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