For a long time, both were silent. The noise outside came to their ears, clearly and distinctly, while the ticking of the clock seemed louder than ever before. Presently, Sidney, to relieve his own emotions, arose from his chair and went outside.
Slim spoke of marrying the woman on Fourteenth street, every day for the next week. One morning he came in, his face beaming all over with smiles, and pleasant anticipation was plainly evident.
"Well," he began, "we talked it over last night, and she thinks it will be all right. So I want you to write aletter to my brother who owes me some money, and tell him I must have it, since I am engaged to be married, and must have it to use in paying for my divorce."
Wyeth did so.
"That's fine," he cried gratefully, when it was handed to him. "You certainly can say a whole lot in a few words."
"When I get married to this woman, I think I will have a mate like my first one," said Coleman. Wyeth tendered his sympathy.
"Well," he said, as one put to a task he would like to avoid, "I must get around, and see a lawyer about a divorce." He was thoughtful for a moment, and then resumed: "Wonder what they charge for divorces in this town?"
"Depends upon the attorney and the case," said Wyeth. "I think twenty-five dollars is the usual fee, or amount of cost." Slim hesitated thoughtfully, and then said:
"I'll go down here and see this nigga lawyer. He ought to be willing to get one cheaper than a white lawyer. Don't you think so?"
"Possibly."
He went out. About a half hour later he returned, looking downcast and sullen. He was silent for some minutes, and then said, as if addressing himself: "That nigga's crazy."
"Who's crazy?" Sidney inquired, looking up.
"That nigga lawyer."
"How do you figure that out?"
"I went in there, and spoke to him in regard to the divorce, and what do you think he wants for getting me one?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
"Fifty dollars! What do you think of that for highway robbery?"
"Perhaps your case is a bit more complicated than the average, and, therefore, justifies a larger fee," Wyeth suggested.
"Aw, that what he said, too, but he's a blood sucker. He can't gouge me."
"Oh, well," said Wyeth in an off-hand manner, "you won't quibble on a matter of twenty-five dollars additional, when you are getting a good wife. Consider that as a treasure."
"Well, I don't care. If she's willing to pay half, I'll give the sucker fifty." Wyeth bestowed a terrible look upon him, whereupon Slim withered:
"Well, she'd be getting as much as I. So what's the difference?" he tried to argue. Wyeth continued to glare at him.
"The idea!" he declared presently, with undisguised contempt. "To wish a woman to pay for your release from another! I'm too shocked to say how ashamed I am of you!"
Slim laughed sheepishly.
"Twenty-five dollars for a pair of legs like you! If I were a woman, I wouldn't give twenty-five cents for you as you sit there now," Wyeth added, with subdued mirth.
The next day, his atmosphere had changed perceptibly. He was in an ugly humor. Presently he gave words to its cause.
"That nigga woman's fooling me, and I know it."
"What's the stew today?"
"She's got another nigga a-hangin' around her. I've been suspicioning it for some time."
"You're the limit."
"I gave her a ballin' out last night about it too."
Mrs. Lautier came in at this moment, and that was the end of it for awhile.
"I'll Never be Anything But a Vagabond"
Sidney Wyeth had about filled Attalia withThe Tempestby this time, and had anticipated going to another city almost as large, about one hundred seventy miles west. He made known the fact to Slim, and suggested that he might leave him in charge of the office, if he did so. As a precaution, or rather, to get some idea of his ability to dictate letters, he had him compose a few. When the typist handed them to him to be read, and he had done so, he decided to allow him to continue his canvass, and to hire some one more proficient.
"Say," he cried the next day. "I've been thinking it over, and maybe I'll be going along with you."
"That so? Well, I do not see any reason in particular why you should not go."
"There's only one reason," he said thoughtfully.
"What is it?"
"Mrs. King."
"Oh! yes; that's so. When's the wedding going to be?"
He glared at Wyeth a second, and then exclaimed doggedly: "I'm not going to marry. I wouldn't marry the best woman in the world."
"From what you have told me, it seems that youdidmarry the worst," laughed the other.
"I'll stay single henceforth, and be safe," he growled, and busied himself through some papers.
"Stay single, eh! And let the nice lady go without a husband. It's incredible that you can be so regardless!"
"I do not care to discuss marrying today," he muttered. "I've something better. It's a business proposition."
"Oh, I see. What is it this time? Going to buy the First National Bank or the Southern Railway?"
"Oh, you needn't try to kid me. Besides I have not asked you to come in, though if you did, you could pick up some big, quick money, if you were of a mind to be serious."
"Oh, well, if it doesn't take more than a million, I might be brought to consider it," Wyeth smiled, with assumed seriousness.
"I can see you laffing in your sleeve, so I don't tell you anything, you see!" He ended it angrily, and left the office.
It was too good though to keep to himself, so he told Mrs. Lautier, who in turn told it to Wyeth.
"Mr. Coleman had me write to Ames today, in regard to some song books, which he says he used to sell lots of," she said, when it was convenient.
Wyeth grunted.
"He is very much provoked at the way you treat him. He says, if you would go in with him, you and he could both make lots of money; but that you only laugh in your sleeve at everything he proposes," she went on, replete with gossip.
"He proposes many things," said Wyeth.
She giggled.
"He's going out to Liberty Street Baptist Church to sing and sell them Sunday, providing he gets them in time." She typed a few letters, and then said:
"He says he would like to go to Effingham with you and sell books, but that you want too much for it. That the book is too high, and you want to make too much. He says the book ought to sell for a dollar, and he should be paid seventy-five cents for selling it."
"He wouldn't make a living selling it then," retorted Wyeth, somewhat impatiently. Then he thought of Mrs. King, who fed him most of the time.
The following Monday, Wyeth thought he had fallen heir to a fortune. He passed him in the hallway, with head high, and as serious as zero.
Mrs. Lautier imparted the reason for it, when Sidney had taken out the letters.
"Mr. Coleman had a great day yesterday, so he informed me," she smiled. "He said you should have been out to Liberty Street Baptist Church, and heard him sing and sell song books afterwards. He said you were not a Christian, however, which made it bad."
"How many song books did he sell, and what did he receive a copy for them?"
"I think six, and he received fifteen cents apiece," she replied. He entered at this moment, his face wreathed in triumphant smiles.
"Well, my doubting friend, if you would have taken the trouble to come out to Liberty Street Baptist Church yesterday, I think you would have been convinced that I am something of a salesman after all."
"I've just been told that you 'mopped' up," said Wyeth, heartily. Slim swelled perceptibly. He seated himself, crossed his legs, and resumed:
"When I used to live in South Carolina, I was considered one of the best salesman in the country."
"You must have been a great man in South Carolina," said Wyeth. Slim observed him a moment sharply. Presently he went on:
"I would go to the camp meetings and festivals, sing a few songs, get the people warmed up with a good sermon, and then sell hundreds of song books in the end."
"Wonderful!" from Sidney.
"I am going to the HNRTYU convention at Timberdale Thursday, and I thought you'd like to go along," he said, artfully.
"Couldn't very well do it, unless you got them to hold the convention over until next week."
"Youwillnot take me seriously, regardless of my success," he complained. "Now yesterday I sold a pile of song books, and today I am sending the man his share of the money. I could do you some good with the book you are general agent for, if you would increase my commission to seventy-five cents a copy, and lower the price to a dollar."
"If you wrote the publishers, they might give you the books free of charge, providing you agreed to pay thefreight on arrival, and not let the railroad company come back on them later for it," soliloquized Sidney.
He went to Timberdale the next day, and the office saw no more of him for a week.
"When will Mr. Coleman return?" Mrs. Lautier would inquire every day. "I certainly do miss him."
"He's our mascot, our jest. I miss him also," said Sidney, and they both spoke of him at some length.
Mrs. Lautier was also a sociable person about the office, Sidney was coming to appreciate more each day. She was from New Orleans, and a creole. She had personality, and a way that won all who were near her. She was slender and very dark, and, although only thirty-nine, was almost white-haired, which contrasted beautifully with her dark skin. Her eyes were small and bead-like, while she was affectionate by nature. Her make-up was in keeping with the position she held as matron at one of the local Negro colleges. When she spoke, her voice struck the ear musically. She was a widow.
"Why have you never remarried, Mrs. Lautier?" Wyeth ventured, one day. She colored unseen for a moment, before she answered:
"Perhaps there's a reason."
"What reason? You are charming—very charming, I think," said he earnestly, although he smiled.
She hid her face. For a woman of her age, she was most extraordinary. "I have been told that creole people have a most frightful temper," pursued Wyeth, enjoying her manner. "Is that quite true?"
"Yes," She admitted, surveying him now.
"And do you happen to be endowed with such an asset, also?"
"I wouldn't be a creole if I were not," she advised, still smiling.
"That's too bad," said he, a trifle sadly. "You seem too kind and sweet of manner, to be liable to those angry, wild fits they tell me they have."
"Perhaps you will see New Orleans while you are in the south, and the creoles; and then, you can be better prepared to understand them in the future," she said.
"Perhaps I will," he said, after some thinking. "Yes, perhaps I will. I had not thought of it before."
"Mr. Coleman will be back tomorrow," cried Mrs. Lautier, entering the office a day or so later. "I received a postal from him announcing the fact, so we will not be so lonesome now."
"I am anxious to see what he did in Timberdale. I guess he succeeded in turning it upside down, and covering the whole town with song books."
The next morning, early, he was back. He entered the office and sat around in silence, seeming to be in an introspective mood. Wyeth waited for what he knew would eventually come. It did not as early as it usually did, in fact, he sighed wearily and looked so peculiar, until Wyeth, to break the impatience he was laboring under, presently turned his gaze upon him, and said: "Well, I see you are back...." The other sat up and looked about him suddenly, as though awakened from a trance.
"I suppose you have more money now than you can conveniently use for a while," Wyeth tested. "Made a bunch in Timberdale?"
"Like Hell!" spat the other grumblingly. "Lucky to be back here alive."
"M-m! What did you run up against? A freight train, or the madam?"
"I left the day she arrived," he said in a heavy tone, then added, after a pause: "They've been lynching and driving nigga's out of that town this week, so the convention was a fizzle."
"I suppose you sold out before they got after you? How many song books did you sell?"
"Didn't I tell you the white people was raising Hell, and a-killing and burning Negroes like barbecue out there!" he exclaimed impatiently. "I never sold any song books, but I sold one copy ofThe Tempest."
"How many song books of the amount you received have you still on hand?"
"All but six."
"I thought you had sold them all but a dozen when you left for Timberdale."
"Aw, that old nigga that I left them with, and who claimed he could sell them at his church and more, slipped them back into my room while I was away. He didn't sell any."
"You don't seem to be getting back into your old-time selling form very rapidly," suggested Wyeth. Ignoring him, Slim said suddenly:
"When you all going to Effin'ham?"
"Next week."
"I don't know whether I'll get to go with you or not. Mrs. King thinks I'd better stay here this summer. What do you think about it?"
"I agree with her."
Just then Mrs. Lautier came in, and, greeting Coleman very cordially, Wyeth left them and went out on business.
He happened to have a delivery on Fourteenth street, and when he had filled it, he stood talking with the girl a moment. "Are you acquainted with Mr. V.R. Coleman?" she inquired.
"Sure. He is a "sort" of agent for this book," Sidney replied.
"I thought so," said she; "and I was wondering what kind of an agent he must make, when he spends so much time in this neighborhood. He goes with a certain party next door, and he was there all last week. I think he scarcely went outside."
"Good morning," said Sidney.
"Goodbye," said she. "I hope I'll enjoy the book."
The week arrived in which Wyeth was to depart, and preparations were made to that end. He decided to leave the office in charge of Mrs. Lautier. Slim came in the day before he was to leave, looking frightened and terribly upset. Always given to joking with him, Wyeth hardly knew how to accept him, as he apparently was that day. He was trembling in every limb as he cried:
"That woman! She's after me! Great God! I wish she would leave me alone, I wish she would leave me alone! She's followed me all over the country. She'slike a ghost on my trail! And now she is at this moment down in the street looking for me again!" Wyeth's sympathy went out to him, and he cried:
"Quiet yourself! You'll surely go to pieces trembling like that. After all, why should you become so excited? You say you have advised her that you are not going to live with her again."
"Aw, but you don't know; you don't understand. She's got it on me, on me so strong until I dasn't make a crooked move, or resort to the law. The only chance I have is to keep out of her sight." He paused a spell now, and his appearance was that of a man under sentence of death. Then he said: "She has vowed to kill me, and I know if she gets a chance she will!"
"I will go with you fellows to Effin'ham," he said more calmly. "I've got to get away from where she can see me, if I hope to live. Every moment I stay where I know her to be near, will be moments of fear. I don't want to kill her, even in self-defense. God, no! I don't want murder on my hands!" He paced the floor at some length, pausing at intervals to peep into the street, in evident fright.
"She was out to Mrs. King's, night before last. Mrs. King was not in, so she walked up to the front door of the white people, and rang the bell. When the door was opened by the man of the house, the expression he wore got her goat. She made some excuse to the effect that it was the wrong house, and went her way. Then, yesterday, or last night rather, she came back. We were eating supper, and it happened that my seat was so I could look out the window, and up the alley. I saw her slipping up this alley, near the side of the board fence, with a big gun and it cocked. I rushed out the front way and avoided her; but she is bent upon forcing me either to live with her and submit to her tyranny, or she'll kill me, and prevent me from living or being friendly with any other."
"You seem certainly up against a bad proposition, V.R.," said Wyeth, helplessly.
"If it wasn't for a certain little deal back in SouthCarolina, I wouldn't be so afraid; but, owing to that, I dare not do anything but keep out of her way," he trembled on, woefully. "I'm going to try and slip out of town unbeknown to her, and go along with you fellows to Effin'ham. I'll be safe there for a while; but as soon as she learns I am there, she'll take up the trail and I'll have to 'beat' it elsewhere."
"Gee! It must be dreadful to live in the fear that somebody is thirsting for your blood," said Wyeth, shuddering.
"I'll never be anything but a vagabond; a rover, drifting over the face of the earth until death comes," he cried despairingly.
He was calmed presently, with the prospect of going to Effingham. Wyeth went uptown, attending to considerable business in connection with the office, preparatory to leaving. When this was completed, he went to a movie, and returned to the office about six o'clock. He went to another show that evening, and after that had closed, strolled about the town until ten-thirty. There appeared to be a gathering of women for some occasion at the auditorium, which was breaking up when he returned. Mrs. King and Coleman were leaving the building when Wyeth came up. They started up the street with the crowd. As they reached the corner, there was a sudden commotion. Wyeth ran up, and was just in time to see a woman dash after Coleman from around the corner. He saw her before she got near him, and, jerking free of his escort, he tore into the street. She was a dark woman with coarse black hair, and of an Indian appearance. With a cry she flew after him, as she cried in a diabolical voice:
"At last, Vance Coleman, I have found you, and in another's company. I am forced to stand aside, although your wife!" Down the street his steps could be heard, as he tore along in mad haste. She stopped when she saw that she could not catch him, and, drawing from some invisible direction, a gun, she levelled it, with deliberate aim, at the flying figure. The crowd stood frozen creatures.
And then suddenly, a terrible cry rent the still night air, just as the gun went off; but the cry had disconcerted her aim, and, with a cry she turned toward the crowd, but Wyeth had the arm of the hand that held the revolver, which he twisted and made the weapon fall to the ground. She was led away presently by an officer, while still, far down a street, the sound of hurriedly retreating footsteps came to Wyeth's ears. He listened until they died away in the night. Wyeth turned, and disappeared in the direction of his room.
He never saw Slim again.
END OF BOOK ONE
BOOK II.
Effingham
"I'll take that change now," whispered the porter, nudging Wyeth, as he lay trying to sleep, as the train roared westward toward Effingham, the iron city, and greatest industrial southern center.
Raising up, he reached in his pocket while yet half asleep, and handed the porter two dollars. "I paid fifty cents for the ticket to Spruceville, as you know, and the charge was to be two fifty?" The other nodded, and pocketing the money, he melted away noiselessly.
A few hours later, Wyeth raised the shade and peered out. The train was flying through a valley, that spread away from either side of the single track, smooth and unobstructed, except for comfortable farm homes, set back from the roads. He looked back in the seat behind him, observed young Hatfield, whom he was bringing with him, dozing peacefully. Then he looked toward the front of the car for the first time, and observed another with whom he had become acquainted in Attalia. He had never learned his name, in fact, he had never inquired it; but, since the other possessed such long legs, and was tall and good-natured into the bargain, he had called him Legs, which had brought no objection on the part of the other. And it is by that name we shall follow him in this story.
"Hello, there!" he greeted cordially, when their eyes met. "And where did you get on and call yourself going?"
"Hello, Books!" the other returned, as cordially. He rose from his seat, shook himself as if to start the blood, jumped about for a moment, rubbed his face, andthen came back to where Wyeth was and sat down. "Say," he cried, "a little liquah'd go good right now, wouldn't it? I had some, but like a pig I emptied the bottle last night. Oh, yes," he cried suddenly, "I'm going to Chicago. Where are you going?"
"To Effingham; but I wish I were on the way for old Chi' along with you," said Wyeth. The other smiled blandly, stretched his long legs in the isle, then got up, went to the end of the car and looked around for a cup out of which to drink; and, of course, not finding any, he lifted the lid of the cooler, turned it over, and finding it had a disk, drew it full and drank from it. Replacing it, he came back and reseated himself. Since we shall become quite familiar with him, and very shortly, a description is quite necessary.
He was tall, over six feet, and a mulatto. His shoulders were broad, while his chest was thin and flat. His head was small, and straight up from his back, while he possessed a pair of small ears that fitted closely and oddly against his head—so oddly that, when one observed him at a glance, he reminded one of an elf. He appeared to be smiling always, although there was no great depth in the same. His eyes were small, and danced about playfully in his head, while his hips were arched and broad, between which was a full stomach which made him resemble a pickaninny.
"You see, it's like this," he began confidentially. He lowered his voice almost to a whisper, and held his mouth close to Wyeth's ear. "The reason you did not see me when we left Attalia last night, was because I had the porter lock me in the lavatory. I didn't come through the gate at the station, but went out to the yards where he concealed me. When the train was out of the town, I came out; but you were reading and didn't look up, when I came out and took that seat."
Wyeth observed him now wonderingly. He could not understand this unconventional manner of boarding a passenger train. He was not, however, left long in doubt. In fact, before he could give words to the question his eyes asked, the other enlightened him:
"I's havin' a little game Sunday night, and the bulls run in on me." It was now all clear to Wyeth. He recalled the other's occupation. He had become acquainted with him through "Spoon," and recalled that he kept a rooming house for questionable purposes. In addition to this, he sold liquor, and ran a game on Saturday nights and Sundays—or any time a crowd gathered with enough money to start.
"M-m. Did they arrest you?"
"No; that is what I's goin' t' tell. I got away; but they got the rest of the bunch, every damn last one of them, the fools! You see," he explained, warming to the narrative, "it was not altogether my fault. It was like this: I had a nigga watching, that is, I had him hired to watch, but the d——n fool was a whiskey head, and had t' have a drink eve' ten minutes, claiming, of course, that it was necessary that he have plenty of booze t' keep himself awake."
Wyeth laughed quietly.
"Well, I was 'head a the game and winning right along, and didn't give a damn; so I fed him all he could pour down. The result of this was that he got good and full by and by, went off t' sleep, and the bulls walked right in on us without a word of warning.
"We were shooting craps on the bed, and the game was going along nicely. I was sitting at the head holding the lamp, and getting the cuts. At least fifteen dollars was in the betting, when, on hearing a slight noise to my back like some one creeping, I looked around—and, man! The room was full of bulls with dark lanterns, which they at that moment flashed upon us!
"I didn't know what to do for a moment. 'Up with yu' hands, niggers!' they cried. All the shines looked then into the barrels of a bunch a-guns. 'Don't try no monkey business there, you big nigger,' the sargent cried, as he observed me shifting about. All the time, though, I was edging toward a place I knew none ov'm didn't see. Suddenly, I drops the lamp, and there is some tall cussin'. A little pup—I think he was a sup'—put a star on the back of my head"—he turned and Wyeth saw it. "Istaggered about now like I was knocked out. They were all over us now, a-hand cuffin' the nigga's like a lot of cattle with halters. By this time I see's my way clear t' make this break. One sucker spots me and cries: 'Look out! That big nigga!' But they were too late. I had my hand on the knob of a door that none ov'm have seen; and, swinging it open quickly, I ducked out. As I did so, one of the bulls takes a shot at me, but missed. He was determined to have me, though, if possible, so he comes after me in a hurry. That's where I am wise and he wasn't. There is a fence a few feet from the door, that he didn't see. Out he came after me in a blind fury, and, 'bing!' He ran full into the fence, and knocked the wind out of himself. I saw my chance. I was mad and scared now, too; so I rushed upon him while he was staggering about and 'bingo!' I landed on him, and knocked him cold. Then I 'beat' it. I had his gun and club and 'peeper,' and I flew. Out the back way I went like a race horse. In the rear, two or three bulls were a-workin' over this bull that I done knocked stiff. I entered the alley, and ran until I reached Bell street. An onry bunch of dogs kept barking away at me as I hurried along, and kept me scared, because I's afraid I'd be located by other bulls. I ran down one, a little pug-nosed bull. He was game and tried to bite. I reached down and got'm by the head, whirled him over my shoulder three or four times, and when I turned him loose, he landed beside a second story window, and fell to the ground a dead dog, I didn't try to see. I then began to jump fences. I bet I jumped a dozen fences, and then got hung on the last one, which held my shirt. I fell off at last, and liked to have bust open. My face was bleeding, and my head, while my shirt was soaked. I looked like the devil. I at last tore off the shirt, and tried to tie up my head, then went to my brother-in-law's."
"Gee!" exclaimed Sidney, "but you certainly had some experience!"
"Aw, man, I done some runnin', believe me!" he declared, and looked grim.
"They had plenty a-liquah—the bootlegs, too—, so'ssoon's I's cleaned up with my head bathed and a clean shirt, I took a few drinks, and went to bed, feeling all right.
"I laid around town hid away, until he could slip me my clothes and a few dollars. So I happened to know this porter, and arranged to come over tonight, and here I am," and he breathed a sigh of relief.
"How did those they arrested come out, and how come the cops to be next to your little game?" Wyeth inquired, casually.
"Oh, yes," cried Legs. "I forget to tell you that part of it. You see, there was a guy in the crowd—or had been, rather, whose wife didn't want him to gamble. Now he came down there and lost what little he had, and went home drunk. His wife, of course, learned that he had lost his money, and got sore. He was a damned tramp, and told her the whole story, with tears, perhaps, and you know a nigga with tears, so she went and put the cops next.
"Now 'bout them other shines—the ones who got arrested—they came before Judge Loyal's the next morning, and got ten seventy-five each."
"I thought it was fifteen seventy-five for gaming."
"They were let off lighter, owing to the fact that I was not brought. If they'd a caught me, it would have been fifteen seventy-five for them, and about a hundred for me."
Wyeth laughed amusedly.
"You don't gamble or drink liquah, either, do you?" he asked, and then answered his own question. "No, I know you don't. You're lucky for using such common sense. It doesn't pay, even if four nigga's out-a five do. Yeh," he went on wearily, "only the straight and narrow path leads to happiness in the long run," and with that he turned on his side, and went to sleep.
"Say," he cried suddenly, raising up, "what did you pay?" Then looked around quickly to see if he had been overheard.
"Two and a half," the other replied. "How much did you?"
Legs held up two fingers. "I told'm 't'was all I had, and I didn't have but a precious little more."
"Are you acquainted with any one in Chicago?" Wyeth inquired.
"Aw, yeh, a plenty; but I am not going on through now. I'm going to stop in Effingham for a while, it depends."
"Hello, Red," cried young Hatfield, coming up now, rubbing his half closed eyes. "I see you got out all right."
"Say, man!" cried Legs. "Didn't I get out of that thing in luck?"
"Bet your life on that you did," commented Hatfield. "If they'd have gotten you, the devil would have been to pay." He laughed a low, hard laugh, and then added: "Those church people have had their eyes on your place for some time, and the chances are if you had been caught, they'd have appeared against you."
"They certainly put old Jack Bell out of business proper," Legs commented, thoughtfully. "That old nigga conducted such a rotten dump and tiger, though; and all those dirty little girls around on top of it, I don't wonder."
"Wonder whether he had any money left when they got through with him?" Hatfield inquired.
"Hard to tell," said Legs. "They fined him out of hundreds, that Idoknow."
By this time, the train was entering the city. From the car could be seen an incomplete mass of varied buildings, little shacks that faced alleys, and at the front of which played dozens of little unbleached pickaninnies. Wyeth viewed the city as the train crept slowly along, and his impression did not agree with what he had gathered from reading of it. It was not, he felt positive, the city Attalia was, although claiming almost an equal number of people.
"You see those two brick cupola's extending into the air?" he heard Hatfield saying. "That's a Negro Baptist church." He was mistaken, however, for the same proved to be the large, new station, the pride of the city.
Soon the train rolled into this, and a few minutes later, they stood in the waiting room.
"It's going to cost like the dickens to get all these grips of your hauled," said Hatfield, with a frown.
"Only had to pay thirty-five cents to get them to the depot in Attalia." He walked to the lower end of the platform, and began a series of inquiries relative to the hauling of the same. He soon came upon an express man, who agreed to unload them for fifty cents, at where-ever they found a room.
The three walked down a level street, paved with brick. On either side a lot of houses appeared behind a row of trees, dense with foliage. It was a calm, soft morning, and the sun, red and glorious, was just peeping out of the east. The street they followed led from the depot into the business section. Perhaps eight blocks ahead of them, several buildings of extraordinary height, stood outlined far above those about them. Wyeth counted the windows of two, and found them to total sixteen.
"There are two or three buildings here higher than any in Attalia," said Hatfield, following his gaze. "I think the ones you have been noticing, are twenty-five stories high."
The other whistled. "That's going some!"
Soon they were well into the business section. "Let's go by and look at that hotel they have just completed and opened," suggested Legs; for, just then, a little to the right, the outline of that beautiful structure arose. It was a grand affair, to say the least, and stood as a monument to the enterprise of the populace. It was claimed, by them, to be the swellest in the south.
"I think I can get on there after a bit," said Legs. "I'm a head waiter by trade, but I haven't done any hotel work for some little time now."
"I hear they brought all the waiters from the north," said Hatfield.
"Well," said Legs, "I'llbefrom the north when the time comes, so I can make a fit if there is an opening."
"You'll pass, Red," laughed Hatfield, as they walked onward now in a different direction.
As Wyeth saw Effingham, he observed that it lay verydifferently from Attalia. It had been built up recently, so to speak, and had, therefore, broad, spacious streets, unusually so, he thought, as he now found himself in the heart of the business district. Perhaps they may have seemed wider, because he had become accustomed to the narrow highways of Attalia. In addition to the wide streets, the sidewalks stretched back from the buildings they fronted, from twelve to twenty feet, giving pedestrians plenty of room to walk unconcernedly along. As they continued on their way, he further observed that the business section covered an unusually large area, and it was hard to tell which might be called the main street. As the street cars clanged by him, he noticed another feature, also. The position occupied by the Negro passengers. They entered and left the car from the front instead of from the rear, as was the custom in Attalia.
"Negroes do lots of business in this town," said Hatfield, as they came abreast of a large, new building, that reached five stories into the air. "This, now," said he, pausing and surveying the structure, "is the Dime Savings Bank building." Wyeth, having read much about the bank, observed the building carefully. To one side, through the street door, there was no entry, or, rather, the small entry was to one side of the building, and not in the middle, and one elevator was in operation. Straight back from where they stood, the open doors of the bank (which the janitor was now sweeping) revealed the inside of the institution.
A few hours later, their wanderings brought them back again before the bank, which they entered. It proved to be a busy place, and at that hour, was filled with black people, depositing and withdrawing money, and attending to other business in connection therewith. He observed, in the first glance, that the furnishing was elegant. Behind the first desk, enclosed by an oak office fence, sat a black man, the cashier he thought, since the insignia was plated conspicuously before him. And still to the left of him, behind a grating with the insignia ofCollectionsbefore it, was another man, and he was blacker still. And then, in the next cage, over which was labeledboldly,Receiving Teller, worked still another black man. He was younger, and he worked rapidly, counting the money that was continually being thrust to him. There was another cage to the right of him, and this was markedPaying. Behind this worked another black man, young and intelligent, and seeming perfectly efficient, as had the others. In the rear, working over books, he saw the first mulatto. Another, brown-skinned this time, worked near him, and these made up the active members of the bank. No blue veins held sway here. It was truly a black man's bank. It was, as he had long since learned, the largest in the country conducted by black people, and the footing exceeded a half million by almost a hundred thousand dollars.
Young Hatfield, who was a student in one of the colleges of Attalia, had been to the city before, was well acquainted, and pointed out the many places of interest, and, in particular, those conducted by black people.
"The president of this bank, Dr. Jerauld," he explained, "is in failing health, and is substituted by the vice, Dr. Dearford."
"I see," acknowledged the other. "So the president, then, is a physician."
"No," corrected the other, "a minister."
Wyeth recalled now, that "Reverend" or "Elder" was almost a thing of the past among Negro preachers. They were all called, and called themselves "doctors." But he did not then realize to what extent this title was usurped. Beyond the instant of medicine and dentistry, he had noted that "doctor" was an honorary term, conferred upon men who had done something notable in the evolution of mankind; but he was soon to learn that the title had become a fetish with his people, sought after and preempted by any and everyone without even the remotest right to claim it.
"Everything that has ever been started down south has been done by the preachers. A Negro preacher down here, in the past in particular, has headed everything. Of course, that would be natural, granting that almost every man with ambition to be before the public hasbeen a preacher," Hatfield explained. "Now, for example, the largest insurance company in Attalia—that is, with offices there and conducted by our people—has for its president, a preacher located in this town."
"I've heard of him. His name is—"
"Dr. Walden," he explained. "He's the pastor of a big church on the other side of town. Dr. Jerauld, before he retired, was pastor of the Sixth Avenue church."
"And what denomination do these preacher business men represent?"
"Oh, Baptist, of course. As I said, they are at the head of everything, including," and he smiled humorously, "a great many wives of other men." They both laughed, and Legs, who was almost forgotten, joined in.
By this time, they were wandering aimlessly down a street that finally came to an end, and ran abruptly into a brick wall. Changing their course into another street, they continued their indefinite pilgrimage. Presently, they paused before one or two neat looking houses, and inquired regarding rooms. Both were full. A convention of preachers was still in session, which explained the state of circumstances. So, on again they went, until they paused at a corner. A middle-aged woman sat on the front porch of a house that rose to two stories, and was decorated with two vine-laden porches. The house appeared to contain possibly seven or eight rooms.
"Hello, Mis'!" exclaimed Legs, in greeting so familiar that Wyeth felt he surely must know her.
"How-do," she answered as familiarly and smiling.
"Three tramps we are from Attalia, and without a place to roost. Do you happen to have a spare pole or two?"
"Sho has. Come upon the po'ch and be seated," she invited.
"A-hem. That's when you said something," smiled Legs, "eh, Mis'?" She joined in the humor.
"Well, boys," said Legs, when they were comfortably seated, "this looks good to me. Supposing we just hang up here, and send for our stuff?"
It was agreeable to the other two, and they were,therefore, duly installed, three in a room. Legs, being the longest, was given a bed to himself, while Hatfield and Wyeth agreed to share another together. It was fortunate for both that it was arranged thus, since Legs proved to be a dreadful night man, and, from his apparently restless way of tossing, required a halter.
"Any saloons around here, Mis'?" he inquired shortly, when she reappeared on the porch a few minutes later.
"Sho is!" she exclaimed. "Yeh, most sho. Go right down this street, turn the corner, and across the street near the other corner, is what you want," she laughed, taking them all for granted. Wyeth and Hatfield followed Legs to the inevitable fountain he now sought energetically.
"Got t' have a little liquah before I c'n feel like myself," he grinned, as they sauntered along.
"Hello!" called some one from the rear. Turning, they observed a medium sized Negro walking rapidly in their direction, and beckoning to them. They halted, and presently he stood before them, introducing himself.
"Pardon me, gentlemen," he began very properly; "but the Mis' back there," pointing in the direction of the house they had just left, "was telling me that you have just taken a room with her, and, since I am the man of the house, I wish to offer my name and make you welcome."
He was very cordial. His name was Moore, John Moore, he said, and to describe him, our pen fails to a degree. He had, however, an odd looking face. His cheek bones were high, slightly Indian-like, while his face was broad. His nose was not flat, nor was it high or medium, it was—just a nose, that's all. He held his head forward aggressively, his eyes were twinkling, and possessed a cordiality that, to a careful observer, was distrustful. And still, his appearance in general, was that of a Negro who might be expected to bluff, but not to fight; to steal when the opportunity was ripe, with enough cunningness to keep from being caught. Otherwise, he was apparently harmless.
They acknowledged his welcome, and, joining them, they all went toward the place of happiness by proxy.
"I'm buyin' this," said Moore, as they lined the bar, four abreast.
"Let me do the buying this time," insisted Legs, who proved himself a sport, and a good mixer.
"I've paid him already," said Moore, as if in dismissal, shoving at the same time, a half dollar across the bar.
"Whiskey," nodded Legs familiarly, to the bartender.
"Little liquah, too," from Moore.
"Beer."
"Beer."
"Drink whiskey!" insisted Legs and Moore, of the other two. "Something that has the kick."
"These are my sons," said Legs, teasingly.
"Hold on heh', George," argued Moore with the bartender, "you know how I take mine. A half-a-pint 'n' two glasses." The bartender obeyed.
Here Wyeth observed, was diplomacy, albeit economy. Moore paid twenty-five cents for the half pint, wherein he and Legs had six sociable drinks, three a-piece; whereas, the same would have totalled sixty cents otherwise.
"How's this town for gettin' hold a-something?" inquired Legs of Moore, when John Barleycorn was doing his duty.
"Best town in the south to get it, if you're wise," Moore winked.
Legs responded with a big wink. "I'm the man that put 'w' in whiskey," he smiled. "I'n get mine when it's in the gettin'."
"What's your line?" from Moore, pouring more whiskey.
"Anything from heavin' coal to sellin' liquah and operatin' a crap game, and a little 'skin' when the crowd's right."
"I see," said the other thoughtfully, then added: "And your friends?"
"This lad here is going to school to learn how to get 'his without workin'; while the other boy," pointing to Wyeth, "is already doin' it."
"Well, men," began Moore, as he opened a fresh half pint that Legs paid for, "as I said, 'f you'rewise, Effingham is the best town in the country for pickin's. It is, as you should know, the greatest industrial center in the south."
"So I have understood," interposed Wyeth, waiving the bartender's invitation aside; "I am anxious to learn something, everything about the town, and the colored people."
"Are they employed in considerable numbers at the mines, steel mills and furnaces about here, of which the city possesses so many?"
"Thousands upon thousands," he was informed.
"And how are they paid? From a personal standpoint, I'd be glad to know?" went on Wyeth.
"All kinds of wages, and at various times. Some receive as low as a dollar and a quarter, while others make as high as seven and eight; but the average wage runs from a dollar fifty, to three dollars."
"How's the crap games?" from Legs, with the usual smile.
"Nigga's will shoot craps, yu' know," grinned Moore. "I shoot a little myself when the moon's right," he winked.
"I want t' find a good game as soon as possible, and win about a hundred," said Legs, beginning to show the effects of liquor. Hatfield and Wyeth left them to their cheerful diversion, which was now, to all appearance, warming to the superlative.
The former went toward town, looking for certain friends. Wyeth went back to the place where he was going to stay, and retired. They had called up for their luggage before they went to the saloon. Wyeth was sleeping peacefully, when he was aroused by an argument on the porch. He tried to close his ears, but the same was persistent. It was between the landlady and the expressman, who had arrived with the stuff.
"That little trunk is as heavy as lead," he heard that worthy saying.
"That has nothing to do with it," from the landlady."They left fifty cents here to pay for it, and you must have agreed to that amount, or they would have left more."
"Seventy-five cents, seventy-five cents. That little trunk is like something filled with bricks."
"My trunk," mumbled Wyeth, coming to himself, and listening to the argument. "And that sucker is trying to work her. The dirty cur!" he now cried, angry for two reasons. One for being disturbed when he was sleeping so peacefully, and another for being worked, or trying to be. With a bound he was on the floor, and in a jiffy he was in his trousers and upon the porch.
"Well, 'f' y' ain' go'n pay it, I'll haf t' take th' stuff back," the expressman said, as Wyeth came up. The other did not see him until he mounted the porch. Then he looked into his eyes which were fighting, and recoiled.
"What's this you are going to do!" he demanded, filling the doorway, and bestowing upon the other, a look that corresponded with his feelings.
"Well, stuff I brung down heah's mor'n I thought 't'was, so I'll haf t' have a quarter mo'!"
"What kind of a proposition did we make with you in regard to hauling it at the depot awhile ago?"
"You said yu'd give me a haf a-dollah fo' haulin' it, but I didn't say I'd do it fo' a haf," he sulked, evasively.
Wyeth glared at him, but the other refused to meet his eye. "Then," he began, "when you took hold of it and loaded it into your wagon, you subsequently agreed to my offer, and now I want to see you get more."
"I'll haf t' take the stuff," argued the other, shifting about, but keeping at a safe distance. Something in the eye of the other did not offer welcome.
"Give him a quater more," called Legs, who had returned in the meantime, and had been trying to catch a little sleep.
"I don't intend to pay him one little dime more!" exclaimed Wyeth stubbornly.
"Then I'll haf t' see 'n' officer," bluffed the other, and turning, he started briskly down the street. Wyeth learned later, he was sure he could not have found one.He was not looking for any, but the landlady and Legs made up the quarter, and calling him back, paid him.
"Books is stubborn when he thinks he's been worked. M-m," said Legs, going back to bed. "Yeh, comes down to a show, believe he'd fight."
"These Negroes in Effingham Are Nigga's Proper"
The next day dawned calm and beautiful, and Sidney made preparations to begin his canvassing. In one city in Ohio, and which was also a great industrial center, he had found much success in selling his book to the multitude of workers employed there. Therefore, with what Moore had already told him, he was anxious to get his work under way.
The first thing necessary, of course, would be to secure agents. School had closed recently, and he had intended coming to the city, to enlist some of the teachers for that work. Securing a number of names and addresses, he began calling on them, but without any immediate success. Late that afternoon, however, a teacher, a settled woman, gave him the name and address of one whom she felt, she assured him, would take up the work. "At least," she said, "she always does something during vacation. Her name is Miss Palmer," so thither he went.
She lived not far away, and near the center of a block in a small two story house, rusty and somewhat ramshackle. He mounted the steps, which were perhaps a half dozen, and asked for her. She was out, they informed him, but was expected to return shortly. Before they were through telling him, she came. She was a brown-skinned woman, although in the fading twilight, she struck him as being a mulatto. Of medium height and size, she gave a welcome that played about the corners of her small mouth. Her chin was long and tapered to a small point, which made her appearance unusual; her eyes were small, very small, and playful.
They were very soon in conversation, and he was pleased to learn, after he had talked with her a few minutes, that she was a woman with the strength of herconvictions, although there was something about her he did not, and was not likely, he felt, to understand for some time to come, and he didn't.
Presently he stated the object of his visit, and suggested that she take up the work during her vacation. She shook her head dubiously, and said:
"I don't mind canvassing; but I don't want to sell books."
"Why not books?" he inquired, in a tone of surprise, and then added: "It would seem that, being a teacher, selling a nice book would be preferable to something else."
"Yes, that may be," said she, thoughtfully now, "but nigga's here don't read. At least they won't buy and pay for books. Sell them toilet articles or hair goods, something to straighten their kinks or rub on their faces, anything guaranteed to make their hair grow soft and curly, or their black faces brighter."
He laughed long. She now observed him with something akin to admiration. "Then the people of your community—the black people—don't consider feeding the mind an essential to moral welfare," he suggested mirthfully.
"Naw, Lord," she replied flatly. "These Negroes in Effingham are nigga's proper. They think nothing about reading and trying to learn something, they only care for dressing up and having a good time."
He was silent and resigned for a time. They now sat together in a swing that hung suspended from the porch. Directly, when he had said nothing for some time, she looked again at him, and with something in her demeanor that was anxious.
"What book is it?" she inquired.
He told her.
"That's a good title, and should take if anything will," she said, a little more serious now than before. She did not impress Wyeth as being much of a literary person, as he now observed her. For a moment, he felt the interest wane, that he had experienced the moment she came up. She was speaking.
"I sold books one summer, 'Up From Bondage,' by the greatest Negro the race has ever known, and I had a time! I never want such another experience! They told me a thousand lies, and had me trotting after them all summer," whereupon, she shrugged her shoulders disgustedly.
"Well," said he, "I'm confident there are people, and plenty, whodocare to read, and will likewise buy when the book is properly presented. So, of course, the duty of a distributer, will be to find these people, and it is for this purpose, I am here. I do not, of course, know what kind of a black population you have; but it is reasonable to suppose that, if I could and did, personally sell twelve hundred copies in Attalia in a matter of five months, I should be able to find a few readers here. Do you not agree with me?"
"Oh, of course," said she; "but you cannot as yet appreciate the fact that Effingham has the orneriest Negroes in the world. I am frank when I say that I do not have any confidence in them, but wait," she admonished, "you'll find out."
They sat together now, and conversed on topics otherwise than books and literature, which he observed, could be engaged in with more success. Moreover, as the minutes wore on, he also came to see that Miss Palmer was somewhat sentimental. She smiled freely, moved close at times, and then away, artfully; saw him at moments out of liquid eyes, and said her words with a coquetishness that came by careful practice.
And so, Sidney Wyeth, a man free to practice the arts of coquetry—if a man may do so—accepted Miss Palmer's attention, and to that end he soon became a friend.
When he departed that evening, she had taken the agency, and had agreed to go with him on the morrow.
That night it rained, a heavy rain, and when he went forth the following morning, the streets were heavy with mud wherever there was no paving—which was, in this part of town, almost everywhere. Moreover, it showed signs of raining more. It had been one of the dryest springs the south had ever seen, and it was now probablethat the deficiency in rainfall would be eradicated by an excess in moisture.
Wyeth, however, was impatient to begin as soon as possible. He wished to ascertain to what extent intelligence and regard for higher morals was prevalent in this town.
Miss Palmer was not ready when he arrived, and it was two hours before she was. "Thought since it rained," she explained, "that you would not, perhaps, go out today."
"Won't know the difference this time next year," he jested, with a cheerful smile, nevertheless, surveying the threatening elements anxiously.
"If we go into the quarter districts," she advised, "we will most likely get our feet wet—muddy."
"Are there no sidewalks out there?" he inquired.
They had decided, the evening before, at her suggestion, to begin in one of the many little towns, inhabited by Negroes employed in the mines, mills and furnaces, that made Effingham what it was. These little towns encircle the city proper, laying, many of them, at a considerable distance, to be incorporated as part of the city.
Some years before—between one census and the next—this city is recorded to have trebled and over in population. It had, but in doing so, it gathered all these little burgs for miles around. Some of them were even beyond the car lines, which were built to them after the city had incorporated them, and counted the people as a part of the population of Effingham. Wyeth perhaps, as well as the world at large, had not known this. The population, at this time, was estimated to be one hundred sixty-six thousand. Of this amount, two-fifths were Negroes. Only a portion had been born in Effingham; the rest came in the last few years, in great, ignorant hordes from the rural parts of the state, and from the states adjoining. And as Wyeth soon came to know, they included some of the most depraved and vicious creatures humanity has known—but of this, our story will reveal in due time.
The most extraordinary part of Effingham, was its staggering number of churches. That is, among the Negroes. Notwithstanding the fact that the city was the resort of every escaped convict, and the city where every freed one headed for, which, of course, naturally made it the scene of excessive depravity, there was, apparently, a great amount of pious worship. Wyeth recalled, as he became better acquainted with the city and the people, that a year before, in a northern city, he had one day, gone to the library, where he found the directories of all cities of any significance. He was preparing a circular campaign, and, in going through the various directories, chanced to look through the part of those of the southern cities that had recorded the churches. Effingham had, according to an old one, almost a hundred Negro churches.
But, having digressed at some length, we will return now to Miss Palmer and Sidney Wyeth, preparing to spread intelligence among a people who greatly needed it.
"Sidewalks!" Miss Palmer exclaimed, in derision, "Lordy, they hardly have streets in some places!"
A few minutes later, they were sailing through the country—although it was counted as part of the city—to a town, a suburb, nine miles distant, a suburb of mills. "I used to sell toilet articles out there, on and right after pay days, and did quite well," said she, as the heavy car thundered along at a great rate of speed, for an inter-urban. "I am skeptical in regard to books, though, because these are 'bad' nigga's, with the exception of a precious few good ones."
They were just then passing through a district that was well kept, and apparently quiet. "We are now in a part of the town, where a large number of the better class of our people reside," she said, "and I am going to point out the homes of some of them."
"There is where Mr. Judson, paying teller at the Dime Savings Bank, lives." She pointed to a handsome bungalow, setting well back from the street, and surrounded by many young trees, with a well kept lawn upon three sides. "Now over there is where Paul Widner,contractor and builder, has his home." Following the direction of her finger, he was moved by the sumptuous and imposing structure that met his gaze. "That is the finest residence owned and occupied by one of our kind in the city," she said, with evident pride. "Still, though, here is Dr. Jackson's, which is almost as fine," and she pointed to another that was a credit. "He is the financial secretary of one of the church denominations of the south.
"See that long house over there?" she pointed to another. "That is Dr. Wayland's. He runs the drugstore."
"A preacher?"
"No; a pharmacist."
They were now in the wood, a deep forest with great trees all about, that darkened the inside of the car. The picked over and slim pines, mingled with large water oaks, rose gloomily against the heavy clouds that now rumbled ominously overhead. Before long, large drops of water began an intermittent patter on the car roof, while the windows were spat upon occasionally. And then, of a sudden, the very heavens seem to open, and the rain fell in torrents. Through it the heavy car pushed resolutely forward. The line was one recently completed, and facilitated travel between the city and the suburb wonderfully. Built of steel, the cars were long and heavy, with doors that opened near the center, allowing the colored passengers to enter on one side of the conductor, who operated the doors, from a convenient position near the furtherest side of the opening.
"We will surely get soaked today," grumbled Miss Palmer, but not lightly, for she trembled on observing the terrific downpour.
"How much further is it to this place we are going?" he inquired. To him, it seemed they had been riding an hour. "You do not mean to tell me, that all that stretch of forest and open country before we got to the forest, is a part of Effingham?"
"We will soon be there now," she evaded, and then added: "Effingham includes everything that electric cars operating in and out of the city reaches," and laughed. He believed her.
At last, the big car came to a stop. They alighted in the downpour, and rushed to shelter beneath the porch of a small grocery store, conducted by a kind-faced little colored woman.
"Oh, how-do, Mrs. Brown," cried Miss Palmer, when the latter, upon seeing them, opened the door and bade them enter. "I'm certainly glad to see you," whereupon they kissed, and Miss Palmer cheered the dark atmosphere with many cute words.
"Permit me, Mrs. Brown, to introduce Mr.——I forget your name?" "You see, Mr. Wyeth," said Miss Palmer, with a delightful smile, "I taught out here these past three years, and Mrs. Brown is one of my many friends. Yonder is the school," she pointed to an old frame building, that could barely be outlined through the storm. "They have transferred me back to the city again," she turned to Mrs. Brown. "So I regret to say that I shall not be with you next year."
Miss Palmer had a way of finishing her sentences with a show of her fine little teeth; and her chin, at such a time, reached to a fine point, which at first amused Sidney. She would bestow upon him a coquettish smile, when she found his eyes searching her mysteriously.
"Mr. Wyeth," said she, with her arm linked now within Mrs. Brown's, "is general agent for a new book by a Negro author,The Tempest, and for which I have accepted the local agency—why not," she broke off suddenly, "show Mrs. Brown the book?"
"She is clever and suggestive at the same time," thought Sidney, almost aloud; but he forthwith obeyed the suggestion with much pleasure, and took Mrs. Brown's order amid the rainfall, collecting twenty-five cents as a guarantee of good faith, in addition.
It had ceased raining as suddenly as it had commenced. They turned to leave the store, and, as he was passing Miss Palmer, he bumped against her roughly. She was looking at his picture on the frontispiece now, with apparent suspicion. He pretended not to see her or her suspicion, that had now grown to excitement. She was yet apparently in some doubt, as she tried to make connections.
"Look here! Look here!" she exclaimed at last, in subdued excitement. "This picture! This picture! It is you! You!" She held the book open, and looked at him in amazement. He waved her aside depreciatively, and passed outside, while she continued gazing at the picture in a state of excitement. She followed him, and they were alone.
"Why didn't you tell me this?" she cried, unable to stem her tide of excitement. She had lost interest, for the present, in all else, and pursued: "You, the author of this book!" She now saw him as another person entirely. Feeling much put out, he felt something should be resorted to, to dissipate the spell.
"I'm not the author," he said, with straight face. "Where shall we go now?" his demeanor was calm and imperious.
"Stop next door—no, that's Mrs. Brown's house," she said, as she followed him in a meditative mood. "The next house," he heard her say, as if speaking from far away. Miss Palmer was now serious, and very thoughtful.
Disturbed by her discovery, and, in a measure, disconcerted, Wyeth concentrated himself upon the demonstration of the book to a creditable degree that morning; and, one by one, with his voice and look charged with dynamite, he secured those black people's orders, and the deposit wherever they had the amount available. Miss Palmer merely followed him, insisting upon the point of authorship, until, with a touch of impatience, he admonished her that their purpose, on that occasion, was to sell the book, the author, therefore, insofar as they were concerned, was a matter of secondary consideration.
"Going to be angry with me so soon?" she pined, looking into his eyes with a feigned appeal. In spite of himself, he smiled back disconcertedly.
"You are the author, though, aren't you?" she asked softly.
He ignored the question.
"We have eleven orders, and have collected a dollar and seventy-five cents, in exactly an hour and a half,"she informed him, at the end of that time. "Whether youdidor didnotwrite this book—say what you will, I'm convinced you did—youdoknow how to sell it. I never heard a man talk so fast and so effectively in my life!"
"I must leave you now," he said. "I have agreed to be back in town for the afternoon, and help start my young friend."
"Please don't leave me," she whispered artfully, and smiled in her winning way, then suddenly hurried into the next house.
"Thought you had quit me for good, Books," complained young Hatfield, when he saw Wyeth, on his return to the city. "When we goin' out?"
"As soon as I have fed my face, and the car will take us to—where, or what is that place you spoke of? Where the girls work in service?"
"South Highlands," he replied.
They followed the street until they came to the main street, or rather, to one of the main streets, and caught a car from the front end, that took them to the North Highlands, and not to the South, as they were accustomed to go.
"You'll have to pay carfare back, Books," said Hatfield. "I have only fifteen cents left."
"Go right over to where you see that girl, that little colored girl standing on the steps that lead to the rear, and tell her the tale ofThe Tempest, and get her order," said Wyeth, when at last they had come to the right place.
"I thought I would go along with you this afternoon," he said with a frown, but obeyed the command, nevertheless.
Two hours later, Sidney found him where they had left each other. "What have you done?" he asked holding back a frown, because he felt the student had succumbed to a lack of confidence; but he was cheered in a degree, when the other replied: