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 Negroes, 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 Negro preachers in that city, it ran thus:
My Dear Sir: Replying to your favor of recent date relative to the names of Negro 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.
My Dear Sir: Replying to your favor of recent date relative to the names of Negro 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, hewas 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 Negro enterprise. That is the undertaker. He is always in evidence. Mortality among Negroes 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 Negroes 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 colored 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 Negro 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 toyou. 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 hischurch 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 colored 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 Negro 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 colored 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 colored 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'sintroduction, he met many others prominent in Negro circles, including the president and cashier of the local Negro bank. And thus it came that Sidney Wyeth met these, the new Negro, 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 Negroes 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.
"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, thereis 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 Negroes, so far as I have been able to gather. I could not say for sure, of course not; but Idofind 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 canplay, 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 worldTo 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 beamThat falls along the summer sea."
"O, Genevieve, I'd give the worldTo 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 beamThat 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 ofSweet Genevieveand what it recalled, tortured her memory, until it was from sheer fatigue that she did at last fall asleep.
She hoped Constance would playSweet Genevieveno more.
"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 theRosebud, 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—inAttalia 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, nigger?"
Wyeth was shocked beyond speech. Evidently, he had not as yet come to appreciate that he was otherwise than on theRosebud. "Where you been, nigger?" 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, nigger! 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 lookssuspicious, 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 nigger'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 Negro. 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!"
"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 Negro 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 thissame 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 Negroes—Negroes—Negroes—a court of Negroes. 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 Negroes 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 Negroes, 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 whitepeople 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 Negro 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 Negro 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 ofhim 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 Negroes 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 theground 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 forhusbands?"
"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 youmustconduct yourselves to the disgrace of the community in such manner, you should keep off the streets with yourmenat 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" Negro, 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."
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 colored people read. They are fond of such news.
Frowning, while all those standing about laughed, he took the sheet and read:
NEGRO FROM THE NORTH WAS SURPRISED
In a few colored 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 Negro 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 authorof 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 Negroes Sidney had met, this one was the most extraordinary. The son of a Japanese mother and a Negro 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 Negro 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 Negroes 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 Negro 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 inquirehis 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 coon 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 wasaccusedof 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 Negro 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 townto this day, and may be for all time, that he was a lucky Negro, too. Because, with the way they treat Negroes 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 Negro, 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 Negro 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.
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 wassomeposer, 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 bythe 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 neverbeen 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 toThe 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 diabolicalcreature 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.