"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 colored 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 afeature. 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 colored.
"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 themiddle 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. "Suchhomes;suchtrees—sucheverything." 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 Negro 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 colored men. He got a peep inside, as some one entered, and saw that the occupants were Negroes, 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.
"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 Negro 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 thinkThe Tempestwill 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 feltstrangely 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, andpromisedso 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, whowere 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 colored 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 allowusin 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.
"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 colored 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 herroom 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 colored people about it?" she said.
"Yes, ma'am. It is a building occupied and owned by Negroes. 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, butnecessary 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 colored 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 Negroes 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 colored 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 thatan 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 Negro pioneer, eh?" said a man, upon whose office door was written:Real Estate, Loans and Renting. "M-m. Looks like a good book. Negroes don't write many books, although there are a great many that come the rounds about Negroes, but gotten up by whites with a sketch about Tom, Dick and Harry, and exaggerated estimates of the Negro. 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 Negroes 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 colored 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!"
"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, sheentered, 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 colored man."
After a moment, in which the record was consulted, the informant turned to her and said: "Sidney Wyeth,a colored 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 Negroes as agents, and, moreover, from her own experience, she had come to realize thatthey 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.
"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 thattongue 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 greateffort, 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.
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 itand 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.
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 Negro. 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 Negro 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 niggers didn't. But he became crazy to be a bishop and a real big Negro, 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 Negro 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 Negro 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.