "I saw your controversy
at the gate.... And wasn't surprised, for you see, this is a _white
man's country_." Thereupon he smiled a hard, dry smile. Wyeth passed
forward to the Jim Crow car, and forgot the incident, for it was best
so.

They had now come into the greater city, and he got off.

"Where can good accommodations be had here?" he inquired of the porter.

"Want a place to stop?" His face lightened perceptibly. "If you will
wait until I get through--say ten or fifteen minutes--I'll carry you to
a good place," he said, and Sidney waited.

He sat in the waiting room listening to the noise without. About the
four sides of the wall, sat many little girls--that is, girls. They
smiled upon him, and made immodest advances. He wondered at it, but then
he recalled that this was supposed to be the most profligate town in our
states. He paid little attention to them. Others entered, and they
smiled upon them also.

Presently the porter appeared, clothing changed, and dressed neatly.
Several of the girls gathered about him, and said many foolish things.
He smiled upon some of them, while he told others to go to the devil;
and still others he told to go to----but we will stop here. And then
they told him he could go there, too. They left then, and Wyeth and he
walked up a street that was the widest, he felt certain, that he had
ever seen.

"Where are you from?" inquired the porter.

Wyeth told him; whereupon the other whistled.

"That's a long way from here. How do you like these parts?"

Wyeth didn't answer the last; but to the first he said: "Yes, a long
way," and fell silent.

"Ever been here before?" said the porter.

"Twelve years and more ago."

"See quite a difference now, eh?"

"I was not here long enough to see what there was in the beginning."

They walked up a street that was intersected at various and irregular
intervals, by numerous other streets, that were as narrow, if not more
so, than the one they were following was wide. In the center of the wide
street were four car lines. This part of the street was raised above the
other, and was protected by a curbing, that prevented anything with
wheels from crossing, only at the intersections. Wyeth remembered this.
It was something he had never seen elsewhere, and he wondered who could
have conceived the idea of making one street so wide, and then crossing
it with others that were so narrow that only one single street car track
was possible, and, when passing down it, the wagons on either side had
to hug the curbing closely, or be collided with.

"A beautiful place," he commented, pointing to the maze of electric
lights that lined the narrow cross streets, and made their way as bright
as day--brighter, he came afterwards to see, when it rained.

"This town was settled by French and Spaniards many years ago, and they
were very artistic in planning for the future of the city," said the
other.

"It is apparent on all sides; I can see that," Wyeth agreed.

"There are some of the most beautiful <DW52> people here you ever saw,"
said the other.

"There is one now," said Wyeth, as a woman, different from the kind he
had been accustomed to, passed by.

"Creole," advised the other.

"And this is their native soil, so I understand," said Wyeth, turning
his head to take another look at the woman with the beautiful face.

"There are some," said the porter, "who cannot speak English at all."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Wyeth.

"Yes," went on the other. "Plenty cannot speak a word of English, and
they may be found in what is called the French district. It is there you
find them with the most beautiful skin, and the finest and heaviest hair
you ever saw."

"I hear they have frightful tempers," said Wyeth. "Is it true?"

"I would advise you to avoid any conflict with them, lest you find out,"
said the other, smiling amusedly.

"What is that?" said Wyeth, pointing to a bar before which stood many
men drinking.

"Why, what?" said the other, then replied: "A saloon."

"And they are open on Sunday?" Yet he was not surprised when he had
thought, for he had seen the same elsewhere. But the other replied:

"The saloons never close here."

"Never close! What do you mean?" said Wyeth.

"What I say," from the other.

"And still I do not understand you," said Wyeth. And then added: "What
time do they open in the morning?"

"They do not close at night; therefore, they do not have to go to the
trouble of opening in the morning."

"Uh huh!"

"There are saloons here that boast of having not closed since before the
Revolutionary War."

"Good night!" Wyeth laughed. "Something historical down here!"

"You'll learn more when you have been here a while. This is the city of
history--American history. We turn here."

And Wyeth came to see for himself. They were crossing the wide street
now, and went up another that was as wide, but no cars ran up that way.

"This is Basin court," said the other, as they paused outside of a
two-story structure, that opened its doors upon the street.

A big, fat, brown-skinned man appeared presently, and bade them enter.

When they were inside they met another--a woman, and she was fatter
still. It was the man's wife, and she appeared to be in charge, from her
statements regarding the rental. They were from Alabama, and one glance
was sufficient to show they were not creole.

Wyeth bought some beer, and the fat man went for it with a pitcher. He
returned with as much for a dime, as would have cost twenty-five cents
in Effingham. He said so to the other, and then the others laughed and
said:

"This is the city where they drink it. They drink more here than
anywhere else in the world." Wyeth recalled a year before--but then
these people had seen only a small part of the world, as their
conversation later revealed, and, of course--but it didn't matter.

"You genemens goin' to the dance?" said the woman.

"To the dance?" Wyeth repeated. "This is Sunday!"

They smiled at him now--all of them--and then said:

"Sunday is the day of sport in this town. More dances occur on Sunday
than any other day."

Wyeth whistled.

"This is the creole city," and they smiled again.

"This gentleman is from a more pious territory," said the porter,
appreciatively. He seemed to be very intelligent.

"What kind of work do the genemen follow?" asked the hostess.

"Books," Wyeth replied.

"They don't read much down here," she said, dubiously.

"Some do everywhere--more or less!"

"They are strongly engaged in the art of having a good time here,"
remarked the porter, and laughed.

"I suppose so," said Wyeth. "And, since practically half of the <DW52>
people of the state are illiterate, I am, of course, compelled to agree
with you."

They talked on other topics now, and Wyeth, not feeling sleepy,
suggested venturing out sight seeing. He went alone, and what he saw, he
did not soon forget.

When the door had closed behind him, and his steps died away in the
distance, the fat man winked and the woman smiled; then the pair spoke,
in the same breath:

"Books--huh! He he! Books--huh! He he!" They regarded the porter with a
smile; but he did not, strange to say, share their point of view. But
they had their say, nevertheless.

"Books--huh!"




CHAPTER TWO

_At Last She Didn't Care_


Mildred stood in the middle of the room, directly under the electric
light that filled the room with its bright rays. She could see the end
of the key, as it turned in the lock, and, in that moment, a scheme
entered her head, like a flash. Locating the direction of the door, and
facing toward it, she reached up suddenly and switched off the light.
Instantly the room was ingulfed in darkness. She hurried to the door,
and stood just to one side. Presently the knob turned and the man
entered. He stood on the threshold a moment, and she heard him say:

"Ah, the little girl is sleeping peacefully," and laughed. "That was a
devil of a dose a-whiskey that girl gave her, though! Knocked her stiff!
Darned if I don't believe she was handing the straight dope after all."
He advanced now toward the middle of the room. Quick as a flash she
stepped out, and, seeing he had left the key in the lock, she jerked the
door closed, and, turning the key, which she allowed to remain, rushed
to the end of the steps, and hurried down as fast as she could safely
venture.

It was dark outside, and no one stood about the entrance. She struck the
pavement, looked up and down a brief moment, and then hurried in a
direction that led to whither she knew not, but to escape was her only
thought. She hurried along for fully three blocks, and then turned in
another direction, and then one block in another, and paused--feeling
safe at last.

Up to this time, she was not conscious that her head was aching to a
point that was almost splitting. She placed her hand upon her forehead,
and only then was she aware that she had the paper she had picked from
the dresser, closely clutched in her hand. The words she had seen there,
made her at once forget her headache and all else.

She thought of something then. She looked at the watch on her wrist.
"Yes, thank God, there is yet time." An hour later she came back to the
place where she had stood, and continued in the direction she had been
going, looking from right to left for a lodging house.

She stopped at several places where a sign over the front advertised
rooms, but, at each one they wanted men only. She had no thought of
going back to where she had been stopping the last week; and, besides,
she knew not where she was, nor did she know the street or number where
she had been stopping, therefore was confident she could not have found
it, had she wished to return.

Upon the street, she encountered many people celebrating the event of
the coming year, and then she tried a small house that set back in a
yard, and which appeared very neat from where she viewed it. She secured
a room, and retired at once. Setting the oil lamp on a chair next to the
bed, she unfolded the paper and read the article on the front page
carefully, over and over again. It was an Effingham paper, and a date of
some time before. When she had read it, until she was convinced that she
was not dreaming, she sighed restfully as she murmured:

"At last, oh Lord, at last!"

It was the Effingham _Age-Herald_, and the issue contained the article
by Sidney Wyeth, in which he severely arraigned the leading people of
his race in that city for their disregard of the general welfare of
their people.

"I'm so glad, so glad," she whispered softly. "And to think that it came
to my attention in such an extraordinary manner!" She felt her forehead,
and winced when the heat and throb came into contact with the touch. She
made a wry face, as she recalled the taste of stale whiskey. Only then
did she become aware, that when she had turned at the sound of the
piano, someone had filled her glass with liquor. And she had drunk it
before she realized that it had been doped. She thought of the incident;
from the time she had met Miss Jones at the corner, and had been
informed of the part of the town she was in. She shuddered and drew the
coverlets closely about her, as her mind went over it again. She then
tried to recall how she had followed Miss Jones to the place where she
had met the men. And there she had drunk for the first time in her life,
whiskey, although she was not at the moment aware of it. She rose out of
the bed, as the dream came back to her; how the tornado had taken Sidney
into the air, and then the story of the hills and the Indians. She
pondered for a time, and wondered if such a thing had been the history
of the _Rosebud Country_. And Sidney Wyeth had not been caught in a
tornado, but had swept a multitude of people with his pen, in a burning
article. She read over a part of it again. The very evils he had berated
the most fiercely, were the things she had heard Wilson Jacobs deplore,
and speak of more than once. Yes, Sidney Wyeth had written the truth.
And from the way it was pictured, she reckoned that it must have created
a bit of excitement. And that was the kind of man Sidney Wyeth was. She
smiled as she thought of it.

"And I love him. Was it because of these principles, that I strangely
felt were inherent in him, that he has been my dream, which has grown
larger in my estimation, in the months I have had no word of him?" she
asked herself. "I am going to him--I am, tomorrow. Of course," she
replied to herself in the next sentence, "I am not going directly to
him.... He wouldn't quite appreciate that--oh, he wouldn't appreciate me
at all; but I love him, and am going where he is, and after that----"
she had no other words, nor thoughts. To be where he was, maybe to see
him, became the uppermost desire in her mind.

She did not, strangely enough, think any more about the Y.M.C.A. She
thought of her lover as, with a peaceful smile, she fell asleep. She did
not dream that night, but lay as she had fallen asleep, and it was six
o'clock the following morning, the first of January, when she awakened.

She lay a half hour without any thoughts in her mind, and then,
observing a window next to the bed, she raised it slightly, and peeped
out. It was not yet so very light. It was, apparently, a quiet street,
occupied by working people who were now in many numbers on the way to
their work. A boy with a bunch of papers under his arm was passing in
their midst, and then suddenly she wrapped on the window pane. He looked
up, being accustomed to doing so, and, catching sight of her hand,
entered the gate and stood under the window with an upraised paper,
while she fished out a nickel and dropped it into his hand.

She smiled with an expression of satisfaction, as she read the article
relating to the Y.M.C.A. for  youth of the city, and was glad to
note that Wilson Jacobs came in for a great deal of praise. She laid it
aside for a time, and was thoughtful again.

"Yes," she whispered to herself, "I will leave the city at once. The one
thing I so much desired, and which has kept me here through these weary
months, has been obtained." She closed her lips and planned further.

She decided to go to Effingham. She would send an expressman for her
things at Mother Jane's that morning. She would then purchase a ticket
and go by the first train. She turned to the editorial column of the
paper, and was made happy by a lengthy editorial, relating the effort
for the Y.M.C.A., and praising Wilson Jacobs further.

She did not know, however, that the editor of the paper that she was
reading, and who was one of the most ardent supporters in the Christian
forward movement in the south, had been at the Y.M.C.A. the evening
before. He had come with the others, out of curiosity, when Wilson
Jacobs had torn into the building, bareheaded and looking like an insane
man. And he had written the article the first thing in the new year.

She arose and dressed herself at seven o'clock, and slipped out of the
house without awakening anyone. It was getting light now, and she went
some blocks before she encountered an expressman that satisfied her.
She gave him the instructions, and walked about, impatiently, while she
waited for him to return. As she was waiting, she became possessed with
a desire to see the little house occupied by the Jacobs, and where she
had spent so many happy, hopeful months.

She had no trouble finding it, since light had given her an acquaintance
with her surroundings. She found that she was not far from it, and then
recognized with a start, that the same drayman she had sent for the
goods, was the one who had taken the same from the Jacobs' a few months
before. He had not recognized her, and she now gave him no further
chance to do so.

She walked until the house was in sight, and then, going around a block,
she found herself within a half block of it. Smoke was coming from the
kitchen chimney, and she knew they were astir.

"Bless them!" she murmured, as she realized how happy must be their
hearts that morning. "And that is why they are astir so soon. They do
not usually arise until nearly eight o'clock."

As she stood gazing longingly at the house, she saw Constance emerge
from the rear, and scatter wheat to a few chickens they had taken a
delight in raising the past summer. "If I could only go to her in this
minute, and feel her caress for just a moment, I would leave the city
the happiest woman in the world." She stopped when she had said this. To
realize that she was slipping out of the city like a criminal, without
greeting the friends she had there, made her feel peculiarly guilty. She
had no enmity in her heart toward anyone--not even the man who haunted
her into the position she now assumed, and whose sole purpose had been
to satisfy an animal desire. She knew she could not go to Constance, nor
to Mother Jane's--nor to anyone. She would leave the city without saying
goodbye to a soul. She turned her face away, as she recalled that she
had left Cincinnati the same way. She had no friends there, and had
avoided making acquaintances. She almost choked with guilty anguish as
she asked herself:

"Is it always to be this way? Am I forever to go from place to place
under cover like a criminal? Am I always to be without friends?" She
couldn't make answer. She could have a certain kind of friends; but she
shuddered when she realized what kind they would be. She had never told
anyone the secret.

She had no desire, strangely, to do so. Only one person among those she
loved knew it, she now conjectured. And she would leave to be near him
soon. He knew--a part of it ... and he had turned away and had passed
out of her life, when he learned it. He would never come back; he would
never forget it--and even if, through any possible chance, she proved to
him that it was all a very different problem, could he ever forgive her?
Perhaps that was what made it harder to bear. She almost believed he
would not. In reading his book, she had marked a cold, decided stand,
and she felt that, if he had made up his mind against her, which he had
apparently done, he was not likely to change.... It depended upon the
strength of his resolutions. She could never get beyond a certain point
in her dreams. But in spite of that fact, something within her longed to
be near him; to see him; not to ask forgiveness--not to do anything; but
just to be near him, that was all.

Wilson Jacobs stood on the porch at the front of the house now, smoking
a cigar in a way, she could at this distance see, he enjoyed. Yesterday
morning he could not have smoked in so much peace; but today, the future
was brighter than it had ever been for him; she felt this, and it was
true. As he stood looking about him, Wilson Jacobs was happy. He was not
happy over his own success--for Wilson Jacobs did not feel that he had
made the success--but he was happy from the fact that the young <DW64>
men of that wicked, criminally torn city, would soon be the recipients
of a movement that would insure a brighter future, less tinged with
degradation and vice.

Presently he turned, as though responding to a call, and entered the
house. Mildred surmised that he had been called to breakfast. She turned
on her heel, and went back to the expressman's place, and met him
returning with the things.

They were all packed. The trunk only required a rope around it, and it
was ready for the station. She instructed the expressman to this end,
and met him at the depot, where she purchased a ticket for Effingham.

She strolled outside and to a nearby restaurant, where she partook of a
hearty breakfast, for she was hungry. She returned to the station, and
waited patiently for the arrival of the train from the north, that would
take her away from the city where she had been for many months. If it
had not fallen to her lot to encounter the man who had known her back in
Cincinnati, she could have left the city with friends at the depot, and
much more ceremoniously; but she was glad that she was leaving it as it
was. When she had awakened the evening before, she had, for a moment,
felt that she could not leave it without a terrible pang of conscience.

The train had arrived, and the people were hurrying in that direction.
She joined them, and, as she was passing through the gate, she turned
for a moment, and looked into the face of the man who had sent her away
like this. She regarded him without a tremor of fright. At last she
didn't care. A moment later she entered the car.




CHAPTER THREE

"_They Knew He Had Written the Truth_"


"Yes," said the man, "I knew Sidney Wyeth well. He was, in fact, a
personal friend of mine; and, let me tell you, Madam, there never was a
fellow more interested in the welfare of his people, from a general
point of view, than the one you inquire about."

"Indeed!" she echoed, with a pleased smile.

"Yes, Madam, I speak the truth. My name is Jones," he said. "I am the
editor of the _Reporter_, and Mr. Wyeth used to drop into the office
here quite often, and talk with me about the condition of our people in
the south. He was a conscientious fellow, void of pretense, and with a
regard for anyone's point of view. Yes, Wyeth was a fellow who insisted
upon calling a spade a spade, not a hoe; but there is an element of
people here--or was, rather--before the appearance of an arraignment by
Wyeth, who had only contempt for anyone's opinion other than their own.
Oh, I'll tell you, Miss, you cannot imagine how this has been worrying
me for years. I have been conducting this paper for some time, and have
struggled to make it a good sheet; but, of course, we cannot collect
from advertising and make our paper pay, as we would like to see it." He
paused a moment, and then, making himself more comfortable, he fell into
a long conversation, in which, with much fervor, he told Mildred Latham,
whom he had observed was a careful and appreciative listener, of the
conditions Sidney Wyeth had seen and had written about.

"The papers told about the success of Wilson Jacobs in securing a
Y.M.C.A. for the town northwest of here, and God knows how glad I am to
see that our people in the south are coming to appreciate a Christian
forward movement. We have been, in a way, steering in a direction that
got us nowhere, and that was the way Wyeth used to discuss it. We have
here, and in the town just mentioned, the worst <DW64>s under the sun,
and yet counted as civilized people. And it seems to have been forgotten
or overlooked, that our salvation, in a moral sense, as well as in a
practical and progressive, depends first upon our own initiative. I
cannot account for the selfishness that has so pervaded the lives of our
professional people. Last summer, in a lengthy article, a Mr. B.J.
Dickson, editor of the _Attalia Independent_, scored the physicians of
that city for a little incident, that in itself showed a mark of
narrowness that few would or could be brought to believe."

He then related the article in brief, stating that the color line had
been drawn among the <DW52> people themselves, and became very much
worked up over the fact that most of the people who had been invited,
did not, as a rule, employ <DW64> doctors for professional purposes.

"I have hinted at the things Mr. Wyeth attacked in his article, and I
have, more than once, pointed to the evils in our own society; but no
one paid any attention. No, they were too self-opinionated. They could
not see their faults in a <DW64> paper; but, when it was brought to their
attention on the front page of one of the most conservative papers
conducted by whites in the south, well, then, it appeared altogether
different.

"They stewed and deplored, became indignant, and all that; but the truth
cannot be played with. With all the noise that followed the publication
of the article, conscience became a burden. They knew to the last one,
that Sidney Wyeth had written the truth, and nothing but the truth. And,
thanks to God, there were enough good people to say, when the demagogues
were decrying it, that it was the truth. So now, in this city, where
times are hard, and many people are out of work; but with plenty of time
to think it over, there is in evidence a decided change, and it is my
opinion, that next summer will see this new idea put into effect--at
least started."

"So, Mr. Wyeth has located permanently here?" she inquired, after a
pause.

"Oh, no," he replied quickly. "I had become so stirred, when I recalled
how much life and appreciation that article of his had inspired in the
order of existence about here, that I forgot to say that Mr. Wyeth has
left the city. In fact, he left the city immediately after the
appearance of the article."

She caught her breath, and swallowed with surprise and disappointment.
He had left the city. Where had he gone to? She was afraid to inquire.
But Jones was speaking again, and saved her the embarrassment of
inquiring.

"Yes, he left a day or so afterward. He is not likely to locate in the
south. And, moreover, his mission in these parts is not, I am sure, one
of locating or hunting a location. He appears to be one seeking the
truth about our people." He told her of Wyeth's departure to the creole
city, and then, obviously anxious to unload his burden of opinions, to
which she listened with patient interest, he continued:

"I am of the opinion that he will write a book on these conditions in
the near future. And, if it compares with his article and carries a
romance interwoven, it will meet with public appreciation. He always
spoke of his home out west with much longing, and I suppose that the
atmosphere out there must be of the progressive spirit, which makes a
difference when one is forced to tolerate the conditions of sluggishness
down here."

"How are the people here on Christian forward work?" she asked.

"They had never thought of such a thing until Wyeth wrote the article,
and it was the same in regard to a library and a park. You see, Madam,
it has been like this," he explained: "Our people have been in the habit
of accepting everything (when it came to uplift) from the white people
as a matter of course, never letting it worry them, as far as their own
efforts were concerned. Then, again, what few books have been written,
with some exceptions (novels especially, and of which our race has
produced but few) have dealt with the <DW64> as a poor, persecuted
character, deserving everybody's sympathy. In some manner, the authors
have been either careful to avoid his more inherent traits, or they were
so fired with their subject matter, that they forgot it.

"Yes, Wyeth brought in a couple of books he had sent for, and which were
written by the most successful fiction writer our race has known. He
read them, and pointed out that only a slight mention was made therein,
that the <DW64> would lie--'excuse the expression'--and steal, get drunk,
and fight, and kill and gamble to such an extent, that he would lose his
last dollar, and lie out of paying an honest debt.

"Anyone who conscientiously knows the <DW64>, must certainly be aware of
these traits. Why then, should a writer build a work of the imagination,
in which he seeks to reveal to the reader the white man's hatred for his
black brother, without including in the same statement, that the <DW64>
has inherent traits, which are some of the worst evils good society is
called upon to endure? Wyeth judged this was the reason why these books
did not sell and the authors ceased to write, since they could not work
without a living profit.

"Of course, when we allow ourselves, our thoughts, rather, to dwell upon
the white man's prejudice, we will surely become pessimists. Who is not
aware of it? But it is the purpose of the practical <DW64> to forget that
condition as much as possible. To allow our minds to dwell upon it, and
predict what is likely to happen, is only to prepare ourselves for
eternal misery. So far as I believe, it is my opinion that the white man
will always hate the <DW64>. It may be argued that it is
un-Christianlike, which is true; but the fact to be reckoned with, and
which remains, is that the white man dislikes <DW64>s. But, when we have
our own welfare to consider first and last, it is logical that we turn
our energies to a more momentary purpose.

"I read Derwins' first book, a work of sociology, and which met a great
sale, and thereby brought him into public notice. Then I read his late
one, a novel, in which he portrayed the evil of prejudice. Like the
other author I refer to, he built his plot entirely upon that, leaving
the fact that the <DW64> possesses the many vices I have mentioned to be
understood. Of all races, the <DW64> is the most original and humorous.
Those who know him, even the least, look for some humor. Fancy, then,
how people must be disappointed, when they purchase and read a volume
concerning that race, and find it void of humor! The work of both these
men, like works other than fiction, by <DW64>s, is couched in the most
select words; but the people look for what they know to be current. And
when they do not find it, they are likely to lay the book aside, and
pick up something that is more to their taste.

"And, with all due regard for the writings of these men, if you read
their works carefully, you will discover their own lack of confidence in
the race whose cause they champion. I will relate a little incident to
show this:

"Follow the romance, and you will find it invariably centered about a
white couple. Why have they done this? The answer will be, a moral; but,
in my opinion, they could not imagine a <DW64> character strong enough to
weave into the plot, and, therefore, substituted white lovers, because,
in their imagination, it was more fitting.

"These men have quit writing, from the fact, that it did not pay; for,
it takes a world of thought, concentrated upon a certain purpose, to
write a novel. Any man with the ability to put a great thought into
words, and to employ words that are select, in the manner these men did
in their books, could, at least should be, practical enough to do so in
such a manner as to win an audience that would pay sufficiently for
their work to maintain them. Instead of that, they have both quit
writing. They were sincere, but did the worst possible thing by
quitting. For the quitter never gains anything; and, when it comes to
championing the cause of a people, the persons who have attempted the
same, should certainly adhere to the task." He paused now, as someone
knocked at the door.

"Come in," he called.

A woman, neatly dressed and attractive in appearance, and apparently
intelligent, entered.

"How do, Mr. Jones," she cried, stretching forth her hand. Mildred rose
to go, but Jones waved her back.

"Mrs. Langdon," he said kindly, "I am glad to see you. Be seated." She
took a seat. She turned to Mildred, who looked as though she felt she
was intruding, and said:

"It is nothing private!"

She drew from her bag a few sheets of paper, and, smoothing them out,
she handed them to the editor with: "Here is a little article I have
written, in honor of the young lady who is soon to make her appearance
here in recital, as you know, and which has been well advertised. I wish
to have you publish it in your paper," and then she smiled sweetly and
affected much modesty, as she added: "It will not be necessary that you
mention the same is written by me."

"But I wish you to have all that is your due, Mrs. Langdon," he
protested.

"Oh, very well, then," she said, and rising, with a few more words, she
took her leave.

Jones glanced over the page, and then started. "Excuse me just a moment,
Miss," he begged, and read the pages which were neatly written and
punctuated. When he had finished, he smiled and said, under his breath:
"That is certainly nerve."

Mildred regarded him curiously. He looked at her, and handed the
manuscript across the desk, saying: "Please read it."

She obeyed, and when she was through, said: "It is a nice eulogy," and
then her face showed the wonderment because of his expression of a
moment ago.

"Yes," he agreed, "it _is_ nice, but take a glance at this," and
forthwith drew from the top of the desk, a pamphlet with the picture of
an attractive <DW52> girl thereon.

Mildred observed the picture, and then read the article on the other
three pages. When she saw the editor's face again, she understood, but
she didn't say, in fact, she didn't know what to say. The editor
continued:

"These pamphlets are scattered all over town. Can you imagine a person
with her appearance and obvious intelligence doing such a thing? And
yet, this office is the recipient of many such instances."

The article had been copied from the three pages of the pamphlet he had
handed her, and which were scattered all over the town.




CHAPTER FOUR

_The Woman With the Three Moles_


She was now in the creole city. Before her lay the wide street that
Sidney Wyeth had followed; but it was lighted by the sun, for she had
arrived in the morning, whereas, he had come at night. She traveled with
only a handbag to encumber her, and, therefore, did not take a car, but
walked leisurely up the broad highway.

The street, she at once observed, was very wide; it was so wide that the
buildings appeared very low that lined the sides. She counted the
stories of one building, and found that it was not the wide street
alone, for the buildings were not high after all, not nearly so high as
any of the towns in which she had been. She wondered why they were not;
and, of course, it did not occur to her, that the city was built over
water that was only a few inches from the surface, and which, in fact,
seeped and stood upon the top whenever it could. Keeping the water below
the surface, in short, had been this city's problem ever since its
location. And it is no wonder, for, if anyone takes notice, the water of
the mighty river (that makes it possible as a port and encircles it
largely) is very often above the town. At several times in the history
of this city's existence, these waters have become so high, that they
threatened for days to spill over, and, therefore, submerge all the city
in a few minutes. But our story is not concerned with the possible
submerging of the town; we are concerned in following Mildred Latham, as
she walked curiously up one side of one of its broad highways.

She wondered, as had Sidney Wyeth--and as perhaps anyone else given to
observation would wonder--that it should build some streets so wide, and
at the same time make others so narrow that they were not adequate for
an alley. The buildings, as she saw them, with few exceptions, were old;
only a few had, apparently, been erected in the past ten years; while
over most of the sidewalks were sheds.

As she continued her indefinite wandering, she observed many
curiosities, not to be seen in other cities. "But, of course," she
murmured, "this is the creole city, and is known to be much more
historical than the rest of our country."

There are not so many <DW52> people encountered on the streets as in
other southern towns; although, viewing its last census of five years
before, there should be now not less than one hundred thousand of that
race within its limits. She saw many, however, and looked at them
curiously. Here and there was one that looked like a creole; while most
of them, were the usual kind.

Never had she seen so many cars on one street, as she saw on the four
tracks that ran down the middle of this one. They were arranged with a
curbing to protect, or keep slim-footed mules out of their way, so they
had to avoid the pedestrians only. Many police protected at every
intersection; but withal, she was nervous as she hurried across, at the
beckon of one who wore the bluest uniform, and a white hat--no, it was a
helmet.

She had arrived at Basin court, and did not know that she was within a
few doors of the man she loved. She gazed about for a time, and then
went on her way. She came, presently, abreast of a man--a <DW52>
man--and he was neat looking and intelligent. She paused with some
constraint, and said:

"Could you advise me, Mister, where I could secure lodging? I am a
stranger, and--I do not know where to go."

He looked at her keenly for a moment. Then his eyes glanced away and
down a street that intersected. On either side of that street were
houses--small houses that made a specialty of a room to the front, and
these rooms contained--but we have not come to that. And then he looked
at her again.

His eyes wandered back down that other street, and he thought for a
moment. He looked at her again, and then spoke. This girl might be
stalling--so many of them did--but still she was intelligent, and that
made a difference.

"I could not, Madam, I regret to say, for I do not live on this side. My
home is in Tunis, which is across the river. That is why I do not know."

"Oh," she said, and her tone was sorry, "you do not live on this side?"

"No, ma'am. You are a stranger here?" He eyed her keenly again.

"Yes, sir. I have just arrived," and she told him also, that she sold
books.

Her tone was pleasant; her words were correct; and she said them in such
a way that he forgot his suspicion, and then showed her forthwith much
courtesy.

"Indeed," he commented. "I wish I knew a place; but I am not so often on
this side, for I am a physician, and my duties keep me mostly over
there; but if you had happened to be wishing to stop over there, I could
place you." She thought quickly.

Sidney Wyeth was on this side, undoubtedly. She might at any time
encounter him. And she didn't know why, since that was what she had
hoped for; but she rather feared to encounter him right now. She had no
room or place to go, and, as she meditated, she could not see any reason
why she should not as soon be on the other side as on this. She liked
quietness. So she said:

"I had not decided whether I would stay across the river or here,
though, of course, I expected to stay on this side. I would, however, as
soon be on the other side, I think."

"In that event, then," said he, "you can accompany me home, for my
wife--we are recently married and she is a stranger and would be glad of
companionship--has a room, and it is for rent. So, when you have seen
it, and in case you are satisfied, you could have it. The charge, I
think, furnished, is seven dollars a month."

"That will be nice," she said, and was beside him. "I am sure I shall be
satisfied."

"Thank you," said he, "I am going over now, so if you are agreeable, we
will catch a ferry forthwith."

They now walked back down the broad highway, at the end of which could
be seen the stacks of many steamers. He pointed out, very kindly, sights
of interest and explained them.

"Now, here," he said, "is a store. The family who own it are rich, as
rich as any in the city, and it is said they are part <DW64>; though, of
course, they do not admit it. The city, you will find, is a historical
old place in many instances." And as they walked down the broad highway,
he told her a great deal that was so interesting, that it made the
distance which had seemed a long way an hour before, appear real short.
They went up to the river, and boarded a ferry.

It was a nice ride to the other shore. Once in the middle of the river,
which was very wide at this point, the creole city rose and stood
outlined in all its splendor. The waters near either shore were
decorated with many river steamers, and as many, if not more, ocean
liners. Great docks, grim and dark, opened their roller doors along the
banks; while the steamers before them swung great loads of freight in
their cellars.

"Miss Latham," said the doctor, when they had arrived at the house,
"this is my wife, Mrs. Winnie Jacques."

They greeted each other, and murmured many words, and, when the
introduction was over, Mrs. Jacques turned and asked Mildred to follow
her. As she did so, upon her neck, which rose above the loose kimono she
wore, was a mole; to the right of it another. Almost midway between the
two, but an inch below, was another. And now Mildred Latham gave a
start, then she swallowed hard. _Where had she seen the moles
before_--the three moles? Only one person in the world, she was sure,
possessed them. She followed the other to a room, and that night she
didn't sleep.

The next morning she kissed the other, before she left, but Mrs. Jacques
didn't know why. But she watched her strangely, as she walked toward the
ferry.




CHAPTER FIVE

"_Hello, Brown Skin!_"


He came abreast of a depot; it was new, with an imposing front, over
which was inscribed TERMINAL STATION in arched letters. It seemed quite
a long way back to the  waiting room, and the station was very
narrow. It ran back several hundred feet, where four or five tracks
received the incoming and outgoing human traffic. The station, like the
one he had come into a short while ago, was filled with men and women,
obviously idlers. He lingered only a few minutes, when curiosity led him
further. He left the station from the side entrance, and found himself
upon a very narrow street. He paused, and as he did so, strains of
ragtime music came to his ears. He was curious to see where it came
from, and to hear it closer. He crossed the street, and found that it
came from a place--a cabaret--but for white people only. He turned away
and went down the street, where something odd caught his attention.

He stood where the walks intersected, and gazed to his left. Yes, it was
a _feature_. On either side of the street stood a row of one-story
houses. Lights were bright, as bright as day, on either side, which fact
filled the narrow street with light also. He passed down one side; and
there were multitudes of men sauntering, as he was--but there were no
women, excepting in the one-story houses. They stood behind open doors,
some of them, while others sat in chairs before a grate fire; but one
and all, he noted, were thinly dressed and smiled on everybody--but
himself (for, you see, they were white women)--with amorous eyes.

"Come here dearie," said one--and many others said the same. "I have
something to tell you." "Indeed," he conjectured, "but secrets appear
to be the fashion here."

He walked to the end of that block, and where that street intersected
with another. And before him, on eight different sides, was a myriad of
the same. Women, thinly clad--and it, you understand, was the month of
January....

It was a sight to be indulged; a pastime that was diverting, to say the
least. And, since so very many others--men--were seeing it, why then not
he?

He saw it--at least a large part of it.

He strolled another block, and the same sight met his eye; but, as he
got further away from the station, the lights grew dimmer; the women
fewer, but plenty, at any rate.

Now he had reached a place where the crowds had not penetrated--only
stragglers lingered like himself--and where the women were of another
race, for now they were .

"Hello, Brown Skin," they greeted him, and he smiled back, but didn't
stop--not even to hear the secret that almost everyone had to tell him.

"You are sure some brown, kid. Just come here a moment. Don't be afraid,
I won't eat you."

"Indeed," he said to one who was very small, and could smile with more
effect than the others. "But I'm afraid." And he laughed aloud as he
went upon his way.

He had stopped now. He had to; for, before him was a brick wall--no, a
brick fence. It was painted white and was about eight or ten feet high;
while inside raised something sinister. "Gee!" he exclaimed. "But that
is a sight one does not appreciate."

He turned now, and passed down a side street, which was occupied by the
same. But he couldn't forget what stood grim and determined on the other
side. It had been there a long time too--before, oh, long before these
women had. Yes, and it would be there long after they had passed away,
and others, not yet born, had come to take their places. And as he
passed down the street, under the subtlety of those night smiles, that
place seemed to say--kept on saying:

"Play on she cats! Oh, play on! Hell's got your soul; but I'll have the
rest by and by." He turned the next corner and walked another block, and
lo! There stood another! "Kick high little girl; sin as you please;
Hell's got your hearts, but I'll have what's left--I won't say how
soon...."

"The devil!" he exclaimed. "This is the worst place for cemeteries I
ever knew. I'm going away from here, to my room." And he went.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Where do the wealthiest of the wealthy white people live?" he inquired
the next morning, when he had arisen, and dined at one of the Chinese
cafes.

The others regarded him now with a question in their eyes. "Yes," he
repeated, "where do they live, for it is to their servants I prefer to
try to sell the book, for which I am agent."

They caught his logic then, and replied:

"Take a car at the next corner, ride until you come to a park that is
called d'Ubberville. There you unload, and find yourself in the midst of
the wealthiest of the wealthy."

He went down to that street, which was the aforementioned wide street.
All that money could buy, was on sale along its broad highway. He sought
a bookstore, where he wished to make inquiries, and, of course, found a
number. He strolled about, making inquiries, until his watch said it was
time to return, and go forth in quest of that part of town, where he
wished to begin his work.

It was certainly a long way to his destination. Indeed, he made
inquiries of the conductor, until that one told him he would tell him
when they arrived at the place where he wanted to stop. So, he sat in
patience after that. He allowed his eyes to feast upon the splendor and
magnificence of the beautiful buildings. Yes, they were elegant homes;
they were the finest homes; and they were beautifully arranged, not to
say artistically, on either side of the street, which, while not the
same, was another one just as wide. So wide, indeed, that the middle
was converted into a lawn, on which many palms reared their graceful
foliage.

"The creole city," he murmured. "For a long time I have wished to see it
as it really is; to know the people and to learn of the many things and
wonders it is said to contain."

"Here you are," said the conductor at last, and Sidney Wyeth alighted at
once.

"Whew!" he exclaimed, standing entranced, as he looked all about him.
"_Such_ homes; _such_ trees--such _everything_." And then he walked in
the direction his face happened to be turned. He was slightly nervous
for a time, but presently, with a bold front, he turned into the most
insignificant of the many houses, and rapped quietly at the back door.

"Come in," someone called, and he knew the voice belonged to one of his
race. He had many times thought it strange, but it was always easy to
determine the <DW64> by his voice alone.

He entered, and looked at the owner of that same voice. She was a stout,
brown-skinned woman; and there was another also, but she was black. One,
the large woman, was the cook, for she worked over the stove, while the
other was obviously the washer-woman, for she was ironing.

In his talk, he told the story of the book, and filled them with
enthusiasm, to a point that both subscribed. He said he was just
commencing, and was glad they had favored him with an order. He thanked
them again, and, turning, he left and betook himself across the street,
where he encountered another brown-skinned woman, but she failed to buy.
And the excuse she gave for not doing so, was one he always regarded.
She was not able--having other irons in the fire. He left her, went
across the street on another corner, and entered the rear of the
smallest house he saw on the street. He was turning to go, when another
brown-skinned woman put in her appearance. She was beautiful, he
thought. And she could smile until he--well, she smiled. She said she'd
take one, to be sure, so he wrote down her name, and asked her about
herself. She was married, and laughed tantalizingly, though he had not
asked her that. He left presently, by the way he had entered, and went
to another house, and still to another, until the watch said five; then
he betook himself to a car line. It was not the one he had come out on,
and soon he saw other homes, which showed the creole element.

That night he went rambling; he couldn't seem to be still. There was so
much to be seen, and it had a peculiar fascination for him. He went in
the direction he had gone the night before, and met crowds of people. He
strolled until gay music arrested his attention. About an electric
entrance, from which the music came, stood <DW52> men. He got a peep
inside, as some one entered, and saw that the occupants were <DW64>s, so
he entered.

A waiter showed him a seat by a table. Around the room were plenty of
others; there were women and men, and others came and went all the time.
The music had ceased when he entered; but, 'ere long, it struck up, and
the room was filled with the strains. Couples arose and stood face to
face, and did what he had never seen, as he recalled. The music played
was a two-step; but they did not two-step--at least not the way he had
done it years before. They made only one step where he had made two.
Across the table from where he sat, a girl smiled upon him invitingly,
as much as to say: "Let's dance!" He was tempted, and then he recalled
that they had begun this dance since he had quit some years before. So
he kept his seat, and she smiled upon another. He escorted her, and they
joined the dancers. A hesitation, they called it, and he was positive he
would--could never learn it.

Presently the music stopped, and the couple returned to their seat.

"I know you are going to buy me a little drink," she said, whereupon the
man said "nix" and left. She glared after him, and called him "cheap."

Wyeth was glad now he had kept his seat. He didn't like bold women, even
in a cabaret, and this was the first one he had ever entered.

It was a place for amusements, he soon saw, for, between dances came
songs by many girls and a man or two, while clever dancing and "ballin'
the jack" was a feature; and it attracted to the performers many
nickels, that they did not hesitate to pick up 'ere they had fallen, and
"balled" again and again, until it seemed their legs must sure be tired;
but you see, they were accustomed to that.

"Some town," he said to himself, when he took his leave. "A good place
to forget, to live?" Well, it seemed that way.




CHAPTER SIX

_"Who're You!" She Repeated_


And now we arrive at the end of the pilgrimage of Sidney Wyeth. He had
ceased his critical observations, and had secured a room on the fifth
floor of an office building, that was owned and controlled by a <DW64>
lodge. He began an effort toward the distribution of his work, that he
believed would be successful now, since he had learned, by contact, the
art of reaching his people.

He placed a large desk in the office, and put a carpet on the floor; a
large table for wrapping purposes to one side, while upon the door and
the windows he had an artist painter inscribe the letters:

     CRESENT DISTRIBUTORS COMPANY

"Now, then," he said, "if I can induce someone, here and there, to go to
the people and follow the instructions I will cheerfully give, I think
_The Tempest_ will be placed into the hands of many people. And to that
end, I shall bend all my energy."

And thus he began work permanently. He decided to canvass every
afternoon, and to attend to the office and correspondence in the
mornings, until such a time, when it would not be necessary to do so.

He filled the country again with circular letters; but before he had
completed this task, he felt an illness pervading his usual healthy
physique. "Biliousness," he said. "It'll be over in a few days," and he
went to work much harder, in an effort to forget it.

For days he held it in check by the effort he put forth. But, as the
days came and went, it became harder. He didn't go to a physician, but
waited. But before many days had passed, however, he became conscious
that it was more serious. So there came a day when he felt strangely
sick; when he laid down, everything about him swam; he felt dizzy, but
withal, he kept up the fight.

"I won't give up to it, I won't!" he declared. And he earnestly tried to
overcome it.

He arose from his desk, and, despite the fact that his knees trembled
and his whole frame quivered, he went into the street. He felt a mad
desire to see this city, although he had been seeing it every day. So,
to the wide street he went, and boarded a car that took him around a
belt. It brought him back to where he had entered, and the route was
twelve miles long. It led him through the district where he canvassed,
and which was occupied by the richest. He saw their magnificent homes
this time, strangely. At times his eyes would close, despite his effort
to keep them open. And then, when he awoke, it was with a nervous start,
and he was surprised each time, to find himself aboard the large cars
that thundered along between rows of the finest houses in the city.

He could not interest himself in them now; they appeared dull and
without life. The car came down, and went through the business district
before it came back again into the wide street. He got off, and almost
fell in doing so. He stood for a time, at a loss to control himself. He
wouldn't go to bed, that was sure; but where to go, he could not think
for a time. Then it occurred to him to see that place--that place where
a thousand and more women, vandals, were hurrying life to its end.

So he walked in that direction, reeling at times, until some regarded
him as if he were drunk. He passed down a street that was called
Bienville. In that neighborhood it was the broad highway. And it was
crowded. It was then about nine o'clock, and the sidewalks were filled.
The girls were merry--they were always merry, apparently.... They called
to him as before, that is, a part of them. The others--well, the color
line was drawn here too, and white men came first.

"Hello, Brown Skin," smiled one he had not seen before, and winked. He
regarded her for a moment strangely. She took it as an evidence of
encouragement. She beckoned to him vigorously, and _promised_ so very
much. He turned, and before him rose one of the ghostly, silent
places--the cemetery. It aroused him, for a time, from his apparent
lethargy. He looked at it, and thought how strange it was this city had
so many. And they were always silent--waiting, waiting, waiting.

He shuddered and moved away from it, and in a direction that he had not
been. On all sides the girls were gay that night. He went around a
block, ignoring invitations. His brain was clear for awhile, and he
thought: "Who located such a place?" A place where each day someone died
and went to hell! But, as he thought the more, he concluded that dying
was not necessary. It was a living death....

"Come in, Brown Skin, not a man has been here tonight." He looked up,
and in the doorway stood a woman. She was tall and slender, and brown.
She smiled with an effort, he could see, for, in truth, the woman was
hungry.

"I'm hungry," she faltered, "and that's on the square. The landlord took
every dime I made last night, for rent this morning. Not a bite have I
eaten this day. Every day he calls early for his rent. Business is
rotten--everybody's broke; but he must have his rent, or out into the
street I go." She paused and looked tired, and then went on: "I'm so
weak. I'd slip out of this hell hole, and try to make an honest living,
but I have no clothes, and besides, I'm afraid that while I was gone, he
might come along and turn the lock, and carry the key with him. And too,
the bulls are filling the streets tonight, and fly cops are everywhere.
So I might be arrested, and go t' jail. I don't like that place up
there." And she sighed a long drawn, weary sigh.

"Why would you be arrested?" he inquired, speaking for the first time.

"Why would I be arrested?" she exclaimed. "You must not know the rules
of this district," she cried. "Why, we are not allowed to leave it. When
we enter this, we agree to stay!"

"To stay?" he echoed.

"Yes," she replied. "To stay...." He followed her gaze. She was not
aware of what she saw, no doubt; but he was. Before her gaze rose gray,
grim and sinister, one of those places--the abode of dead things. Yes,
and it was waiting, silently waiting. He turned and regarded the woman.
She was quiet. A man came by crying:

"Hot sandwiches--hot tamales--five cents apiece!"

He saw her gazing at them with eyes that were dry, but hungry.

"Here," he cried, "with your sandwiches." And then turned to her:

"Take as many as you want. All you can eat tonight, and some for
tomorrow!"

Her eyes widened. She beheld him now with wonder. "Do you mean it?" she
whispered, in a subdued voice.

He nodded, and handed the man a half dollar.

She ate ravenously, while he watched. Presently he started, while she
watched him strangely, as if he were something unearthly. He turned
suddenly, and came back to where she stood. He ran his hand into his
pocket, and drew forth three silver dollars. "Here," he said, and a
moment later he was gone.

She stood transformed, and then, dreamlike, she cried after him:

"God bless you!"

Back toward his room he now walked, and at times stumbled. But all the
way the words of that woman rang in his ears: "God bless you!" "God," he
murmured, "do You know these people? Are You acquainted with these women
who are sinning? They don't know You! Their souls are burning now in
hell!" He didn't know the direction he was going, nor did he hear the
invitations; but soon he came to one of those walls, and looked up. Yes,
they were inside.... Those who had known this life in the infinite long
ago. And they were waiting for those others....

"Brown Skin," he now heard, and then much gayety followed; but he looked
up and saw the others, who were likewise waiting. "Sin on little girl.
Satan's got your soul, and you'll burn in hell some day."

He went a block where, on one side the gray silence greeted him, while
on the other gay life was the order.

"Come in boy, I've something to tell you." But Sidney Wyeth made no
answer; all the while he could feel that silent spectre, the grave. And
it seemed to say: "We are waiting, waiting, waiting."

He went now in the direction of his room, and as he went along, the gray
court kept telling him: "These are mine--all of them. And, do you know,
they come to me each day. Oh, they are gay--now! The devil's got their
souls, but I always get the rest. Meanwhile I am waiting, patiently
waiting."

Gay music came from the doors of a cabaret, and he saw it was for
<DW52> people. White people were not allowed within. He entered. The
accustomed crowd lined the walls. The same girls came each night--he now
saw. They welcomed those who wished for drinks, which came at fifteen
cents apiece; a half of which they received at the end of the night, and
that was how they lived.

He avoided them. On the floor were the dancers. The music was inspiring,
and "balling the jack" was the order. A rain of nickels came down upon
them, and they quit only when they were exhausted.

He was awakened by a waiter, at the table where he had fallen asleep. So
he ordered a drink, gulped it down with an effort, and took his leave.
He emerged, and had walked a few steps, when someone touched him. He
looked down into the face of the woman who had been hungry.

"Who're you?" she said. "_Who're you?_" she repeated, "to feed a
starving wench and ask nothing. Don't look at me so strangely. I
followed you. I saw you enter there. I would have followed you in; but
they don't allow _us_ in there.... They don't allow us anywhere but--oh,
well, I didn't come to tell you my troubles. And then," she added, "I
wouldn't wish to disgrace you by having others see; but won't you come
back?"

He gazed down into her eyes and saw the truth therein. "A lost soul....
Yes, a lost soul." And then something within him seemed to burst. The
world about him became a maze of darkness, and he knew no more.




CHAPTER SEVEN

"_At Last, Oh Lord, At Last!_"


Mrs. Ernestine Jacques very soon became devoted to her roomer, Mildred
Latham. She told her husband as much when she had been in the house a
few days.

"She's a delightful girl, a fine companion, and I am glad she made
inquiry of you in regard to lodging."

"I am pleased to hear it," said her husband. "I am glad to have found
you a companion, and now you won't miss me so much, will you?"

"Of course, I will," she pouted. "I didn't mean that," she said. "But
women, you know, seem to require friends, even when they have the best
husbands in the world."

We leave them at this point, and return to the subject of their
conversation, who had begun a canvass in the sale of Wyeth's book, and
had met with success, which is neither unusual nor strange, since it
depends upon the efforts of the worker.

She estimated that he would confine his work to the aristocratic
section, where the multitude of servants were, so she decided to try the
<DW52> people in their homes, to begin with. Therefore, from one she
learned of others, until she had a list of people whom she worked among,
and with excellent results. She became an attendant of the Methodist
church, where she met many, and made acquaintances that increased the
success of her work. And thus her life flowed serenely along, uneventful
for many weeks. But she had not seen or heard of the one she sought,
although, in the course of time, she came across the book, and knew it
had been bought from him.

It rained at times, until whole days were lost, for it was too wet to
enter nice homes. She stayed in her room at these times, and talked
with Mrs. Jacques as little as possible, although she longed to do so
very much. She was glad to see, as the time went on, that the two were
devoted to each other. Dr. Jacques was a good man, and was even a better
husband.

"Some day," she sighed, "maybe I'll be like that." She pondered now for
some time.

Mildred had reached no decision, as yet, in regard to her plans. She was
nervous, at times, on the street, fearing she might meet Sidney. She
worked hard to occupy herself, and thus it went along, until she had
gotten her work well under way.

"Have you ever been up in the Perier building?" a lawyer, who purchased
a book, inquired of her.

"No, sir, I have not. Where is that, and are there <DW52> people about
it?" she said.

"Yes, ma'am. It is a building occupied and owned by <DW64>s. There are a
great many people located in it who would buy the book, I am sure," he
informed her. "I would advise you to go."

"I thank you ever so much, indeed," she cried gratefully. "I shall go
there tomorrow."

The next day was a beautiful one; the air was fragrant with the perfume
of roses, and the birds sang, seemingly, everywhere.

"A storm of some proportion will reach this place before night," said
Dr. Jacques. "A day that begins as this one, always ends that way!"

"My husband is a weather prognosticator," commented his wife,
humorously. Mildred smiled knowingly from across the table.

"And you have been very successful with your work, Miss Latham?" said
he, surveying her appreciatively.

"Oh, very much so. But it has been so elsewhere." She told him of her
work in the city she had just left.

"It was a strange coincidence," said he, "how they came to secure the
Y.M.C.A. in that town. I keep myself pretty well informed regarding
uplift among our people, and it was truly a delight when I read, that,
at almost the last minute, money that was lacking, but necessary to
fulfil the requirements, was brought to hand.

"It was too bad Grantville failed in the effort to secure theirs. And
they wanted it so badly," the doctor continued. "I attended school in
that city, and always have a warm spot in my heart for the place."

"Well, dear," said his wife, "how did they come to fail in the effort in
Grantville, and succeeded in this other town? I understood you to say
that Grantville had a much more intelligent set of <DW52> people, and
more progressive."

"So it has! So it has!" he said quickly; "but by some strange
coincidence, the money necessary to complete the arrangement, was
brought forward at almost the last minute. Otherwise, they had
acknowledged failure."

"I wonder where the money came from?" she mused.

"I suppose I must be going about my work," said Mildred, rising. "I am
going to canvass the Perier building today. I have been told there are
many offices occupied by persons who might buy."

"Most assuredly," said the doctor. "There are many I am sure." He was
thoughtful a moment, and then continued: "Our people in this town are
not possessed with that race spirit which it is claimed <DW64>s have in
other cities. They are accused of lacking unity; but, in spite of that,
when one applies himself to the task with patience and fortitude, enough
of the spirit can be aroused to make work like yours remunerative. But,
nevertheless, I am often distressed when I realize, that we haven't a
first class local race paper here; for, without one, it is impossible to
reach the people--the <DW52> people--through advertising, unless a high
rate is paid in the columns of the white paper, and that is not
practical."

"Are you much acquainted in the building?" Mildred inquired.

"Oh, yes, I know everybody--that is, almost everybody. The last time I
was over there, I observed that an office had been taken by one who is
a stranger to me; and I observed, also, that he appeared to be studious,
so it might be worth while to see him too."

She thanked him, kissed his wife, and a few minutes later, her steps
died away in the distance.

"Dear," said Mrs. Jacques, "don't you know that she reminds me of
someone I knew a long time ago. But who it was, where it was, I do not
know; but I always feel queer when she kisses me."

"You're becoming fanciful," he smiled, lighting a cigar.

They talked about other subjects, and Mildred was, for the time,
forgotten.

       *       *       *       *       *

"A story of the northwest, by a <DW64> pioneer, eh?" said a man, upon
whose office door was written: _Real Estate, Loans and Renting_. "M-m.
Looks like a good book. <DW64>s don't write many books, although there
are a great many that come the rounds about <DW64>s, but gotten up by
whites with a sketch about Tom, Dick and Harry, and exaggerated
estimates of the <DW64>. So, in view of the fact, I guess you may put me
down for a copy, and deliver it next week."

"Thank you, sir," she said, as she wrote his name, and the date of
delivery.

"Having much success?" he inquired.

"A great deal, I am glad to say," she replied pleasantly.

"Glad to hear that. There are always readers to be found, if one looks
for them; but, on the whole, the people of this town have not much of a
literary turn of mind."

"Indeed!"

"No, it is such a care-free, happy-go-lucky place, that not all the
people who should, try to concentrate themselves in reading." He was
quiet and thoughtful for a moment, and then said: "Have you tried many
of the school teachers?"

"A great many," she said.

"And how did you find them?"

"Well, just fair. I sold to a few of them."

"A few of them, eh! It would seem they should welcome the fact that
<DW64>s are beginning to write books."

"Obviously, yes."

"And the preachers?"

"They buy; but some of them dislike to, so much so, that I have
dispensed with going to them."

"And the physicians?"

"They are very nice." She didn't say how nice, and he didn't ask, so it
ended there.

She went from one office to another, and almost all purchased. Some out
of real interest, while others subscribed merely through courtesy to
her, and from the fact that it was rare to meet <DW52> people selling,
or trying to sell anything.

She had completed the third floor, and was ascending to the fourth, when
the then overcast skies became darker and rain began falling fitfully.
She made all the offices on that floor with her usual success, and
started upon the fifth. Twilight was gathering, and, with the darkness
from the clouds, lights were soon aglow.

She had made the fifth and was just passing to the elevator, when she
chanced to spy an office that she had overlooked, and, in that moment,
she recalled the doctor's statement about the stranger. The office was
at the end of the hall--a hall that was not much used, evidently.
Mildred observed, as she approached, that the door was slightly ajar.
She knocked lightly, and then, receiving no invitation, pushed the door
open and entered.

A man sat at the other side of the room, and he seemed to be sick, or
asleep--at least he lay with face downward across the desk, at which he
sat. She approached him, disregarding his apparent lethargy, and when
she had offered a greeting, and he had raised himself slightly, she told
him the story of the book.

He was sick, she soon saw, and she felt sympathetic. She bathed his
head--his forehead--with a damp towel; then she inquired if he felt
better, and looked for the first time into his face.

"At last, oh Lord, at last!" she cried, in a subdued voice, as she
bounded down the steps. "I have found him, I have found him!" She walked
hurriedly on her way to the street, and did not wait or think of the
elevator that would have saved her strength. When she was on the street,
she hurried through the rain--for it was pouring now--and did not stop
until the ferry had been reached.

Once aboard this, she hid herself in the darkest place she could find,
and there, as the paddle of the propeller came to her ears, she cried:
"Sidney, my Sidney, I have found you. And never, never, until the end of
the world will I be far from you--Oh, my love!"




CHAPTER EIGHT

_"Well, I'm Going!" And She Went_


"Typhoid-pneumonia," said the physician, rising from over the patient,
who had just been brought to the hospital.

Sidney Wyeth, unconscious, was carried at once to the section of the
great hospital reserved for patients with contagious diseases.

"What do you think of it, doctor? Is it a serious case, or just a light
attack?" inquired one of the assistants, who was making a specialty of a
study of fever.

"Serious," was the reply, "very serious. He will be lucky if he is able
to pull through."

       *       *       *       *       *

"I just missed you, Miss Latham," said Dr. Jacques, coming in a few
minutes after Mildred had entered the house.

"Indeed, I am sorry! We could have come over together," she exclaimed,
smothering her excitement for the time, and smiling regretfully, when he
had told her that he was in the Perier building just before she left.

"Were you very successful with the people in the building?" he inquired
pleasantly.

"I received eleven orders there today."

"Too bad the young man, the stranger, took sick. You might have gotten a
dozen," he said.

"Who took sick?" she inquired, with a start.

"The young man I spoke to you about this morning," explained the
physician. "He was carried from the building shortly after you left,
with a serious attack of typhoid-pneumonia." He was standing with his
back to her when he said this, and, therefore, did not see her start and
open her mouth. She swallowed the exclamation, and he was no wiser.
Hurrying to her room, she entered, locked the door, and sat down with a
wild look in her eyes, plainly frightened.

"Sick," she mumbled. "Typhoid-pneumonia. Oh, merciful God!" She was
silent then for a long time. Outside, the rain continued to fall, while
in the other rooms she could hear Mrs. Jacques singing softly, as she
busied herself in the preparation of the evening meal.

"If I had only known," Mildred whispered to herself. And then she was
compelled to dismiss what she was thinking of, as being impractical. She
continued to sit and meditate, until she was called to supper by
Ernestine. She arose and bathed her face, realizing it would be
advisable to appear unconcerned, for, as she now estimated, she would
dislike to be questioned.

When the meal was over, she inquired of the physician where the patient
had been taken.

"To the charity hospital," he replied.

"I see," she said calmly. "Is that a good place?"

"Oh, the best in the south. The Sisters of Mercy have it largely in
charge, and they give the best possible care to all patients--black or
white."

She went to her room, slightly relieved, and fell at once to planning.

The fact that he had taken an office, was self-evident that he was
preparing some extensive campaign with regard to his book. As it stood
now, whatever he had been arranging would stop at once.

It was late that evening when she retired. But, before sleep came to her
eyes that night, she had decided upon a course of action.

Mildred arose early, dressed, heated some tea, and ate a light lunch.
Then she threw on a dress, hurried out of the house and down to the
ferry. An hour later, she was at the hospital.

"I called, beg pardon," she began, "to inquire about a patient who was
brought here last evening, and who, I understand, was stricken with
typhoid-pneumonia. His name is Sidney Wyeth, and he is a <DW52> man."

After a moment, in which the record was consulted, the informant turned
to her and said: "Sidney Wyeth, a <DW52> man, serious attack of
typhoid-pneumonia. In the ward of contagious diseases. Cannot be seen,
Madam, I regret to say."

"Indeed--ah,--did you say--it--was--quite serious?" she inquired,
tremulously.

"Quite serious, Madam. Quite serious."

"There is no doubt, however--ah, that he will recover?"

"We are not allowed to give out information of that nature. He may
recover, and still he may not; but we cannot say."

"Just another question, sir," she said hesitatingly. "About how long
would it be, in case he should recover, before he will likely be on the
street?"

"Cases as serious, and of that nature, rarely leave the hospital under
two months, possibly three, and sometimes it is even four; but, if he
should recover, it would not be possible under two months."

"Very well, I thank you," and, bowing, she left the desk.

Mildred walked down the wide street upon which the hospital faced. She
had not consulted any one else, and in truth, had no idea that the
disease would last so long.

"What can I do, what can I do?" she asked herself several times, as she
passed down the street. "He has just started up, and to think that such
a misfortune should overtake him at the outset."

She walked on down the street, until she arrived at the corner, where
she paused for a moment. She turned, and only a block away rose the
Perier building. She could see his office. It was toward the rear, and,
as she stood looking up at it meditatively, she caught an outline of the
desk at which he had sat, when she came into the office, with no thought
that she was near him.

"I am going up there, to the custodian of that building, and--well, I'm
going," and she went.

"Are you the custodian of the building, sir?" she inquired a few minutes
later, of an elderly man with a pointed beard and cleverly trimmed
mustache.

"I am, Madam," he replied. "And at your service."

"A gentleman, who has recently taken an office here, was yesterday
stricken with typhoid-pneumonia, and was taken to the charity hospital."

"Yes, Madam, so he was," acknowledged the other. "Too bad. He took the
office only a short time ago, and seemed to be a very progressive young
man. You are acquainted with him?" he asked, observing the worried look
upon her face.

"Yes, sir. I am acquainted with him."

"Indeed! I suppose you are a relative or a close friend," he said, and
then paused before proceeding. "His office is open--that is, no one is
there to attend to it, and he seems to be the recipient of considerable
mail, I have observed. So, if you are interested in his affairs, you may
have the key and look after the matter, if you wish too." He was very
cordial, and the fact saved her from explaining what she had in view
when she entered.

"Yes," she said, "I am interested in his affairs, and it is very kind of
you to make the suggestion. In truth, it was on his account that I
called here. I should be glad to look after his business while he is
indisposed," she ended bravely and kept her face straight.

The custodian gave her the keys, and a few minutes later, she found
herself in the small office, looking curiously and guiltily about.

She assorted the mail, and then, going through what had been opened, she
soon got an idea of his plans. Being engaged in this same work, it was
easy for her to collect the broken threads, and resume his task. She
carefully opened the mail that had come that day, and, a moment later,
was typing replies to a score or more, in the manner he would have done,
had providence given him the opportunity.

She worked late that evening, and neglected to canvass at all, although
it was a beautiful day.

She saw, by the copy in one of the drawers, that he was advertising for
agents, and in an apparently successful way. Now, it had occurred to her
before, that white people preyed upon <DW64>s as agents, and, moreover,
from her own experience, she had come to realize that they would (white
agents) attempt to sell anything, if inducements were made that seemed
plausible.

When she was in her room alone that night, she did some more planning,
some figuring, and some estimating. In the end, she decided to take the
risk.

Being a business woman had always appealed to her fancy, and the work
was, to her, a most absorbing diversion. She had learned how to operate
a typewriter when she attended school, and was very clever at shorthand
also, could keep books with proficiency, and was now glad she had
learned these things, although, until she had taken up the sale of the
book, she had had no occasion to use her ability.

The following day, she arrived at the office at eight o'clock sharp, and
went to work at once. When the mail came, she was cheered to receive
twenty dollars in the same, and also, to note three orders from agents,
who were selling the book in other cities. She attended to all this, the
packing and shipping of the books, wrote replies to all letters,
including some of encouragement to those who were succeeding.

She had lunch at a nearby cafe, and returned to work immediately. She
then made up a list of carbon copies, which she mailed before going
home, to several newspapers all over the country, inclosing a money
order in each to cover the cost of insertion.

"And now," she sighed, "I am happy. I feel better than I have felt for
some time...." She closed her eyes meditatively, and thought of him.
Would he survive? Typhoid-pneumonia was a dreadful disease, and she was
considerably worried. When she retired that night, she prayed a long
prayer, and went to sleep with a smile upon her lips, at peace with the
world, and with hopes for the best.




CHAPTER NINE

"_I Hope You--Won't--Won't be Angry_"


"We cannot give out information as to the condition of the patient,
Madam," said the informant at the hospital, when Mildred had called to
inquire regarding the condition of her lover. She turned wearily away,
and went back to the office.

She was anxious to know the worst, if it came to that, and was worried
daily, until she could not restrain the desire to visit the hospital
each morning, before she went about the duties she had preempted.

"He is not dead," she whispered to herself, "and if I go each day, I can
work with my mind at peace; whereas, I would surely go crazy, if I were
compelled to go along, and not know whether he is living or dead."

Two weeks passed and he still lived, and at the end of that time, she
was advised at the hospital, that recovery was expected, but that he
would be, in all likelihood, unable to leave the hospital under two
months from that date.

She went to the office that day in the highest spirits, and was
especially cheered to find a pile of letters in answer to the
advertisements. Replies were many during the following days. In due
course of time, she had secured a large number of agents, and a greater
portion, upon following her instructions, were successful. Orders for
books began to fill the office, and after she had been in charge of the
office a month, she was pleased to see that she was actually succeeding.
Each mail brought money and express orders, and then, the work being too
heavy for one, she looked about for a stenographer to help her. She was
successful in securing a very intelligent girl, a creole, with French
ways and a command of that tongue which, at times, especially when
excited, conflicted with her English to a degree that was amusing.

As the days went by, business increased, until at the end of six weeks,
more than a thousand dollars was finding its way to the office each
week. Mildred was encouraged, she was delighted. She deposited the money
to his credit in a savings account, and used only what was necessary for
expenses and for her own living. She became so enthusiastic over the
same, that she almost forgot he would return, and then--but she got no
further.

"He will be able to leave the hospital in two weeks, possibly ten days,"
the informant advised her the last day she called, which was eight weeks
after he had taken sick. It was only then that she became fully
appreciative of the position she held. She now became uneasy, as, after
thinking it over for some time, she was unable to decide what to do. The
business was now so heavy, that it was impossible to be away from it;
money came in each mail, and sometimes in large sums, while orders and
inquiries for the agency, kept her dictating letters for hours each day.
She permitted herself, that day and other days that followed, to become
the heroine in a wild dream. She saw him well, which he would be soon,
and she fancied how much she could help him. But always, when she
recalled the past, there came a choking, and she would turn desperately
to her work in order to forget.

"And yet," she said to herself one day--and that was only a few days
before he was expected to return--"I must do something. I cannot sit
here and allow him to walk in upon me, because--he, oh, I'm afraid he
might resent it."

One morning the mail was heavier than usual, because it was Monday, and
Saturday had been a holiday. Springtime had come, with its time of
blossom, and the air was fragrant. She hummed a little tune and was
happy that day; happier than she had been for a long time. She went
about the great amount of work with a calmness and precision, that
resulted in finishing it before five o'clock. Ordinarily, there was
enough to have kept them busy until the next day noon.

"Well, Katherine," she said to the stenographer, "we have been very
industrious today, and I am going to bring you something nice tomorrow.
You are very helpful," and with a quick impulse she kissed the other,
who returned it as affectionately.

In that moment, she almost felt inclined to tell the girl the burden
that was upon her, but she thought better of it quickly, and, with a
kind word, she turned to her desk, and for a time listened to the
other's footstep in the hallway, where she moved occasionally, while
waiting for the elevator.

From a drawer she took some letters, and glanced over them reflectively.
They were letters from a girl she recognized in the story, and from
their tone, she surmised that the other had once loved him. That love,
however, had changed in the course of events, and now they were only
friends.

She sat for a long time and gazed dreamily out over the city, and then,
suddenly, it occurred to her, that she was sitting in the same position
he had occupied, when she had entered his office almost ten weeks
before. She stirred uneasily. At that moment a step sounded in the hall,
and came in the direction of the office. It paused a minute outside the
door, and then it was opened, and some person stood on the threshold.

It was getting dark, and as the man paused, she observed that he looked
about the office strangely--doubtfully. In so far as he knew, he had
felt the office was a thing of the past, and at this moment he muttered:
"Hump. Guess someone else is in this place." Presently, with another
muttering, he came toward the window. Mildred sat stupified, and seemed
unable to move any part of her body. She felt strangely paralyzed. When
he got near the middle of the room, he suddenly bethought himself of the
light, and turning, he went to the wall, where the switch was located,
and pressed the button.

She had rearranged the office, that is, she had added to the number of
lights, since there were only two bulbs when she came. Now there were
six. Over the desk set one, and it had a reflector. When he pressed the
button, the room became instantly illuminated by the bright rays, while
the one on the desk reflected full into her face.

She said something and turned her face, while he gave a start and cried:

"You!"

The next moment, he fell back and observed her strangely. She sat as he
had found her, with head lowered and heart thumping violently. He
advanced after a pause, and stood close to her, regarding her with a
look that was stranger still. He appeared to be at a loss what to say or
do; then he raised his hand to his forehead, while his gaze was one of
utter blankness. It occurred to her then, that he might be impaired in
some way, after such a severe illness. So, with an effort, she rose
boldly from the chair, and facing him, said:

"Yes, it is I, Sid--Mr. Wyeth." She was compelled, by the thumping of
her heart, to hesitate for a moment, and then she continued, more
calmly: "I have made bold to come here during your illness,
and--and--take charge of your work. I hope," she was now faltering,
while he was regarding her without understanding, from the expression he
wore. And--oh! She saw it now. He was regarding her with disfavor. A
frown played about his lips that appeared drawn and thin, while his eyes
gradually changed until they were openly hostile--contempt almost could
be read. She turned her eyes away.

This was her reward. She choked. Her brain became a whirl for a moment.
She had tried to help him, and had succeeded. She had thought of it in
that way; she now strangely realized that she had not expected any
thanks--indeed, she had never thought of anything but to make the
business a success. And, she was positive, that she had not expected any
reward.

She was saying something. She was not fully aware what it was, and her
head hung down, while her eyes sought the floor, instead of his face
with the hostile expression.

"I hope you--won't--won't be angry!" With a great effort, during which
she felt he was regarding her in the same critical manner, although she
was careful not to glance into his face, she explained briefly what had
transpired during his absence. "And so," she concluded, "here is
everything drawn down to date," and with that, she suddenly caught up
her light coat, drew her turban hat over her head, and went toward the
door.

As she did so, she was aware that he had turned and was looking after
her. She paused when she reached the door, and thought of his illness.
He might take sick again. She saw his eyes now for a brief moment, and
they were upon her. She could not read them altogether, but it seemed as
if the hostility was gone, and a look that bordered on appeal had taken
its place. Her gaze lingered kindly, and then she said:

"You are ill--have been. Please be careful." And, in spite of the effort
it cost her to say it, she added: "I will come again tomorrow," and was
gone.

All that night she tossed and tumbled in her little bed in Tunis. And
when morning came, she dropped off to sleep. Mrs. Jacques called her,
and then came to the room and knocked at the door. Presently, she
ventured to open it slightly. Mildred was snoring peacefully.

"She's tired, poor thing. Very tired." She looked at her again. Her face
was upturned and her throat was exposed. A beautiful brown throat. She
crossed the room easily to where she lay, gazed down at her for a
moment, and became conscious again of that same feeling that had been
haunting her since she knew her. She stopped presently, and drew the
lace night dress down a bit. The next moment she recoiled in fright.

"At last, oh God! At last I have found her! My sister!" The other
stirred. Light shown brightly through the window, for it was
seven-thirty, and the sun was climbing. But Mildred Latham was tired,
and was snoring again in calm repose. The other bent over her. She kept
from putting her arms about her with much effort, and then kissed her
lips fondly.

She stood a few feet away, and regarded her with a heavenly feeling, and
then, drawing the blind until the room was fully dark, she left her.




CHAPTER TEN

_Vellun Parish--Jefferson Bernard_


Sidney Wyeth sat for a long time at his desk after he had looked through
the statement before him. He could not for some time understand how it
had all come about. He had been carried from the office unconscious ten
weeks before, and during that time, or when he had come back into his
senses after many weeks, he had concluded that his effort, which had not
gone very far, was doomed to die, and had resigned himself to the
inevitable. Now before him was a statement, which showed that more than
a thousand dollars was finding its way to the office each week, in
excess of the cost of the books. More than five thousand dollars was to
his credit in a local bank. What miracle had been wrought to make such a
profit in so short a time--or any time at all? It had taken him two
years to reach a fourth edition of this book, while now the copies
before him stated ninth edition. How had it all happened?

There was but one answer, and that was, Mildred Latham.

He lived over again the years of the past. He saw her as he had met her
on that first day. He recalled her patience and appreciation, while he
explained to her the contents of the book, and the order she had given.
He remembered the dance and the kiss, with a strange pang of the heart.
In all his days, no kiss had seemed like that. And the look in her eyes
afterward. Was that love? Surely that was life. If God, our Creator,
made that possible, then life was worth the effort. He became so
absorbed in his reflections, that he started when he recalled his last
visit.

After that it was different. But for that--but he had worried himself
sick, and had succeeded in forgetting it and her until the day he took
sick. He was too weak and torn by the illness to think about the matter,
while he lay on his back in the hospital. But when convalescence had set
in, he had thought of it almost constantly. Try as he would, he had been
unable to understand how it all happened. He pondered over it until he
entered the office an hour ago, and now it was all plain.

"Who is this girl?" he asked himself. "What is she?" he demanded. "She
has always puzzled me." But, at the end of it all, the old hag on the
steps, with the words she had spoken, rose again before him, and he
forgot--he felt he was compelled to forget, all the rest.

He got up, after a time, and walked about the office. He felt tired, and
in view of her success, and of the circumstances surrounding it, he
would go somewhere and rest, until he had thought it all out. But of one
thing he was certain, and that was he must never see her again. He could
love her; he could do anything within his power for her--he was only too
glad to; but he felt he could never forget the few words he had heard a
long time ago.

So he wrote a letter to the effect that he had gone away, but he did not
state where.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Oh, I have overslept myself dreadfully," cried Mildred, entering the
kitchen where the other worked away in silence.

"I started to awaken you, and you were resting so quietly, that I
desisted," Mrs. Jacques replied, regarding her with a fond glance that
the other did not understand.

"I must hurry, for, of all mornings, this is the very one I would not
have been late for anything," and she hurried through her breakfast and
was turning to go, when the other came up, threw her arms about her
impulsively, and kissed her long and lingeringly upon the lips. Mildred
returned the embrace, but she did not understand the expression in the
eyes of the other, as she took her leave.

She arrived at the office, and was surprised to find only Katherine
working away on the books.

"Has--ah, any one been here?" she inquired, after waiting to hear
something from the lips of the other.

"No, ma'am, no one," said the other, looking up in surprise for a
moment.

"Very well," said Mildred, seating herself at her desk. As she did so,
her eyes fell upon an envelope with her name written across it, and
marked personal. She broke the seal nervously. Calming herself, she
straightened out the folded sheet, and read it carefully.


     _Miss Mildred Latham_,

       _My Dear Madam_:

     It is impossible to state how much you have done for the sale of
     the book during my illness. I do not hesitate to say, that in view
     of the fact that I have struggled over a period of two years, with
     only a small measure of success, as compared to that which has come
     about since you have looked after it, that it is beyond me. I
     cannot, however, conscientiously accept it in the way you have
     offered it according to your statement. So I have, therefore, made
     over to you the sum total that you placed in the bank to my credit.

     I am leaving the city for parts unknown, and may not return for a
     long time--and possibly not at all.

     Regretting that I cannot thank you more amply, but hoping you will
     accept what is no more than due you, I am,

     Very sincerely yours,

       SIDNEY WYETH.


She laid the letter down and gazed into space for a long time, not
trying to understand anything. He had gone, and left her. He had given
her all she had earned, and the privilege of earning more, but he had
gone. Would he ever return?... She was sorry now that she didn't tell
him all when it had been convenient; and still, in the next thought, she
was glad she hadn't.

She was not excited, but went about the work without any outward sign
that she had been the recipient of anything unusual; but all the day
through, she was thinking of what had just passed. She could not recall
what she had expected, or that she had expected anything; but of one
thing she was more conscious than ever before, and that was that she
loved him with all her soul.

So she decided to allow matters to drift along and made no change.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wyeth stood before the window of the city ticket office of a small
railroad. He was attracted by a parish which appeared rather remote, but
where a lake was advertised as a nice place to fish. He made up his mind
to go there. It was a half day's journey by rail, and a train left in
two hours. He returned to his room, and an hour later his trunk was at
the depot. He passed near the building, and from where he paused, he
caught a sight of her sitting at the desk where she had sat the night
before.

He could go to her now, and say what had been on his lips more than a
year before. He gazed at her for a long time, and was conscious of a
longing. He had loved her--oh, so very much. Indeed, she was everything
he had desired. Then he thought of the hag and what she had said, and
went his way to the depot.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vellun Parish is perhaps the most remote part of the state. It lies
toward the southwest, and is bounded on one side by the Gulf of Mexico.
Its land is all swamp, while no part of it is more than ten feet above
the level of the sea. The most of it is under perhaps a foot of water.
Upon the dry portion a few people live. They make no effort to raise
crops further than a garden, but depend mostly upon fishing, and upon
tourists for their living. One railroad pulls through the mighty swamps
about it, and has a small station located on this dry spot. It is many
miles to another station. Almost everybody leaves the place in summer,
for mosquitoes hold sway, while sickness and swamp fever are prevalent.

It was high noon at this resort, and from down the track could be heard
the whistle of a small locomotive--for the trestles would not hold up
large, heavy ones, Presently, with a ringing of bells, it came to a stop
before the station, and two people got off, other than members of the
train crew. One from the rear, and the other from the front of the Jim
Crow car.

The latter was Sidney Wyeth, and in his hands he carried a fishing
outfit and other matter, together with a suit case. Before the station
loafed a few of the inhabitants, including an old man whose age was
perhaps sixty. He regarded Wyeth strangely, but returned the nod
curteously, when the other had spoken.

"Have any idea where I can find lodging about here?" he inquired. It was
at the end of the winter season, and those who live the summer months
through, had resigned themselves to the heat and mosquitoes. The old man
surveyed Wyeth a moment critically before replying.

"Well, I dunno exactly," said he at last, and Wyeth was startled at his
command of language, for in those parts few spoke English, and when they
did it was bad. Creole was customary. The old man looked about a moment
before continuing, but presently he said. "I live alone over beyond that
clump of trees," and he pointed to a grove that Wyeth saw plainly, "and
if you are alone, you might go along and look it over, and if satisfied,
why we might make a deal."

"That's fair enough," agreed Wyeth. "I'm alone, and may be here a month,
a week, or it may be three months, I can't say."

"Very well then, follow me."

He took part of the luggage, and they went across one of the few cleared
spots of the parish. Finally they came to a neat log house behind a
paling fence, before which a dog barked viciously. "Don, Don, hush the
noise," the old man said. "He won't bite, but he is fond of barking."
The dog now rolled on his back at Wyeth's feet, and they soon became
friends. Sidney patted his head and then rolled him over, much to the
dog's delight.

"Well, well, Governor!" cried Wyeth enthusiastically, when they were
inside, "but you're all fixed here, I must say."

"Yes," said the other, slowly and modestly, "I guess it'll do for an old
relic like me," and he laughed humorously. Wyeth regarded him a moment,
and then, for the first time told him his name.

"And mine is Jefferson Bernard."

"Well, Mr. Bernard, I have always taken pride in the fact that I am at
home in the open," and he gazed out the window across the cleared spot,
and into the forest that surrounded the house.

"Glad to hear that," cried the other. "I was under the impression that
you were one of the fly butlers who come here with their people."

"No, I'm a sort of globe trotter, you might say. In fact, at the present
I have no plans whatever for the future, so I might bunk with you here a
few months. Depends on how my mind is at the end of each day."

"Restless, eh?"

"That's it. Have spent eleven years on the prairies of Dakota, and very
often, the 'Call of the Wild' gets into my veins, and I want to get out
where I cannot see any one, and sort of--well, forget the strenuous ways
of life for a while."

Both laughed agreeably.

"Well," said Jefferson Bernard. "I bunk here alone and do my own cooking
of course, and hunt and fish and read and sleep whenever I get ready."

Wyeth wondered at this man. About the wall everything was clean, while
the clothes the other wore were a forest suit of brown cloth, with lace
boots and a belt; his hat was a broad brimmed Stetson. They were all the
best of material, and the man's appearance was anything else but the
back-woods <DW64>. He started to inquire who he was, but something about
the other did not invite familiarity, so he talked on other topics
instead.

He had been there two weeks, and had been over all the part of the
parish that was accessible, when one of the periodic rainy spells set
in. For days they were unable to get outside without getting wet, and at
times they told a great deal about themselves.

"And that reminds me," said Bernard, "that you spoke of Cincinnati and
that you came south from there, a bit over a year ago. I, then, left
there after you did."

"Indeed," said Wyeth in surprise.

"Yes, I have been down here a little over a year only. I was reared in
this same parish many years ago, and, since then, I always had a longing
to come back and stay again until I got tired of it." He made himself
comfortable as he drew away on a long pipe; while Wyeth, observing him,
waited for the story he had to tell.

"Yes, I used to live in Cincinnati--in fact, I guess that is what I
might call home, if not this."

"This is news to me," said Wyeth.

The other smiled languidly, and went on:

"I used to live on Walnut Hill, and was employed by Stephen Myer, a
wealthy retired merchant, who not only was well-to-do in Cinci', but
owned a number of interests in the south, in fact, he came to Cincinnati
from the south not so long before, and never went back again, for he
died.

"I was his valet for years. Got acquainted with him right here in this
parish one winter, when he was staying at the hotel over there, and it
was the second winter when he hired me and took me north with him.

"Stephen Myer was a good man at heart, but a sport until he died, and
certainly believed in a good time with the women. He loved his family,
but he would run around, which recalls his death whenever I think of it.

"He came back from the south about three years ago I think, and it was
not long until I knew he was keeping a girl he had brought with him. I
paid the matter no attention, because he always had somebody before; but
strange to say, after that he had no other. It was kept very quiet and I
knew nothing of it,--that is, from him, until the night he died. That
took place while we were at a hotel in Detroit. His death was due to
heart failure, but it didn't take him as it does most of its victims. He
was conscious that he was going to die, although he was, to all
appearances, well.

"It was then he told me the story.

"Calling me to his bedside, this is what he said. I do not think I shall
ever forget it, because it was such an awful death. 'Jeff,' said he.
'I'm going to die.' I looked at him, saying: 'Oh, you're frightened;'
but he shook his head in such a way that I became frightened, and
waited. 'Yes, Jeff,' he resumed: 'I'm goin' to die, and Jeff, I'm going
to hell,' I tried to soothe him, but he only frowned slightly, and went
on. 'Yes, Jeff, I'm going to die and go to hell, because I deserve to go
there. I deserve to go there, Jeff, because I have sinned. Yes, Jeff,
I've committed an awful sin, and it's no more than my due to burn in
hell in payment. I never believed much in such a place until not long
ago, when I brought that girl to Cincinnati.' He breathed deeply and
with some effort, and it was then I could see he wore a strange
expression, and now, as I look back at it, I guess that meant death. He
went on again, after a breathing spell:

"'Bring me that box over there Jeff, that one with the key in the lock.
I want to leave that one whom I have wronged something before I'm done
for.' I brought it to him, and he unlocked it, and took therefrom a lot
of papers, and a certified check for twenty-five thousand dollars, all
made out, and to be turned over to her through due recognition, as
attested by his lawyers in Cincinnati. 'Hadn't I better wire for your
family?' I inquired of him; but he waived it aside, and said he didn't
want them to know until it was over.

"'Now, Jeff,' he went on, 'you are to take this envelope to my attorney
and see that you get their receipt of it, after which, when you get back
to Cincinnati, you take this box as it is to her. I trust you, Jeff, and
believe that you will attend to it. And, too, I've left you well cared
for; but that is in the will, in due form. And now, if you'll just give
me a drink of water, I'll tell you the story.

"'My company had their southern office in Attalia, and we had quite a
bit of business with the financial department of one of the big
denominations of <DW64> churches. And that was how we came to become
involved in this deal. The financial secretary of the church very often
gave us his note in payment, and soon became well known to me, and I
liked him. Pretty soon, however, it came to me that he aspired to be a
bishop; although the office he held was a good graft, and we knew it,
altho' the <DW65>s didn't. But he became crazy to be a bishop and a real
big <DW64>, proper.

"'About this time, it came to my attention that something crooked,
something underhanded was going on in the affairs of the church. Well,
one of the boys who worked as porter, was reading a <DW64> paper one day,
and I observed that this financial secretary's picture covered the whole
front page. I took the paper, and when I had read all the stuff he had
written under another's name, I began to figure what it was costing him
to become a bishop. Other extravagances came under my observation, and,
since the business we had with them was becoming involved, I began an
investigation regarding the preacher. It developed that he had been
married twice--that is, the present wife was his second. The first one
had died and left him two daughters. My investigation, which came
through a <DW64> detective by the name of Dejoie, although he was known
during the investigation as Edwards, developed that he was a despot. His
youngest daughter by his first wife realized this, and she threw it into
his face, and left when she was thirteen, going to a place in Michigan
where she educated herself. The other was a girl with much sense, but
somewhat subservient to the old man, regardless of the fact that she
possessed a mind of her own. Apparently it had been the old man's
practice to have them regard him as the great I am. She stayed with her
father, who lived with his second wife, and to that union were born
several children, I don't know how many.

"'Edwards uncovered all this and some more. He revealed the fact that
this preacher, who was so anxious to become a bishop, was not only
seeking it by extravagant methods, but had employed the church's funds
to the amount of more than five thousand dollars. And still, all those
pig headed <DW65>s knew nothing of it. It's a great wonder they have
anything, they seem to know so little. My company was up against it for
what was due us; but that was not the end of it. On top of this, what
did that sinner do but write my name on a note for five thousand
dollars, and, through his standing with the bank, got the money and
covered the shortage before those <DW65>s ever knew there was any!
Wasn't that the limit? He was elected bishop, and became the big <DW65>
his great ambition had aspired to.

"'I was too put out to do anything at once, although the note came due
before I was aware it had been given.

"'The night I discovered it, was one when I happened to be in my office
alone. I decided forthwith to place it in the hands of the law. It was
then that this daughter came to the office with a note from him, asking
for an appointment. I have an idea he was only then aware that the note
was due or past due. She caught me as mad as a hornet, and I told her
the whole thing. I shall not soon forget the expression on her face when
I had told her. She looked like she would die right there. It was then,
too, I saw how beautiful she was and so well formed. Suddenly a proposal
entered my head. I have always been impulsive, but I have never been
known to back up. So I got up and stood before her, and said my say. She
was terribly indignant and would have fled, but I stood between her and
the door. I became mad to have that girl. She fought me, but I grew
worse. I finally said to her: "Come with me to Cincinnati, and save your
rotten, sinning preacher father from the chain gang. A home it is up
there with plenty of everything, or fifteen years for your now bishop
father on the worst chain gang in the world." She regarded me wildly, as
the substance of it became clear to her. "Oh, I mean it," I cried. "I'm
going to send that dad of yours to the chain gang tomorrow--and you know
what that means." I think all the horror of it rose before her in that
moment. All the <DW64>s, spiteful, envious creatures crying: "Aw, you're
a big <DW65>, huh. Your daddy's a bishop!" And the next day: "Um-um!
What do you think of it! A big bishop done fo'ged a note!" And she had
seen the chain gang. All those stripes and chains frightened her. She
looked up at me with an appeal in her eyes that frightened me--even
then; but I was too wild to have her at that moment, to give heed. And
then she begged me to have mercy. She cried and beseeched--she did
everything, and then--in the end--well, I'll not soon forget those
appeals. "I'm a nice girl. Can you not appreciate what that means? I
will--to save my father and those little ones; but before God: Hear him,
please, see him. I may be yours in body, but never in soul; while--oh,
can't you see what you ask? Can you not see that you take everything I
have lived for? Don't you see, that when you rob a woman of her purity
you have destroyed her womanhood?" She fell on her face and sobbed
until, as I see it now, I can't imagine how I could have acted so.

"'And that is why, Jeff, I'm going to hell. Yes, to hell!' He was going
now, his eyes had a far away, an unearthly expression; but before he was
gone, he said--and his voice seemed to come from another world as I held
him. 'I'm going, Jeff, I'm going. Satan's waiting for me. And, say,
Jeff,' his voice now came in gasps, and sounded as if from eternity: 'I
don't mind it so much, no I don't, Jeff; but the only thing, and the
last request of God, is to be sure to send that old preacher down to
meet me sometime.' With that his muscles relaxed, a spasm contracted his
form, and he lay dead."

The two were silent now. Outside a bird hopped about, and finally lit on
the window sill, peering in as if to inquire the cause of the silence.
After a long time, it seemed, Wyeth spoke.

"Strange. And did--you--ah--fulfill the request?"

"Yes," said the other slowly. "I did at once, and let me tell you, my
friend, I will never forget that girl's face. Oh, I've seen many; but
this girl's face told the story, and her story was that of a pure girl,
a good girl, who had made a sublime sacrifice. Was that sacrifice worth
the cost?" Again silence reigned supreme, each with his thoughts.

The birds outside made sweet music, as they flitted happily about.
Sidney Wyeth was speaking again, and his voice was from a distance, as
he said quietly:

"What became of her?"

"What became of her? Oh yes," cried the other, sitting up and shaking
off his distraction, as though he had been awakened from sleep. "Why,
she left soon after. Came south, and when I was on the way down here, I
chanced to stop over in a town--I won't mention the name--because she
was there. Was selling a book, so I understood, but was staying with the
pastor of the Presbyterian church, and high in their favor. I was glad
to see it and never let on; but there was a skunk aboard the same train
from Cincinnati, and who stayed there. I've often thought about it
since, and I hope that devil never knew her and made trouble. She was a
good girl, and still may be saved if things go along right."

"Life is full of mysteries," Wyeth commented.

"Sure is," his companion replied, and then became dreary, as his mind
wandered sadly, solemnly, back into the past. Suddenly he sat bolt
upright, saying: "I trust you, and for that reason, since I have told it
to you, I have a small picture that I found in the old man's effects,
and considered it good policy to remove. So I have kept it, and I'm
going to show it to you."

While the other fished away in an old trunk, a strange thought came to
Sidney Wyeth, and he recalled singularly, the effort for the Y.M.C.A. in
that town up the river, and how twenty-five thousand dollars from a
source that no one could explain, was paid at almost the last minute....
He was doing some thinking and had forgotten all about the other, who
had closed the trunk now, and came before him with a small picture. He
sat up quickly when the other touched him, and held before his gaze the
picture of Mildred Latham.

And in that moment there came a vision of a dark, dreary night, when he
hurried through the streets of Cincinnati, and came to a place where an
old woman sat, an evil hag; and who regarded him with malicious
eyes--eyes that appeared to hate everyone--and the words in reply to his
request, came back with a shock: "_Gwan! She's with her man!_"

Sidney continued to gaze at the picture. There was profound silence, for
neither spoke. One was not in the mood to do so, the other could not. He
raised his hand mechanically to his head, as though to rid his mind of
some obstruction. He tried to think coherently, but his senses were
confused.

He turned, staggered slightly, groping as if blindly, for support, and
passed on out into the open, and under God's pure heavens--anywhere away
from the stifling air inside, and its hideous secret.

Sidney stood outside now, and the spring sun beat upon his bare head,
as, with his trembling hand he shaded his eyes, and looked in the
direction of the creole city. Back there he would go--he had to go! He
couldn't say why--feel why--now. For, in the tangle of his confused
thoughts, nothing seemed clear. But, he would go back. His hand sought
his forehead again. Yes, he would go back.

       *       *       *       *       *

Let us go back to a night when the heroine of our story got up from a
drunken stupor, to find that the hour of fate--fate for the Y.M.C.A. was
at hand. She had rushed breathlessly to the office of the Western Union,
and had secured the money that had been transferred, at her request,
from the Cincinnati bank some days before. She had known when Wilson
Jacobs returned unsuccessful in his attempt, that some expedient was
necessary.

When she realized a year before, that she was heiress to such a sum of
money, she had worried as to what she would do with it. Her conscience
would never let her touch a penny of it for personal use. It had been
left on deposit, and, insofar as her daily life had been concerned, she
had about forgotten it, until the climax of Wilson Jacobs' great effort
had stood like a spectre before her.

For a time she had hesitated, feeling that such money should not be used
for Christian purposes.... But, when she had awakened on that dreadful
night, she came at once to appreciate how, through her and her alone,
this effort should be realized.

So, she rushed pell mell through the streets that led to Wilson Jacobs'
home. As she hurried along, visions of the great need passed fitfully
through her mind. She recalled all the crime she had witnessed;
thousands yearly herded on the gangs, torn mothers, prostituted sisters,
homes broken up by that demon of liquor. She could see the condition
which forced so many of her people to the belief that <DW52> people
could never be anything, regardless as to how much they might try.

Race prejudice, that demon of American society, had succeeded in
convincing so many of these weak people that there was no future; that
the only resort was to get all the excitement out of life that was
possible. How they conducted themselves to secure such a life, was the
one great detriment to the race, to the city, to the state, and in the
end, to the United States.

As she rushed along, she could hear these poor creatures, and the words
they uttered, when approached with offers for their salvation; for, in
addition to the discouragement caused by race prejudice, there was
another feature that was worse still--class prejudice. The folly of it.
The effect was more damnable, she knew, than all the other causes, for,
through it these poor creatures were made to feel that they were
actually bad; bad beyond redemption, which made them unfit for the
civilized world. Under this they fretted. They grew likewise to hate,
and in the end, to become not only a disgrace to the race, community and
state, but even enemies to society.

She recalled once a man, a mulatto and obviously a pervert, who answered
a street preacher. She could never seem to forget his words.

"You say," he had said, "that I should get religion. _and I say, what's
the use_? I'm a _nigger_, and that means I'm a vagabond, a cast-off, a
thing to be hated, condemned and persecuted. You speak of brotherly love
and the reward hereafter. I laugh when you make such assertions. _Heaven
for a <DW64>?_ Why, do you suppose that even Satan would care for him? As
to brotherly love, why don't you go to the white man that keeps my
sister? Why don't you tell that man what you preach about? I am
illegitimate. My youngest sister, the white man's mistress, is too, and
so are all the rest! Then you speak of heaven and reward in the
hereafter for <DW64>s. The hereafter is the chain gang, where my
illegitimate brother is serving twenty years for murder. As for me, I'm
going to a blind tiger and get a drink. I'm going to get drunk. The idea
that a <DW64> can be anything is a joke. There may be a heaven for white
people, but for a <DW64>, oh, you fool!"

As all this and other instances passed through her mind, Mildred became
much excited. Then, as the reality dawned upon her, a picture of what
that money could do became clear to her, and with Wilson Jacobs as its
secretary, she presently came to feel that her sacrifice might be a
blessing in disguise.

On and on she hurried, until at last she came to the house. She paused
at the gate, and caught her breath. Her thoughts were busy for a moment,
as she tried to formulate a plan to deliver the money without being
caught. She struggled nervously, with first one plan and then another,
and then at last she boldly entered the gate and walked up to the front
door. As she reached to push the bell, she looked through the glass
door. Wilson sat nodding in the study. His position, she saw, was such
that he could see the clock, and watch the fatal moments pass. It was
then past eleven. She could see the clock and realized what those
moments meant. He had, as she observed him, fallen asleep from sheer
fatigue. As she watched him, there came to her mind a bold idea, and she
put it into effect at once. She tried the door, fearing it might be
locked, but was relieved when it opened with a turn of the knob.

She entered the house on tip-toe, passed through the hall to the study,
which was to one side, entered the room in which he sat, and, with
breath held, nerves tense, she cautiously crossed to where he sat. She
slowly drew her breath, when she saw he was sleeping peacefully. She
placed the package containing the price of her virtue upon the table.
She looked at him again, and caught her breath in fear, as he moved
slightly, but did not fully awaken.

The next moment she stole her way to the door, like a thief in the
night, and was outside. She turned, as she heard a sound, and saw
Constance, weary, tired, and apparently nervally exhausted, come from
the rear and enter the study. She dared stand and watch her, as she
entered the study where her brother sat, now fully awake, but oblivious
to the presence of the package. He was watching the clock that was
ticking away.

With a catch of her breath, she saw that Constance had discovered the
package, and she saw them open it with curiosity. She noted the look of
intense joy, as their eyes beheld the contents.

As she was leaving, these words floated out to her in the stillness of
night, "_Go, brother, in God's name, go!_"

No one, so far as we know, guessed where the much needed money came
from. But, strangely enough, the giving had relieved the giver. After
she left the Jacobs' home, she felt as she had never felt before, and
took life and what it brought very calmly. As she passed along, she
looked with silent relief into the faces of those of her race, who were
persecuted on one hand by fear of the superior white, and, on the other,
by cast. At times she had regarded them as so many dogs, lurking, hungry
dogs, who wait until darkness sets in, before lurking in the alleys and
searching garbage cans, expecting to be kicked or be killed upon
discovery, if, for no other reason, simply to give vent to a hatred.
They felt, as she saw it, that it was the lot of the <DW64> to be hated.
They got no kindness; they expected none; they even scoffed when it was
offered, regarding it as some subtle means of inviting them to a worse
fate, and this was what discrimination and prejudice had brought them
to.

There still remained the dispensation. No person in all the world, she
felt, was so fitted for the task as Wilson Jacobs. Care of the building,
after its completion, would itself be a problem. Then there was that
distrust to dispell. Too often, she knew, that arrogance on the part of
the leaders of these institutions, had a tendency to keep away from
their doors the very class whom they sought to attract. Unfortunately,
the <DW64>s themselves realized that those conditions were true.

Wilson Jacobs was not such a character. She felt relieved as she
realized this. When she thought again of her people, she appreciated
what in time this genuine Christianity of his would mean to them, when
they came to know him for the kind man he was. Her race was emotional,
superstitious, but withal, patriotic and enthusiastic. Nothing,
regardless of all she had seen, could make her think otherwise. And what
could be the attitude of her race, her brothers, when they realized the
efforts made in their behalf? Will they say:

"You want to help me? You _really_ want to be a brother, and take me
into that place and help me to lead a good, clean life? And I doubted
you! I scorned your offer and cursed you and all society. Oh, merciful
God, but I knew not what I did! And you say, that I am not bad, that I
never was bad? That I was merely weak--weak as other human beings were?
Can all this be true? I can hardly realize it. I have _never_ known
kindness. I have always been told that life held no future for me, a
<DW64>; that by the will of our Creator, I was born to be hated, hunted
and abused, a creature of no destiny, a thing to be spat upon and made a
slave of, a creature without morals. You say that all this was wrong,
and that I can be not only a good person, but an example for the good of
others? That I am, after all, only the victim of circumstances?"

Wilson Jacobs would convince them, and, when this was done, her reward
would come.




CHAPTER ELEVEN

"_Mildred, I've Come Back_"


It seemed a long way back to the city, as though he would never get
there, and the train crept slowly along through the mighty swamps. But
all the way, his mind was busy. Thought after thought came and went, but
only one became fixed. "I love her," he cried, again and again. "I love
her!" he exclaimed feverishly. "Nothing else matters--nothing else _can_
matter, now!"

He was going to her, just as fast as the slow train would carry him, and
when he arrived--beyond those conflicting moments, he got no further.

He lay back in his seat after a spell, and calmed himself to a degree
that he could see it all clearly. He wanted to see her now; he wanted to
look deep into the eyes that he was sure must be tired; he wanted to see
behind those mirrors, and to do his share to relieve the turmoil within.
After a time, his return to the office after his illness, recurred to
him. He had found a letter from the publisher, and upon opening it, he
had found it to contain a draft for a large sum of money. He didn't know
then who had sold the book with so much success to him, and he had
wondered. Strange, but it had not occurred to him then, that it was she.
But now, it was all clear--everything.

"And it was Mildred all the while!" he exclaimed in a controlled voice,
despite the excitement it gave him. "How could I have misunderstood so
long!" And then the instance of the five thousand dollars came back to
him, and the sale of his work as he had left it. True, he had given this
all over to her; but the fact to be reckoned with was that she had
succeeded where he had not.... She had done this without any thought of
herself.... No girl with so much ability, with such constructive
thoughts, would have done as she had for others, unless inspired by some
divine sacrifice.

It was all clear to him now. And then the other.... In all his life,
virtue in women had been his highest regard. During the months he spent
in the south, he had seen immorality of a nature that was revolting to
his finer senses. It had been the custom since the landing of <DW64>s in
this country, and was in evidence every where, in the many colors that
made up his people; but, in spite of this, his high regard for the
virtuous woman remained the same. So, when the words of the hag came
back to him, amid all the good things he was thinking of her, for a
time, all was swept from him in a wave of revolt.... How could he be
blind henceforth to that?

He became weak and listless for a time. To pass on through the city; to
catch one of the ocean goers that he was often interested in observing
at the harbor, and go to Argentina, Brazil--anywhere and forget it all;
and then there came to him the thought of his people. All that he had
lived through when he saw the leaders with their selfishness, the
neglect of their Christian duty; how he had written of that selfishness,
fearlessly with jaws set and soul on fire; and of the reign of
excitement that followed--it was impossible to further contemplate other
plans.

And, amid all the chaos, there came to him thoughts of the success of
the Christian forward movement in the town up the river. With success
there, in the worst of two towns in the world, it was now an almost
foregone conclusion, that shortly, the spirit would prevail successfully
in other towns. Yes, it would have to. The public, for its own welfare,
would soon come to appreciate what such a movement meant to two-fifths
of its population. And how came this to be? Would the people of that
town up the river, now have a beautiful building in course of
construction, if it had been left to them to supply that fatal
twenty-five thousand? "Great God!" he murmured, "how can I, _how can
I_!"

And, as the train continued on its way over innumerable trestles with
lagoons and marshes everywhere, it occurred to him, that the one who
had made all this possible, and who, at the price of purity, which was a
woman's all, was now, and for the sake of it, homeless and
friendless.... Even that family, that bishop father, surrounded by
thousands of hero worshippers, with his picture decorating the walls of
thousands of homes, and pointed to by day, would scorn her. The
thousands of young men, respectable, but poor, and who, for this girl's
sacrifice, were given a great chance to conduct their future lives along
Christian lines, even they would scorn her. All decent and respecting
society would scorn her. _They would have to scorn her._ He himself _had
already scorned her_.

He allowed his gaze to wander beyond the waters of a lagoon; until it
rested upon a clump of trees that rose ragged in the background. He was
too torn with anguish to think for a time. What price had been put upon
virtue, for his people--and her people--was too great to estimate. But
behind it all, was a homeless, friendless, loveless little girl,
drifting about in the world. For Mildred Latham as he saw her again, was
a mere girl, not yet twenty-two. She had a heart, but what kind of a
heart must she have, after the suffering she had endured? Yet she was a
human being, with a human desire after all.

What he had seen in her eyes in Cincinnati; that pain, and at times that
wild, elfinlike, mad desire.... And, oh, that caress, that one kiss that
seemed to have penetrated her very soul; the look she had given him;
that weak protest, afterward united in its pathetic appeal for mercy....
She had been his dream; his mad desire. He had declared then, that he
would help to dispell that worry; he had felt himself courageous enough
to do so, too; but now before him was the test, and he was weakening
under it.

Back in the _Rosebud Country_, he had lived alone for years, and during
those long days, his greatest desire, his greatest hope, had been to
love, to have that love returned by his ideal of womanhood. He dismissed
what had followed. The other had not even courage enough to accept
graciously what he had worked for. Any woman can, to a degree, mould
the future of her husband. No man, he knew, could be oblivious to the
condition of his household, and that which made it. That part of his
life, however, had long since been a closed chapter. His great effort
had been to forget it, and he had succeeded to such a degree, that he
was able to concentrate his mind on other things; but now, it was
different. Because, with the exception of the one thing, Mildred Latham
was more than his picture, his ideal. But that one thing was the silent
barrier.

It was springtime now, and back in the _Rosebud Country_ all must be
busy. He thought of the years, and how busy he was at this time. And
hopeful; because, whether the season proved successful or not,
springtime, when the crops were planted, was always a hopeful time;
every farmer believed, as he planted his seed, that the season would be
successful. And now he was not there to plant the crops. He had not been
there the year before; but, as he continued to recall the past, he knew
that it had never occurred to him that he would have been anywhere else
but there. He wanted to be there; but financially, he couldn't afford to
be there any more.

After an interminable spell of mental depression, something came to his
mind. It entered slowly, but at last took shape. He whispered after a
time: "Yes, yes, I could. With that amount I could start all over
again.... And out there, no one would know, no one would need to
know.... Just being there with the right to continue as I once was; but
with a terrible experience to remind me of what it is all worth--it
would not be the same now."

He saw her now differently. That other side was passing. It would come
back--it would keep coming back; but it was his duty; it was his
future--it was his very life to crush it as often as it came up; but
that was not the half of it: Mildred Latham was homeless, and friendless
as we know. After what she had done for so many others, was it not
Christianlike to think of her?...

And now he had another thought. Yes, back in the _Rosebud Country_ it
would be possible for two people to be happy; people who had no other
hope, no other ambition, but to follow the pursuit of happiness and
labor....

As it became clearer, he realized that he had never cared for
conventionality. That other experience had thrust it upon him, and when
he showed his dislike for it, he had been tortured. It would be
different--now. Mildred Latham would not care for any thing but himself,
and that which would make him happy.... And he, his experience had been
too real and too bitter, not to appreciate what kindness, sincerity, and
courage in one's convictions, means in future happiness.

The train stood in the station now, and all the other passengers had
left the cars. He came out of his revery with a start; and, hastily
collecting his luggage, he rushed forth, and caught a car that took him
within a block of his office. He deposited his grips in a cafe he knew,
and, a few minutes later, he stood in the doorway.

It was late in the afternoon, and nearly everyone in the building had
left for home; but she was there. Curiously, he had felt that she would
be there. With the amount of business he had seen she had created, he
was certain that he would find her, and he did.

She sat at the desk, as she had the afternoon he had returned from the
hospital. She was working away, and he saw her before she noticed him.
When she did, she gave a start, opened her mouth, and then, as if she
thought of something, closed it slowly, fumbled her pen, but said
nothing.

He paused briefly and observed her, and as he did so, took note of the
fact that she had lowered her head. And he knew. It was in shame.
Strangely now, since she knew that he was aware of at least a part of
the past, she could not endure to have him look at her. But, in these
moments, Sidney Wyeth was not observing her in scorn, as her 
cheeks gave evidence.

Mildred sat still and waited. She expected to be scorned; she had come
to a place in life, where she expected anything. He might rebuke her,
and she would say nothing; but intuitively, she had never felt _he_
would rebuke her. As she sat with drooped head, he saw one tear drop
unchecked upon her lap. No others followed; but he knew the time had
come to go to this girl. She had endured a hard lot. Not one person in a
thousand, would have gone through what she had, but human endurance,
wrestling with all life's vicissitudes, has a limit. How much it cost,
that one tear, he could not fully estimate; but, if he knew life, if
some one didn't come to Mildred Latham's rescue soon, she might become
anything. Not far from where she sat, a thousand or more women were
burning their souls in hell. And all those women were there--not by
preference; but because they were simply human beings and weak.

He approached, and a moment later stood near her, while her finger toyed
with the pen. She had, as he noticed now, grown stouter since he knew
her in Cincinnati. Her hair covered her head, and was beautiful to his
eyes, while her skin appeared somewhat darker. He paused as one at a
loss how to begin, because he had so much he then wished to say.
Presently he found his voice, and his excitement was controlled as he
spoke her name:

"Mildred," said he. She heard him, but did not reply. So he repeated:
"Mildred, I've come back." He paused again, and the room was silent. She
did not answer him, and he did not expect her to. Presently he said it
over again. "Yes, I've come back.... I was away. I was off in one of the
parishes, one of the most remote, for, when I left, I wanted to be away,
away from everybody.... But it happened out there, that I met a man,
Mildred. I met a man ... and he told me a story, a long story.... What
he told me, concerned something--something I will not tell, and somebody
I will not mention, but what he told me, cleared the horizon.... And
that's why I came back. On the way I faltered, I weakened for a time. I
thought once of not stopping. I started to go on and on and on, maybe
never stop. But when I thought again, and again, and kept on thinking, I
couldn't. I couldn't, because, well, after all, I wanted to stop.

"So I stopped, Mildred, and then, I came here. Here--and to you.... I
have come back, Mildred, and to you. Are you glad I've come back,
Mildred?" He paused and listened, though he did not expect her to
answer.

She remained as she was, and silent.

"On the way back, I thought of you, of nothing else, no one else but
you. My thoughts went back to our acquaintance in Cincinnati, and the
day we danced and I--I--kissed you, Mildred." He paused again, and gazed
out over the rows of buildings below. "And then I realized what has been
wrong with me ever since, and all my life.... It was because I have been
hungry. I have been starving to death these many years for love,
Mildred, love and understanding.... I am still hungry, and thirsty; but
at last a hope has come to me. A hope that it will not long continue as
it has these many years. But withal, I have thought of something else
too. And that is, I want to go home. I want to go home to stay. I don't
like it here; I don't like it anywhere, but in the _Rosebud Country_."

"The _Rosebud Country_?" she echoed, sitting erect and turning slightly.

"Yes, Mildred, The _Rosebud Country_." He paused again, and the ticking
of his watch was quite audible to both. "Yes," he said presently, and
after a time, in which he seemed to be engaged in deep thought, he
resumed, "and I was going to say that I have decided to go back." He
moved and stood beside her. The sinking sun now played a last evening
ray across her face, and in turning from it, she happened to look up and
into his face. He saw her now as he had never seen her before. Something
she saw caused her to catch her breath and venture another look. His
eyes appeared to see something far away, and she continued to stare at
him.

"Yes, Mildred," he started again, and now his voice became low and
strange. She understood, and knew that he was living in the past,
oblivious to her presence. She listened with a strange rapture. "I've
decided to go back to that land beyond the Big Muddy. Back to that
little reservation, the name of which I love. But Mildred, it depends."
He halted and looked down into her face. Their eyes met now, and both
seemed hypnotized for they continued to stare at each other, becoming
more enraptured. "It depends," said he, very slowly, "_upon you_." She
looked away, but he reached and caught her hand. He backed up until he
reached the desk, upon which he seated himself. He looked at her now
pleadingly. She gave one glance, and caught the same look she had seen
but once before, more than a year before, and before he knew. He pulled
her gently from the chair, and placed her beside him on the desk.

"It depends _upon you_ Mildred!" And still she said nothing.

"Out there, Mildred, I longed for you. Yes, it was you, you! These many
years I waited for you. At last I have found you. Oh, I have found you,
the _one Woman_. And now," he said this in a strong voice, "I'm through.
I'm through, and ready to go back, if you will go with me. Do you hear?
I mean, that I love you Mildred. Love you with all the passion of a
hungry heart." He paused again.

"And you have had a hard time, little girl, oh you've had a hard time. I
_know_. But it's all over now, dear. Yes, it's all over now. There is no
society that we are under obligation to; there are no pretentious
persons to make us false to our convictions; there is nothing but
impulse to direct us."

"Oh, Sidney," he heard her say with a slight tremble. His arm stole
about her waist, and she did not remove it. She looked up into his eyes
and saw him with trust. "And you'll go?" he said and waited.

"Do you mean it Sidney? Oh, Sidney, _do you mean it_?" Her voice now was
low, strained, strangely wistful, and then, as if suddenly remembering
something she had apparently forgotten, her eyes took on an expression
of mute appeal, like that of a hunted animal. Her form became tense,
while a spasm of agony contracted her features as she moaned:

"_No, No, No I can not. Oh, I will not!_" And before he could quite
understand her sudden rebellion, she rushed from the room and into the
hall, and soon her rapid footsteps died away in the distance.

He stood as she had left him, not comprehending that she had gone. "Am I
awake?" he whispered dreamily putting his hands together, and gazing at
them stupidly, as if to assure himself they were his own, "She has gone?
Gone, gone! Mildred--but--why?" He felt sadly weak, for the strain was
beginning to tell upon him.

In a half stupor, he finally found a seat in the office chair, and
mechanically let his gaze wander out over the city. After a time, it
rested upon a street that led down to the wide thoroughfare. His eye
soon caught sight of a figure hurrying along the walk. He leaned forward
and observed it carefully, and when it reached another street, he made
out that it was Mildred. He watched her as she crossed quickly to the
center where a car was moving, and boarded it. In a moment it had
disappeared down the street.




CHAPTER TWELVE

_The Slave Market_


Days passed and still he waited, still he watched, and still he
listened, but in vain. And always he moved about distractedly. He had no
plans, he had no hopes now, but was simply moving in a circle. At times
he would utter stupidly, "Where is she? Where is Mildred?" And after
that he would become silent; he would be thinking--yes, always thinking.

He ransacked the office; he made inquiries to ascertain where she
stayed--but in vain. He knew not how to look for her; he knew not where
to begin. But the work in the office--the result of her
ability--continued to increase. Mail was brought four times a day, and
in each, letters from far and near would contain money orders, express
checks, cheerful letters, and still orders for more books. But they gave
him no cheer, notwithstanding he mechanically went about the work, with
the system he saw she had created.

And as the days went by, he grew more anxious, more worried in regard to
her fate, and he grew determined to find her, if he could.

"Poor little girl. Poor little Mildred. Why has she done all this? And
she is alone somewhere--always alone--and I know not where."

There came a day when he felt he could stand it no longer.

He took a walk; he knew not where it led to. Possibly it led nowhere.
Yet he felt he must walk, not in the direction he was accustomed to go
(to the river, where he had wandered many a night, and observed the
mighty ocean liners, receiving and discharging their cargoes; or where,
on the deck of packets, he listened to steam calliopes), but in a
direction he had never gone before.

It was in one of the creole city's narrow ways, where he presently found
himself. Sidney strolled along, oblivious to all whereabouts, and found
that this part of the city was much unlike any part he had known.

He felt as one in a strange land, to be sure. On all sides he was
greeted by little low houses, opening into the narrow streets. Peculiar
people moved about and spoke in a tongue he could not understand, but he
knew it was creole. They were quieter than those in the neighborhood he
lived, and he understood. They were all Catholics, he had been told, and
"obeyed" the priest. He was glad of it. He wished all his race would
obey something other than their animal instincts.

He paused at last before a statue in a small square. Four rows of
buildings faced it on that many sides. Only one side confronted him,
however, and to this he finally went. He stopped before a large church,
a cathedral, and read that it had been built almost two hundred years
before. Next to the church, was the museum. Curious, and for a time
forgetting his troubles, he wandered in. He went up a winding stairway
to the second floor. As he passed upward, great oil paintings greeted
him. All old, this he saw; for, under many were inscriptions, showing
that many had been painted more than a hundred years ago. While he had
never studied this art, he readily appreciated that many were wonderful.
Elegant ladies gazed at him from the frames, their eyes following him
strangely out of sight; for, no matter where he stood, whether in front
or from either side, they seemed to scrutinize him.

He passed into the museum and began to examine, through the glass cases,
relics of another day. That the city was old was shown by the age of
papers and documents of numerous mention. Pictures of fond old mammies,
gray and white-haired old uncles, grand dames (such as Dixie had seen),
caught his attention everywhere.

An old, old man, scion of a decayed aristocracy, sat in a chair within
this art room, and Sidney approached him. "Have you," said he, "any
record of the sale of slaves, in this museum?" The other pointed to a
room Wyeth had not observed, but spoke no word.

Wyeth wandered into it, and his gaze immediately encountered what he was
curious to see.

"Know all men by these presents:

"Being the last will and testament of Joan Becuare.

"To my wife and life companion, I do bequeath to thee, all I have after
death. To-wit:

"One thousand acres of land in Caddo Parish, unencumbered.

"One hundred <DW65>s, of various ages and the following description:

"One mammy, age eighty. A better wench never lived. Name: Diana.

"One 'uncle', eighty-seven, beloved servant of his master, and faithful
ever. Name: Joe.

"One wench, twenty-two, robust, healthy, a good servant of the house.
Name: Martha."

And so on the description ran, which seemed strange and unnecessary in a
will; then he recalled the sentiment of the southerner.

In still another case, he read a sale bill, written in long hand with an
artistic flourish:

"Having sold my plantation, I will hereby sell to the highest bidder, at
public auction, the following named property, to-wit:

"One <DW65> wench, sixteen years, hail and hearty, promises to be a good
breeder, and is now with child by Ditto, a young <DW65>, strong as a
lion, healthy and a good worker. Not 'sassy'.

"One <DW65> wench, twenty-three, name, Mandy. This is the most
attractive wench in Gretna Parish. She is expecting a third child soon."

Wyeth wondered why the father was not mentioned. And then he thought of
something, and knew.... His own father was the son of a master.

He read other such documents, and then observed that almost all sales
were recorded to be held at the "slave" market. After an hour or more,
he passed out.

He went up a street, which was narrow--like all those in the old
section of the city, and walked on, whither he had no idea. Not far
away, he could see the river and many great vessels moving up and down.
Just ahead of him, appeared an odd, long, two-story building. The first
glance revealed that, once upon a time, it had been a grand affair.
"Wonder what it was?" he muttered idly.

And now he came up to it, and paused near one end. He viewed it many
minutes curiously from across the street, but he could not make out what
it had been. As he saw it now, it was evident that it had been empty for
many, many years.

Presently, he crossed to where a door greeted him, only to find, when he
had come to it, that it was bolted from the inside, while the heavy iron
knob was rusted until it was hardly recognizable. He glanced up, and,
straining his eyes, he read an inscription over the door:

     ST. LOUIS--ROYAL HOTEL

       SLAVE MARKET

"So this is the place," he whispered, observing everything before him
now with a new interest. "Herein were sold, in the days of old,
hundreds--aye, thousands of _my_ people." He passed to the street upon
which the hotel faced for a block, and walked down this, observing the
decaying structure with greater curiosity. The entire building was,
apparently, empty. A porch, supported by massive iron pillars, reached
over the walk, the entire length of the building. The large windows of
the second story were without glass, and gaped darkly, seeming to tell a
story which he would like to have known. The lower floor had evidently
been given over to business purposes, judging from the wide windows that
now were boarded over with two-inch planks. All this was decorated with
stage announcements.

When he reached the other end, there was an opening; the door was to one
side, and, more curious now than ever, he paused, and gazed into the
dark interior. Soon he passed within. The place seemed almost as dark
as a dungeon at first, and he stood for a minute, until he had become
accustomed to it. He passed into the interior, and finally came into a
room that was perfectly round. "An arch chamber, or what?" he
conjectured. Out of the gloom a block arose. Something about it
attracted him, and he crossed to where it was fitted into the wall. At
one side he now read, "Sheriff's desk." On the other side he read,
"Clerk." And now he looked at the block, and knew that it was on this
_his_ people had been sold--at auction. He closed his eyes for a time,
and allowed his thoughts--his imagination--to go back into the past,
when rich planters, grand ladies, and harsh overseers once held sway.
And before him rose a picture.

"Hear me," the auctioneer, "I now offer the best <DW65> that ever held a
plow. A good, strong rascal, that is worth:--How much am I offered to
start him? How much am I offered to start him? Five hundred! Who is
insane, or jokes? Five hundred for a <DW65> like this? Nonsense! Now,
here, come forward, and feel this <DW65>'s muscles, examine his teeth,
strike his breast." And, to emphasize his good, robust property, he
struck the slave a resounding lick across the breast, that would have
knocked over half the people before him. Wyeth could seem to see the
man, the black man, merely smile at all the faces about him.

"And now I am going to offer you something that will arouse you. Bring
forward the wench, the pretty young wench."

A young mulatto Negress now stood before the crowd. A stirring, a
collecting near the front, a crowding about the block; some almost
getting upon it, in their excitement. A murmur went the rounds, and
words could be heard. "I'd like to own her!" There was a consulting of
bank books, a figuring of credit, and then the auctioneers voice was
heard again.

"Look at 'er, look at 'er! Ha! A fine one, eh? Yes, a fine one.... Look
at her form.... Look at her face! Here, bright eyes, hold up, hold up,
and let the boys see what I have got.... What am I bid?"

"$1000."

"Say! The man that made that bid ought to be hung! A thousand dollars
for a wench like this? Why, by all the pious gods, she is worth that for
a year...."

"$1500."

"$2000."

"$2500."

"$3000."

"Ah, sir," said someone, and Wyeth came back to the present, to look
down upon and old, white-haired woman, who was standing, observing him
from the doorway. He bowed apologetically, got down, and went toward
her.

"I have charge of the building," said she, speaking in a little strained
voice. "Would you not like to view the interior?"

"I should like to, I am sure," he replied.

He followed her back to the door through which he had entered, and up a
flight of winding, iron stairs to the next floor. Even these, he saw,
had once been most magnificent. His guide offered no comment, but caught
her breath in gasps as she ascended. When the landing had been reached,
both paused for breath, while Wyeth's attention was immediately caught
by the decaying grandeur, that was evident all about him. "Wonderful,"
he said at last, in a low, respectful voice, and as though he feared to
disturb some of those grand persons that once had frequented it.

"Wonderful, you say?" echoed the woman, and regarded him out of small,
sharp eyes.

"Magnificent."

"And, be you a stranger in the city?" she now asked.

"Yes."

"And from where do you come?"

"The great northwest. Dakota."

"Ah, Dakota--m-m. That is far, far away?"

"Yes; far, far away."

"I have never been there. I have never been anywhere, but have always
lived here in Bienville Parish. I was born here, a creole."

They now walked down the wide hall, and where he gazed into the
deserted rooms on either side, all of which revealed a once great
splendor.

"Here," she said, "is a room that once played a conspicuous part in the
old south." She led him then into a large room, much larger than any
other in the building. It was a round room, and he could see that it had
been made to be used for convention purposes. She was explaining.

"It was once used as a temporary capitol, and later as a rendezvous for
secessionists. And still later, after the war, Sheridan made a raid, and
arrested many conspirators."

"I suppose," said Sidney, "that this place has seen many grand
occasions?"

"Ah, indeed it has. All the aristocrats of the southland always stopped
here, as well as counts and dukes and lords and great ladies, and still
from South America and Mexico the best people stopped here."

They passed out of the room, across the hallway, and entered another
room that was furnished. "I live here," said the woman, to his surprise.

"Here--alone?"

She nodded. "Yes, alone for many years."

He understood now, and, running his hands into his pockets, he pulled
forth a half dollar, and handed it to her. She accepted it with many
thanks, and gave him then, some pictures and relics.

"I suppose you have many visitors--tourists?" he inquired, starting
toward the door.

"Well, no, I do not," she said, somewhat regretfully. "The people do not
seem to wander down into this section. They do not appear curious for
relics, as they used to be."

"That's too bad--for you," he said kindly.

"It is, since I am old, and have no other way of getting my living," and
she sighed.

"How old are you?"

"Eighty-nine."

"And you have no--no children?" he asked now, with curious interest.

"None. And that--and that, perhaps, is why I'm like I am today...."

Wyeth listened kindly, patiently. The other appeared sad and
reminiscent.

"No, I shall never seem to get over it, either. I am the last of a
family that came here from France, many, many years ago--two hundred, to
be exact. For many years, we were the richest family in Bienville
Parish, and perhaps almost as rich as any other in the state. We owned
land, and slaves, until we could hardly count them. Of course, the war
meant--you can understand what we lost with the freedom of the blacks.
But after that, we were still immensely rich. But, somehow, a curse
seemed to come over the family. No boy babies were born to any. The
girls became subject to consumption, until all had died but myself. Then
I married. My husband was Spanish and French, very affectionate, and was
good to me, and we were hopeful and happy--until I bore him no
offspring. He grew crabbed, nervous and impatient.

"Before long, I came to see that he was intimate elsewhere. He began to
drink, to gamble, and to carouse. He stayed out until all hours of the
night, and then he got so he would not come home at all. For days I
would not see him, and then for weeks." She paused long enough now to
wipe a tear. "I began to fear for him, for, I recalled that his
ancestors had come to abrupt ends, and I worried. Because I could bear
him no children, I gave him freely of the fortune that was left to me.
He ran through with his, and then with mine." She was weeping quietly
now, and he felt inclined to comfort her, but did not know how.

After a time she was calm again. She took a seat by the window, and
gazed with a tired expression out into the street, while he waited.
"Well," she resumed, "they brought him home one day, dead, and I have
been alone since."

"Too bad," said Wyeth, and shifted about, listening for more, for,
carefully observant, he saw that she was not through.

"One day, there came a woman, an attractive <DW52> woman, with large
eyes and the most beautiful hair and skin and form I had ever, I think,
seen. She led a little boy by the hand, and when he looked up at me, I
screamed. I knew then, and didn't have to be told, that he was my
husband's son.

"Strangely, I was happy. To know that my good husband--for he had been
good in the beginning--had left his name, somewhat cheered me, and we
agreed to educate and give him a chance.

"We placed him later, at my expense, in a good school, and he grew to be
a handsome, bright-eyed young man. I watched him, however, with a slight
fear--for I remembered. But he made a man of himself, a successful man,
and with the last few thousands I could gather, I helped to start him in
business, and in due time he had made a name that was an envy. He became
the owner of much of the best property in the city, land in the northern
part of the state, and, in the end, married one of the wealthiest and
most attractive girls in the town." She paused again, and Wyeth listened
without a word. Something remained yet to be told....

The woman was speaking again.

"Yes, he grew to success and happiness--and then, well, something
happened."

"Something happened?" Wyeth echoed.

"Yes. Something happened." She was silent now, and gazed again out of
the window.

"Heredity."

"Heredity?" And still he did not understand. He could not be patient
longer. "Who was this man--that is, ah--what was his name. I don't think
I ever heard of him--a <DW52> man?"

She looked straight at him now, without a change of expression, and
answered: "He was not !"

"Not ?"

"I should have said," she corrected, "that he didn't go as ....
He _passed_ for white."

"Oh...."

"But that was not it--heredity."

Wyeth said nothing.

"He ran around. He took up drink--and then he wanted--<DW52> women."

After this, both were silent for a long time; but Wyeth was thinking. He
was hearing over again what he had heard before--many times. "_Colored
women!_" In Dixie, he felt that if he could keep his ears deaf to
hearing of white men--and those who "passed" for white--wanting--and
having--<DW52> women, he could, he possibly might like the country; but
everywhere he had heard this. The woman broke the silence.

"This city is possessed with that desire. Have you observed
it--everywhere you might chance to look, you will see it?"

He sighed. She looked at him again, and then became silent.

Across the way, a large, municipal building rose far above St.
Louis--Royal Hotel--Slave Market. Through the window from where they
sat, busy clerks worked away over books. When their eyes glanced to the
street, it was broken with automobiles, and busy people hurrying to and
fro.

"I have a visitor," he heard the woman say. "She is a sweet, kind, but
sad sort of girl. She has been to see me several times of late, and I
have been talking religion with her. In all my days, no human being has
interested me as she has. I love her. And while I can't object, I regret
to feel in some way that she is going to enter the convent, and become a
sister."

"Are you a Catholic?"

"All French are Catholic," she answered.

"Then you perforce sanction this intention of your girl friend?"

"Yes, I do; but, oh, how much I shall miss her!"

"Will she enter soon?"

"Very soon!"

"Have you known her long?"

"A few months; but it seems I have known her all my life."

"Is she--what is she,  or white?" he asked.

"."

"Indeed. Her name?"

"I have it; but I forget. I call her always Little Sister. I have her
picture and will let you see it. She had it taken a few days ago, out
there on that grass plot," and she pointed to the yard of the municipal
building. She was a few minutes finding the picture, and then Wyeth was
overcome by a strange feeling, with regard to what he had heard. A girl
... sad ... going to enter a convent.... Who was this girl? Who, who,
who?

"Here is her picture," said the woman.

He took it, and saw Mildred smiling up at him.




CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"_Restitution_"


"I had to," cried Mildred bewilderingly, as she hurried, hatless,
breathless, along the walk, when she left her lover so abruptly. She was
distracted; she was not fully aware of what she said. All she knew was,
that at the most supreme moment of her existence, she had broken away
from the one she loved, and for whom she would have been willing to die;
but to marry him at last, she felt she could not conscientiously do.
"Oh, but it was manly, kindly--sublime, his offer, and how I love him
for it!" she whispered. "I know he will forgive me; he will remember me
kindly; he will never forget me, and my love for him--but to go to him
and make him suffer with the thought of the past--never!"

She slowed down, as she neared the wide street, that crossed just ahead
of her. She crossed the walk to the center of the street, where a car
was coming, and caught it. Once inside and seated, she lay back, and
became, for a time, dully listless. Presently, she saw the river just
ahead, and when the car slowed down, she left it, crossed to the ferry,
and went aboard. A half hour later, she was in her room.

Her sister greeted her pleasantly from the garden, which aroused her
emotion to such a degree, that she choked slightly, in order to hold
back words she had long wished to say.

When alone at last in her room, she lay across the bed, and gave up to
the feeling of inertia, that had taken possession of her.

All that day she remained so. She could scarcely collect her wits. Again
and again, the events connected with his return, flew through her dull,
sluggish mind, and, at last, to relieve it, she dressed in a cool, thin
dress, and went for a walk down by the river front.

She passed many docks, where not so many steamers lay at anchor as she
had once noticed. She wondered why, since she had observed the falling
off of traffic. Then she thought about the bloodshed that was going on
each day across the water. She soon came abreast of a wharf where more
than a score of great ocean goers were anchored. No smoke came from
their funnels; no men worked away on their decks; in fact, they were as
silent as the grave, their dark hulls casting a dull shadow above the
water. She wandered down the board platform, and studied them idly. Then
she read, painted on their sterns, names with Bremen and Hamburg as
their port.... Her thoughts again reverted to the carnage across the
waters.

She found the street again, and wandered aimlessly along the sidewalk.
Suddenly she halted and strained her ears, as a sound came to her from
some distance. She listened, and then looked up and across the river,
where the creole city stretched, apparently endless, before her. She
observed in doing so, for the first time, that the river curved in such
a manner as to form a perfect crescent at this point, and, although her
thoughts were confused, she did not fail to appreciate the beauty of it.

Her gaze had found the place from whence came the sound that had halted
her. It was the bell of a church vibrating through the still evening
air. The steeple in which it was mounted, raised far into the air above
the buildings about it, and she watched it with growing reverence. As
she continued to stare at it, it seemed to outline a mighty sepulchre,
and she fell to speculating about it. She was familiar with it, in a
measure, and recalled, as she found herself wandering vaguely along a
few moments later, that she used to pass it each day. It was when _he_
lay ill at the hospital, that it was near. It was called St. Catherine.
She had happily observed that may little <DW52> children went to it
each day, and Sunday. Their training, she had observed, was very
different from the denominations with which she was acquainted. She had
stopped before its steeple the first time, one day toward the close of
Sidney's recovery. The next day she had entered it, and wandered down
its carpeted aisles. She had gone up to the front, before she realized
that any one was in the church. And then a sister came from an alcove,
or from some place, but she could not imagine where.

She had halted embarrassed, but the other smiled upon her so pleasantly,
that her confidence was won in a moment.

Mildred recalled it--the meeting--strangely today. She wondered what the
life of a sister was like. She had guessed what it meant.... She had
almost forgotten the sister, until she went her way this day, when the
lot of those patient souls came to her mind again.

She reached a street presently, where two wide walkways intersected, and
when she reached the center of the intersection, something gripped her
and she stopped quickly, catching her breath. She continued to stand
thus, but with eyes widening, nerves tense, and then she uttered beneath
her breath: "Why not? Yes, why not? Why, why, why?" Then, completely
absorbed in the idea, which had suddenly come to her, offering, as she
felt it now, a solution of her life, she turned on her heel, and
retraced her steps homeward.

And all the way she kept saying to herself: "Why not, why, why?"

She hesitated at the gate, and again there came to her ears from across
the river the chime of the bell on St. Catherine. It echoed softly, and
vibrating, it touched her soul to its depths. She stood at last
transformed. As it continued to float across to her, she seemed to
translate: "Come unto me, all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give
thee rest."

When she entered the house, her head hung, with eyes cast down. She had
decided to become a sister.

       *       *       *       *       *

There came a day, bright, clear, and slightly breezy; but withal,
invigorating, and she went to visit the old woman who lived alone in
the deserted St. Louis--Royal Hotel. She had no tremors, because it had
been the place where once her people were sold by thousands. She had met
the old woman on one of her frequent pilgrimages alone in the creole
city, and had become strangely fond of her. Mildred had, on more than
one occasion, felt constrained to tell her the story.... So today, she
came quietly upon the old soul sitting by the window, with the light
streaming in upon her faded hair and features.

"You come today, Little Sister. I am always so glad to see you."

Mildred returned the greeting kindly and pleasantly, and sank into the
proffered chair. She had told the other of her intentions, but offered
no reason for her decision. She asked today that the other bless her,
which was done. They sat afterward in mutual silence. Presently,
however, the other broke it.

"A young man was here yesterday, a strange, kind, forgiving sort of
fellow. He aroused me in a way; he brought back, by his presence,
memories, and I don't know why; but I told him my story.... He listened
so patiently, so kindly, and with such sympathy, I do declare, that I
wept."

"A young man? A--"

"A young <DW52> man from away off in the great northwest."

"Sidney, oh, Sidney," Mildred breathed, unheard.

"And do you know, dear Little Sister, I thought of you almost all the
time he listened, and was near me.... I don't know why. I cannot imagine
predestination in a large sense; but in some way I felt he suffered."
She paused, and Mildred swallowed. After a time she said, in a small
voice:

"I guess I'll go now."

The other did not detain her, though she wished she would never leave,
but followed her out of the silent old place down to the street, and
watched her out of sight.

She passed through one of the narrow streets to the banking section of
the city, entered the one where Sidney's money was deposited, which he
had given back to her, and she had it made into a draft. This was mailed
forthwith to him. Then she recrossed the river, and when in her room,
packed all her belongings securely, and then wrote a long letter to her
sister. In this, she told of her life from the day she had left home on
the mission ... omitting why she had done this ... up to the day. She
wrote that she loved a young man, loved him, so that she could not bear
to become his, and feel that she was guilty--unworthy. She closed it,
asking her sister to accept all she left--which was everything, but what
she wore.

She retired, for night had come, and slept so peacefully the night
through, that she was surprised. She dressed before the others arose,
and slipped into the street.

In due time, she stood at the gates of St. Catherine. It was still
early, and the people were not much astir, when again the chimes came to
her ears, a hundred and more feet above her. She listened, and as they
continued to ring, she gradually became transformed. No one came, so she
entered the gate, went around to the side, and took a seat.

Her mind became reflective and reverted to the past, and she found
herself living it over, again and again. But, as she reviewed it, she
seemed to have no regrets; she did not foster the kind of hopes she once
had, and then she arose and found her way again to the front. She
approached the door, and when she tried the knob, found that it was
open. The priest was just leaving through a side door as she entered,
and did not hear her footfall, as she passed lightly down the carpeted
aisle.

She stood before the altar, when she had come to the other end, and
getting down upon her knees, offered a silent little prayer. She
remained there until the flood of emotion--for she found herself
peculiarly emotional today--had passed, and then arose. She gazed at the
emblem of the Christ before her for a moment, and then, turning, she
walked into Sidney Wyeth, who had come upon her, and was waiting while
she was in prayer.

"Mildred," he said, and his voice came low, even, and respectful. "I
know...." This was all he said; but the hungry look in his eyes told all
else....

She halted before him without any undue excitement in her manner, but
her eyes were downcast. She recalled even now, that she had never been
able to return his piercing gaze. She kept her head bent, with her small
hands folded before her, but listened with something akin to a heavenly
rapture. He was speaking again.

"I am not going to infringe upon your liberty by asking you to give up
what is your intention. I've come, Mildred, just to see--to look into
your eyes once more, before you go your way.... That is all I ask. You
will grant me that, won't you, Mildred?" They stood facing each other,
only a few feet apart. He held his hat crushed in his hand, while she
did not release her grip on the cross she held. He watched her, as she
slowly raised her head, as her eyebrows came slowly into view, and then
at last her eyes.... They looked into his now. His looked into hers.
Slowly, they spoke--both pairs of eyes. No words passed their lips, but
each could seem to hear a soul within crying: "_Restitution!
Restitution!_"

How long they stood thus, they did not know. But, after a time,
something seemed to break the spell. Perhaps it was the departed souls.
They knew not, were not even aware of what was passing. Still, the eyes
of each, hypnotic, struggling with the fire of incarnation, slowly drew
them nearer. They were at last near each other. Their breaths came in
strange, tender gasps. Their eyes continued to see and regard each other
in that heavenly rapture. And still no word was spoken.

His hands seemed to find hers and the cross. They gathered them and held
them fast, while out of her ethereal eyes he saw a divine glory never to
be forgotten. Then his left arm rose. It slowly encircled her form. They
heard now, each others heart. And then something else seemed to guide
him. His head went down, while his eyes still looked into Mildred's with
that peculiar enchantment. He placed his cheek against hers, with
gentleness and reverence.

When the good father came again into the church, he paused as he watched
a couple pass slowly down the aisle. They were a man and a woman. His
arm rested about the slender shoulders of his companion, with great
tenderness.

So together, they went to that land in the west.


THE END




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

On page 259 of this original, 1915 publication of The Forged Note, there
is a line of missing text, which appears as a blank line on the page. In
the 1916 reprint (which is available for viewing online at
hathitrust.org) this missing line reads: "... the subject, and which
would serve to substantiate her...." For the convenience of the reader,
the missing line, as printed in the 1916 edition, has been inserted into
this text.

Obvious typos and printer errors have been corrected without comment.

In addition to obvious errors, the following changes were made:

     1. Page 165: "wan" was changed to "wane" in the phrase: "...he felt
     the interest wane...."

     2. Page 255: "here" was changed to "hear" in the phrase "... and
     go, dy'e hear...."

With the above exceptions, inconsistencies in the author's spelling,
punctuation, and use of hyphens are retained as in the original
publication.

Unconventional spelling has been retained in words such as (but not
limited to) the following:

     Page 243: bisquits
     Page 344: surpressed
     Page 362: philanthrophist
     Page 389: wrapped (instead of rapped)
     Page 395: preceeded





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Forged Note, by Oscar Micheaux

*** 