"The real murderer of a little innocent girl has been found!"
The population waited in abated breath. In the order in which he had reported, or as had been reported by the papers, the detective set a day upon which he would point, with the forefinger of his right hand, straight to the murderer.
The day would never come, everybody seemed to feel. All the anxiety attendant during the trial, before as well as after, for it must be understood that the Jew had not been seen to kill the girl, was lived over again during this spell. But at last the mighty day came. It was a dark, drizzly, gloomy, forlorn day. Just the kind for what was now the order in Attalia. On this day, the people now felt, the real murderer would be placed in the lime light. The detective had declared, a few days after he had been retained and put on the case, that the Jew was innocent. Moreover, he declared that the prosecution, abetted by public sentiment, had been affected in its decision, by the worst of all that is inherent in our advanced society, race prejudice. He lied here—and knew it. There is no prejudice in Attalia against any race but one, of which we will pass. In addition, he flaunted in the face of the people, the idea of perversion on the part of the Jew, of which the latter had been accused. This accusation had been advanced as the only excuse for the murder, of which he stood accused. But the real murderer was that day announced as per reports.
"Jim Dawkins," cried the detective, "killed that girl! So now, free this poor man thou hast persecuted these many months, and hang that murderer, that beast, that pervert, for he is guilty!"
It was some time before the people recovered. Manyof them had to pinch themselves to be quite sure they were awake; for it was positively incredible, after all this waiting, after all this angling, after all the mystery, that this detective, the greatest one in all the world, by his own admission and that of the press, should come right back to where the case had begun.
Jim Dawkins was the Negro accused in the first instance.
And now we hear from the "Big Noise"—and it made some noise now. Moreover, the public, with a relief from their long tension, began to hear it. Its editor had once run for president, on a ticket we cannot recall; moreover, he had the reputation of being opposed to every man elected to anything in the state and the United States. This included the democrats, of whom he, although a southerner, was not one.
The people now bought and read his paper with as much eagerness as they had the others, in the beginning.
The Great Detectivewas absent for a week following his sensational discovery. (?) Then he returned, but alas! The day of angles had become contagious, as we shall see presently.
Following his return, he happened to go to a nearby town to view the case from that angle. This town happened to have been the home of the murdered girl. So, when the great detective whirled into town, seated in the tonneau of a huge automobile, they proceeded at once to entertain him with true southern chivalry. (?)
A night extra told all about it, before he had returned to Attalia, which was marvelous, when one considers this place was only twenty miles away, and from reports, the car took its highest speed on the return, at least it did in leaving the other town. But, lest we forget, the eggs used at this entertainment could not all have been guaranteed as the freshest. And with a few more words, we leave this story.
Shortly after this, Edwards and Smyles took their leave. Wyeth missed them considerably, for he had grown very fond of them about the office. When they were far, far away, the mystery connected with theiroccupation was still unsolved. Then, one day while Sidney was folding up an old newspaper, his eye happened to fall upon an article of two paragraphs. It related to an incident that cleared up the whole thing, and was to the effect that, while doing some sleuthing on the ground floor, Smyles had, after refusing to explain the occasion of his mysterious action, been arrested and locked up for an hour, at the end of which the great detective had come forward and got him out.
"Well, I'll be blowed!" exclaimed Sidney, for it revealed that his two friends were detectives, in the employ of the noted chief, and hired, no doubt, to view the case from a "dark" angle. But the most extraordinary part of it all, was that their names were not Smyles nor Edwards either, but—I guess it doesn't matter.
"Cause Nigga's 's Gittin' so Rich"
In the building to the furthest end from where Wyeth's office was now located, he observed a man one day. He was standing in front of the bank. He was a white man, and was tall and slender, while his complexion was sandy, his hair red and awry. His eyes were keen and piercing. "A collector," thought Sidney, for there were so many about the building, especially on Monday, and this was the day. He lurked in the entry on Tuesday, when Wyeth passed that way. "Must be a contractor, the way he is studying the inside of the bank," mumbled Wyeth, as he took the elevator upward.
Wednesday came, gray and gloomy, and then it rained. It was four o'clock and thirty minutes in the afternoon. Sidney passed through the entry to the elevator on his way to the office of Dickson, and again the man stood there. He had drawn no conclusion as to what was the occasion of this presence, when from behind came a sound. He did something else then. So did others about him.
"Throw up your hands, nigger, and get into that vault!" came a command.
It was from the man he had seen, and he was holding up the bank.
There was a silence, followed by a scuffle, then a lull, and a shot, and still later,—for the shot went wild, landing in the ceiling where it cracked the plastering, and made bits of it fall upon a score of frightened Negroes—a thud. This had not gone amiss. There was a groan and a dull sound, as some one sank to the floor. This part was witnessed by Wyeth and others. It was the teller, and the son of the bank's president. On the floor he lay bleeding, while the other was standingfrightened over him. Then he looked up. Open-mouthed like dumb creatures, Negros of all shades, including the green, stood about. And then the man seemed to awaken to the emergency, and the danger.
Those Negroes would not be dumb for all time. He sensed this aright. And then he took initiative, action. With a flash, he fired off the huge gun, and with a leap and a bound, he came forth, while Negroes, black and brown, yellow and green, and some white, fell back upon each other, in a hurry. He had plenty of room, for a time, and made use of it. Out into the hallway he must perforce come on his way to the street, and freedom. He started, but one little moment he hesitated. Then, firing again, he made his great rush. Through the hallway he dashed, and entered the street through a side door that was open before him. A moment later he was gone.
But so were the others.
They were led by a barber, who shaved black faces next door. He was a mulatto with a flat nose, which made his appearance grotesque. With a roar like that of a mad guerilla, he ran in hot pursuit. Away they went, all of them now, including Wyeth.
The barber led the others by far, and in his hand, open for action, was a razor. It seemed quite large to Wyeth as it glistened in the sunlight, for the day had cleared. Perhaps he was seeing double, but he followed while the "victim"—which we shall call the other—preceded the other only slightly. The barber was breaking wind now, but gaining nevertheless.
As Wyeth followed in that dark pursuit, a picture of the possible consequences rose before him. This Negro, scion of two races, embittered by an instance in our history that will never die, was wild. Blood, blue blood, it was he thirsted. All the hatred of a thousand or more years was now privileged, by the unwritten law, to give vent. This other has attempted crime—the robbery of the people's where-with-all. To kill him now was to get revenge, revenge upon those who have long since died—and go scott free!
Perhaps the other appreciated this point of view.
He rushed pellmell, wildly through the street he came into, and turned at the end up another that led, whither, he did not take time to think or to consider. It seemed impossible for the man to escape dire consequences, as Sidney Wyeth saw him now. He wished he could save him, but he did not know how. Only a few steps ahead, the culprit led the other. It was only a question of minutes—a minute. And then—horrors!
Up this new street, which happened to be Herald, they went, and closer and closer the Negro came to the victim. He was breaking wind fearfully. A block had been covered, when, ahead to the left stood a laundry with doors wide open. Then, suddenly, when abreast of it, the victim plunged into it, but so did the barber. Others followed, and workers fell back amazed. To the rear the chase led, and then, lo! A brick wall faced the victim, with a closed door only. This door could not be opened in time! That appeared to settle it! The poor creature, frightened out of his wits, fell to the floor, and then rose to one knee, with hands stretched Heavenward. At last the end had come. The Negro now, the picture of which our pen cannot describe, stood over him with razor upraised, and eyes dancing with murder like huge coals of fire. "Don't cut me with that razor, Mister," the victim whimpered. He pushed the other back until he was against the door. For the first time in his life, Sidney Wyeth was to see a man killed. One moment he looked. The sunlight played through a transom window, falling strangely upon the blade of that poised razor. He closed his eyes to shut out the fearful sight. The next moment, he opened them as he heard a noise—a momentous instant. It was the opening of the door, against which the victim had been pushed.
A moment later, the two went over the steps a-tumble, below; but the razor had flown in a direction which they had not gone, and the tension was relieved.
Soon, the victim emerged from the rear, and another chase began; but the razored Negro was then far to the rear. He eluded his pursuers for a moment during the mix-up. But suddenly in chorus they cried:
"Dere 'e goes, cetch 'im!"
The crowd had now grown to a mob, a sullen mob. They cried out in loud tones for blood, blue blood; but the culprit was illusive. A street car was passing, and into it he vaulted. "I've shot a coon," he cried; "and the niggers are after me!" The car lunged forward as the mob reached the door, whereupon they looked into the muzzle of a revolver held in the hand of the conductor, as he commanded: "Stand back!" They did, but 'ere he had gone far, there came to his ears from the crowd in the rear:
"'S robbed d' bank! 'Es robbed d' bank!"
The conductor immediately rang to stop. The victim rang to go forward. The motorman obeyed the former, and the car slowed down. The victim leaped off before it came to a halt, while at the rear, the mob, howling like a bunch of savages, came on in mad fury.
Then he tore across the street to where an old man, with bent shoulders and flowing white beard, sat half asleep in a buggy. He rushed to the side of this, and permitted the old relic to smell the muzzle, as he cried: "Unload!" The old man did, in a pile. The victim jumped in, and, jerking the whip from the socket, brought the old horse, half asleep also, to appreciate the state of affairs, by dealing him a blow that made his tail stick out, as his legs speeded up the street. The crowd roared diabolically, as they saw themselves being left to the rear; but many on bicycles gave chase, and followed in close pursuit. He suddenly drew his revolver, and let go the trigger, which made a flash, point blank in their midst. That settled it. One fell to the street with a sad, sickening cry, an arm limp at his side. The others gave up, turned back, and quickly went the other way.
And then he disappeared.
Wyeth had returned to the scene of the opening—so had the rest. And the crowd, combined with those who had gathered about the bank in the meantime, filled Audubon Avenue the entire length of the building, a block and a half on the side. All was uproar. Report followed report, and each flashed through the crowd withmuch comment. He had, so the news ran, been captured here, and everywhere. As it stood, he had not been captured at all. Opinions, expressions, conclusions and rejections were in order on all sides. One was to the effect that the big banks uptown, conducted by "whi' fo'kes," had conspired the deal on account of fear, "'cause nigga's 's a-gittin so rich 'n 'a-posit'n they money in the cullud bank, ontell dem whi' fo'kes done 'trigued' and got dat low down po' whi' man t' come and tri' t' frustrate us 'spectable cullud fo'kes." And again there came to the ears of Sidney another report, and this was one of graver concern.
"Robbers 'roun' a-stealin' d' money, go'n be fus' one dare in d' mawnin' t' draw mine out!"
"Gwan, you fool nigga! Yu' ain' got nothin' in dere; 'n' yu' aut a-be run outta town fo' talkin' lak dat!"
"Who dat obber dare, da' whi' man dressed so 'maculete wi' du soft hat?"
"Dat's Judson, d' 'porter on d' Jou'nal."
"Who dat udder one wi' a big nose 'n' dark 'plection!"
"Ain' you ebber been 'rested, nigga, 'n' up a-fo' Jedge Ly'l's, 'n' seen 'im a-hangin' 'roun'? Dat's Jempsy, d' putective."
"Lis'n! lis'n! Wha' dat! Dey has captured 'im!" Forthwith, to another point they rushed, through a bunch collected around the barber, who was then telling and retelling "'Ow close ah come t' gittin' 'im."
It was not a report this time, but the ambulance that was taking the wounded teller to his home. The sight of him, with bandaged head as a result of the attempt, served to renew the local race animosity.
"Ah sho 's go'n kill me a whi' man, so 'elp me Jaysus!" muttered a dinge, as the carriage passed him by, while all about dark faces scowled ominously.
Darkness was approaching, when an authentic report came at last, to the ears of the crowd. The would-be robber had really been captured, and it was the papers that gave forth the news.
His name, so he said, was Rhynata, a "vaudevillian," who hailed from Denver. His capture had been thus:
When he had eluded the mob, by holding up the old man for his horse and buggy, he followed that street for only a block, when he turned into another. After the crowd was lost, he left the buggy, and walked hurriedly up the street, turned a corner, and disappeared in the basement of a house.
A plainclothes man, some while later, happened to pass that way in trying to locate him, and followed him therein. When he got to the second story, he came into a room where a woman was bathing, with a damp towel, the head of a man in bed. He backed up, begging pardon, and turned to leave. As he was passing a dresser, in a half open drawer, his eye espied a revolver which his hand forthwith touched. The barrel was warm, which told the rest of the story.
The settlement began the next day before Judge Loyal. His court room was filled that day, but the greatest crowd was outside. The man was duly identified as the culprit, by many, including the Negro with the razor, was as duly bound over under a bond that no one cared to go, and a few months later was brought to trial, convicted on two charges, and subsequently sent to the chain gang for five years.
He should have much of that yet to serve, but he escaped—rather, he walked away a few months later, and has not been intercepted at the time of this writing—but this is not our story.
And Then Came Slim
Wintertime had flown, and over all the country, springtime had blossomed. On one of those beautiful days, Slim came to the office of Sidney Wyeth. His real name was V.R. Coleman, but, since he was so tall and slender, to Wyeth, "Slim" seemed more appropriate, particularly when the other did not object. This name, however, was applied sometime later, and not on this particular day.
In Dixie there are many original characters, and this has made it the source of humor. Undoubtedly, the Negro is the background of most of it, and justly plays the part. Conspicuous among these original characters, there is a particular class of men who will work from the time frost falls in November, until the birds sing again in the last days of March. When the smell of the honeysuckle, and the buzz of the bee become a part of the day, they succumb to an inevitable longing to mingle, and become "human" bees themselves. So, by the time May has arrived, and spring chickens are large enough to fry, they go forth to the open, choosing many varied ways—but always an easy one—of living until the leaves begin to fall again.
Most of these men preach; for, since the beginning of the present order, this has been the easiest way. No learning, of course, is required, so long as they can spell "ligon" and preach "dry bones." Of course, if the character is a good "feeler," with the magnetism, sufficient eloquence, and a severe frown with it, he "gets by" much easier. Conditions, it must be observed, are changing, even in Dixie. And, it is a fact that a Negro preacher is beginning to pay for a meal occasionally.
But there were other ways of "gettin' by" as well, though not nearly so prevalent as preaching. It was in quest of such a way, no doubt, that Slim came to the office that day. Wyeth had become acquainted with him while canvassing during the winter. He was, at that time, employed in a grocery store as man of much work, a part of which consisted in driving a little black mule about the streets, before a wagon in which he delivered groceries.
They had become friends, and Slim was, in the opinion of Wyeth, an original and sociable being also. He had informed Wyeth that music was his line; singing schools he claimed to have conducted with great success. So, during the summer and spring months, and some time into the fall, he carried the title of professor. And it was as such, that Wyeth welcomed him that day.
"Hello, Professor," he greeted him cordially, arising from his chair, and grasping the other's hand, with much ostentation. "Professor" was ushered into a seat, where he crossed his long legs with much dignity, and gazed out the window for a moment, without saying other than the return of the greeting.
As he sat by the window at that time, it was hard to evenfancyhis driving a mule in front of a load of groceries.
"Ah, my friend," he began, after he had swept the street below with a careful gaze. "I am glad indeed to see you, and to find you occupying such a delightful office." He scanned the office now, with an admiring gaze, and went on: "You are sure fixed up in great style, just grand, grand!"
"Oh, fair," Sidney admitted carelessly. "I am, however, glad you dropped in, for I have been thinking about you for some time."
"I am honored," said the other, with an elevation of the eyebrows.
"Yes," resumed Sidney, with a serious and thoughtful expression, "it has always been my opinion, that a man with the bearing and dignity you obviously possess, could be much more in keeping with society, in a position that would employ such a wealth of ability."
Slim did not make immediate answer to this, for the simple reason that he was too flushed with vanity by the words, to do other than color to the roots of his hair, and swallow.
"When I see a man like you carrying groceries up the back way of a house, let me tell you, Professor," Wyeth said flatteringly, "I can't help, in a measure, but feel despair for our race; but I was told by a very responsible party, that your health required such an expedient." Slim was then in the seventh Heaven of vanity, and looked away to hide the tears of gratitude, he felt toward the man who had courage sufficiently to admit what he himself felt. He admired Sidney Wyeth on the spot.
Wyeth went on to say, "Now, for instance, I am in the book business, which was never better. I have been anxious to enlist a good man's service." As he said this, he looked in Slim's direction, and went on: "But I did not wish to place this matter before you, until a time I felt you would be in a position to consider it, possibly, favorably." He paused long enough for his words to take effect, then continued, "So Professor, I should like to have you consider this matter with a view to taking it up."
"Well, sir, Mr. Wyeth," his honor began, "I confess that I have been thinking of that myself." He was silent a minute, then proceeded again: "My health is improved to such an extent, that I have, of course, emancipated myself from a position of drudgery," and here he drew himself up, with more ostentation than ever. "I shall be glad to tell you, when it is more convenient, and we have the time, of my career as a business man back where I came from. You can, I see, appreciate a man that is possessed of ability," and he looked down at himself at this point, before continuing. Directly he said: "I shall be glad to have you explain this matter in regard to the book."
"Well," said Wyeth, slowly, "you should have some idea of the work, since, with your years back in South Carolina, you were so successful; but more so, since you have been over a territory I have worked."
"You certainly did fill Brookville with it, I must say," he admitted.
Wyeth smiled.
"Wish you hadn't worked that neighborhood, though," he said regretfully.
"Others are yet to be worked...."
"But I know everybody in that neighborhood."
"So do I—now."
Slim laughed a low, sorrowful laugh, and then was thoughtful. Then he inquired: "What commission do you pay?"
"Forty per cent. Sixty cents the book."
"Do I have to pay for the books before I can have them to deliver?"
"I can, of course, trust you, Professor," Wyeth replied; "but the last one I trusted, and who took eighteen copies out for the purpose of delivery, has not shown up since."
"Indeed! Did he send the books back, or leave them somewhere?"
"He left them somewhere—several where's."
"Then you—ah—got them back?"
"Not yet."
"But you will?"
"Not likely. The people he left them with paid him $1.50 a copy therefor, but I have charged that to the dust, and it has rained since. You think over this proposition and come back tomorrow morning, and we will get down to business. Should you decide to take it up, I shall be glad to have you accompany me an afternoon, and hear me spiel it."
The following morning, full of book selling, Slim was on hand. Moreover, he wished to begin that morning, but, as Sidney had made no arrangement to that end, he was compelled to wait until the afternoon.
"I used to sell books in South Carolina," he said later, as he was looking through the book.
"You have had some experience then," commented Wyeth.
"Wait until I commence. I'll show you a thing or two."
"Oh, I have a 'hunch' you'll 'clean up,'" said Wyeth with feigned admiration.
"You sold a book to somebody I know on Fourteenth Street....," he smiled.
"I thought you said I sold to many you know. I think I did," said Wyeth innocently.
"I know this one a littlebetterthan the rest," he admitted, now showing his teeth, despite his effort to keep his upper lip stiff.
"Oh—ho, I see now," laughed Wyeth, good naturedly. After a pause he said:
"Who is she? Come, 'fess up. At what number does she work?" But at this Slim only laughed, and left his friend curious.
That afternoon, at two o'clock sharp, they sallied forth. Going to Dalton street, they entered a cafe conducted by some people in the last stage of hook-worm hustle.
"What'll you genamens have?" asked the waitress, who looked so tired and sleepy.
Sidney scanned the greasy bill-of-fare, while Slim inquired: "What have you?" As she drawled out the list, Sidney's ears came attentive to the orders being given by others.
"Snout."
"Yo's, mistah!"
"Pig tail 'n' swee' taters."
"'N' yo's?"
"Stewed haid."
"Ah wan' some magetti," sang a small boy on a stool, with papers under his arm.
"Gimme a yeah sanrich," from one with a very loud mouth.
Slim was very hard to please, as it now appeared, and was having some difficulty in being satisfied.
"What is your specialty here?"
"Ah don' tole you du' ohdahs already. We has hog year, 'n' hog snoot, 'n' pig tail, 'n' collap greens, 'n'—"
"Give us a pair of feet," interposed Wyeth.
After the meal, they turned into a side street, crossed aback yard and entered a house from the rear. Ahead, a flight of steps led up through the basement, to the kitchen. Up this they went, and rapped on the kitchen door. It was opened by a woman, presumably the cook. Wyeth raised his hat, while Slim did likewise; whereupon she was very much flattered. Said Wyeth: "Yes, ma'am! How-do-you-do. You will pardon our interrupting you, but I suppose you are the lady employed herein," and gazed into the kitchen before him.
"Yes," she replied embarrassed. "I work here."
"Very well, thank you." Then turning, he revealed his honor, bending almost to the floor. "This is Professor Coleman!" Their prospective customer was very profuse as she accepted the introduction, and then was curious to know to whom she was indebted. Presently, unable to withstand the wait, she inquired:
"Are you preachers?"
Wyeth looked at Slim who had his hat rolled up, and was showing his teeth, then turned back to the lady and replied that they were not. He then, without further ado, began his spiel, putting more dynamite into it than usual, since he wished to make an impression upon Slim as well.
"I presume from your English, madam, that you are literarily inclined, in fact, I feel certain you are." He bestowed upon her a hypnotic smile, which he had cultivated for the purpose of impression, and then went on, with eloquence:
"This isThe Tempest, a tale of the great northwest, in which we follow the fortunes of this young man," and he showed his picture on the frontispiece. In this same picture, people seldom recognized himself as the hero. Before long, he had her order, and a half dozen more, and Slim was enthusiastic. When they were on the street for a time again, Slim said, with much admiration:
"Man, but you areasalesman! The spiel and look you turn on these cooks and maids and house girls, and everybody, is guaranteed to make the dead take notice. I can never get over laughing when I think of the old lady back there, the one who said: 'I am not decidedyet as to whether I shall take it,' Then you said, and as serious as she was: 'Let me decide for you in this,'" and then he gave up to laughter for some minutes.
"Think you can learn it?" said Sidney.
"I want you to let me take this house," said Slim, halting before an imposing structure.
"All right," said Wyeth. "I'll wait for you. Don't get struck on the house girl and stay too long."
Slim disappeared. A moment later, a noise and the barking of a vicious dog came to Wyeth's ears, accompanied immediately by a scuffling. A moment later, Slim emerged from the back way in very much of a hurry, with a bull dog in close pursuit. When he was safe outside once more, he looked about him dubiously. "I don't like this neighborhood!" he said.
"You meanthatneighborhood," laughed Wyeth. "Did you make a sale?"
"Make Hell!" cried Slim, still breathing heavily from his nervousness. "Talk about making a sale with a bull dog barking at my heels!" They had, by then, reached a street that led across town, and they turned into this. Wyeth took a few orders, but Slim decided to dispense with further canvassing until the morrow. Several times, Wyeth tried to steer him into a yard, but always he observed that his eye wandered around toward the rear, and since nearly every one kept some kind of a dog—the most of which would rather play than anything else—it was hard to reconcile Slim.
At last he managed to get him through a gate that was close to the rear door, and, while he explained his mission to the cook, Slim gave the house girl a good talk, but she smiled on him and said: "I purchased one from the other gentleman already."
This served to relieve him at least, and also encouraged him to a more concentrated effort later.
When they returned to the office, Slim was again full of the book business. The next day he went out for himself. After a few houses had been made, however, he must have met another "sociable" dog, for, shortly afterward, Wyeth saw him depart.
That afternoon, when they met again at the office, he was surprised to learn that Slim had taken several names, and was in the highest of spirits. Wyeth was too, but from other causes. He had taken about eight orders, when he came into a back yard from an alley. Through a screen, he caught a glimpse of a girl working in the kitchen. He approached the house, and presently knocked on the door. She opened it with an inquiry. He looked up into her face from where he stood on the ground. She looked down into his, and blushed as she looked away. She made an impression, and he was, for a moment, lost in a maze of delight. Soon he was serious, however, and said he wished to speak with her on important business. This was his style. He had observed that agents, the minute a door was opened, began a spiel without getting the attention of the prospective customer, so he made it a practice to get their attention first, and leave them in doubt until he did, before disclosing his business. If he failed to do this, he usually went his way, without letting them know what he was selling. But, to get back to the girl.
She declared that she was very busy at the time, but would be glad if he'd come back shortly. "In about an hour," she advised, as she watched him walk toward the gate. He went his way with a subtle swimming of the head.
He passed the next hour mechanically, made several sales, of which he was hardly aware, and at the end of the hour, he returned. She was waiting for him. He smothered his interest, and told her the story in brief.
"Oh, that's fine!" she exclaimed, in an ecstasy of delight, when he had finished. "When do you deliver?"
"Any time," he replied; "but I have several in this neighborhood for the first. Could you take yours then?" As he finished, he looked at her strangely. His thoughts went back to a place and a person he had almost forgotten. (?)
She looked back at him, smiled, became uneasy, apparently she did not know how to take him. Then she asked softly: "Why do you look at me like that?" And then he came out of it, and replied candidly:
"I don't know," he started to say, "because you remind me of one I once knew—and loved." The very thought of it, however, now pained him. However, he dismissed these thoughts from his mind, and was normal again.
She appeared as though she would like to say more on the subject, but instead she added: "Have you been selling the book long?"
"Ever since publication," he admitted frankly.
The past lingered with him for some time, but it was temporarily forgotten, when he had returned to the office, and noted Slim's success.
"You're there, Professor," he beamed, while the other assumed an air of modesty.
A few days later—and he was apparently successful in the meantime—Slim said to Wyeth: "I want you to go with me tomorrow. I've found a 'nest.'"
"A hornet nest?" asked Wyeth humorously. Slim looked uncomfortable. He had a good memory.
"I'm serious. Out there around the colleges, man, are some of the finest people you ever met, and rich! They own homes that will open your eyes."
"M-m. Aretheseorders from them, or have they told you they would 'think' it over and you could drop in when you were in the neighborhood again?" Slim's face fell for a moment, then he said, while Wyeth thought he detected something.
"These orders are fromgoodpeople in and around that neighborhood." He paused for a spell, and resumed, with a frown: "I have been thinking very seriously, that you could do much better among the people in their homes, and wouldn't need to go snoopin' around to the rear. I must confess, Mr. Wyeth, that I have never been overly anxious to confine the most of my work to domestics, as you seem to choose."
Again Sidney smiled, while Slim paused, disconcertedly.
"Now this list I have here, should convince you that you have simply been over-looking the best people, for the kitchens. So, if you will go along with me tomorrow, I will convince you to your own satisfaction."
Wyeth kept out of going with Slim in different ways, and 'ere long, the day of Slim's first big delivery came.
Only about forty copies of the book were on hand in the office, but more were at the freight house, with the bill-of-lading at the bank, and a sight draft attached for the cost of the books. Sidney did not have the amount available to pay it on that day. He reckoned, however, that the number on hand should have been sufficient, but Slim didn't think so. He was, moreover, insistent to a point that moved Sidney to make effort to get the others out.
"I think we have books sufficient for today's delivery, Slim," he argued. "And then Monday, we will get those at the freight office."
"It isn't business, it isn't business. I have taken these people's orders for this book to be delivered today. There are fifty. I have promised faithfully to bring the book this day, and when I was in business, I did a thing when I promised. So I wish you would get the books you have at the freight office down here at once, so that I can fill every order and have no disappointments."
Wyeth looked distressed, but smiled all to himself. If he had learned anything about selling books to colored people, and had forty copies to fill fifty orders, he could figure on having a goodly supply left. But Slim must have fifty copies, or a book for each order.
The books he had at the freight office would cost a pretty sum to get, and he did not have the amount convenient. He went to the bank and borrowed it. Slim went with him to the freight office to be sure there would be no failure; he must have fifty books.
When they arrived, Sidney was chagrined to find he had one dollar less than it took to get them. It was only fifteen minutes before the office would close, its being Saturday. Sidney was up against it. Slim was in a stew. He deluged the other with, "Why didn't you get them yesterday?" or, "You should have known this office closes at twelve o'clock today." And in the end he gave up entirely. Wyeth employed his mind vigorously, hoping to raise a dollar in fifteen minutes.
"There's no use," deplored Slim hopelessly. "I will lose $7 or $8 through your business carelessness." Just then, Sidney observed a drayman coming toward the freight house. A thought struck him, and he hailed the drayman. In a few words, he explained the circumstances, while the other nodded acquiescence, pulled out a dollar, and a half hour later, the books were unloaded at the office.
Slim breathed a sigh of intense relief. He was a business man, and told Wyeth so.
Wyeth admitted it. "Glad to be affiliated with a gentleman of your ability, and you know it, Professor."
"You will always find me right up to the point in business, Mr. Wyeth. That's always been my reputation, and if you don't believe me, you can go over in South Carolina, and find out from the people there yourself," he said, very serious of demeanor.
"That's all right, Professor. I'll take your word for it."
At one o'clock P.M. Slim was ready. He had a cab hired for the occasion, and with fifty nice, clean copies, wrapped deftly at the publishing house before shipment, he sallied forth.
Wyeth was nodding in the office, when, about ten o'clock that night, he heard some one coming up the stair. From the way he halted at intervals, and set something down, he judged he must be carrying a load.
He was.
Presently the person reached the landing, and, halting again, dropped something heavy, then breathed long and deeply. A moment later, he heard him pick up whatever it was, and come on toward his door. It was burst open in a moment, and some one stumbled in behind a big package.
It was Slim. He dropped the package as soon as he was inside, with an air of disgust, and fell, apparently exhausted, into a chair. He was silent, while he got his breath. When this had become regular, he got up and moved to the desk, where he figured for some time. Wyeth remained silent, but quietly expectant. It came presently.
"Liars! Dirty liars! Stinking, low down, dirty lying niggas. Damn all of them, damn them!"
Wyeth was still silent. Slim looked about himself wearily, and then did some more figuring. Presently Wyeth heard him again.
"Lying nigga's, o'nry nigga's, dog-gone the bunch!"
Wyeth was impatient. He wanted to ask very innocently what the matter was. Suddenly he saw Slim looking at him savagely. Wyeth made an effort to look innocent, and not burst out laughing. After awhile he heard Slim again.
"I'm done! I'm through selling books to Negroesnow!" He then arose, and strode back and forth across the room in a terrible temper.
Wyeth started to say: "You mean you are through getting orders." But he waited.
"The first old nigga I come up to, looked up when he saw me, and then just laffed, 'ke-ha!' Then, when I held the book toward him, he said: 'Yu' betta' gwan 'way frum heh wi' dat book!' And then just laffed again, like it was something so funny. I got mad right then, but kept my temper and said:
"'What's the matter with you! Didn't you order this book from me two weeks ago?'" He paused at this stage, and looked at Wyeth again with a savage glare. "But that old devil just kept on laffing like a vaudeville show was before him, instead of me with the book he had ordered, and which he told me to be sure,sureto bring today. My nigga was rising now; but just then I heard a little half-naked kid: 'Uh! Misteh! 'oo might's well ferget it. 'Cause th' ole man there,' pointing to the old sinner, 'orders sumpin' from eve' agent what comes 'long; puvidin' i' do'n cos' nuthin' t' give th' odah.' And all the time that old coon was just laffing, 'ke-ha!'" He gave Wyeth another glare, and went on:
"The next one I come onto looked at the book as though it was something dangerous. And then he squints up at me—I think he must have been near-sighted—and says: 'Sah, I decided since I give you that odah, that I wa'n't go'n' take th' book.' When he saw my eyes, hecould see I was mad enough to kill him on the spot. He saw danger in them too, because, near-sighted or not, he began edging away, but again I held back my nigga and says: 'What in Hell you mean by making up your mind like that!'"
"He must have been drinking Sparrow Gin when he gave you that order," suggested Wyeth, with a twinkle of the eye.
"What?" inquired Slim, listening.
"I'd advise you to take along a little corn liquor the next time you go to deliver; pour a little juice into them; get them drunk. They'll take their books then."
Slim kicked a piece of paper on the floor before him viciously, and said: "I'll take along a club and knock their lying heads off their shoulders, 's what I'll do."
"Did you have enough books?" inquired Wyeth, ignoring the big package Slim had brought in.
"You seem possessed with no sympathy, Mr. Wyeth," he complained, and then grew thoughtful. Presently, seeming anxious to tell more of his experiences, he went on. "One woman I had an order from, when I knocked on the door, she opened it and said: 'I'm so sorry, but my husband won't let me take that book,' and then she handed me a nickel, saying, 'so I'm going to give you this for your trouble.' I could not, of course, be ugly, as much as I felt like it, but I had to say something. So I inquired, as kind as I could under the circumstances, 'What am I to do with this?' She looked distressed at first, then brightened with a thought, and replied, as though she were doing something wonderful: 'Why, you can use it for car fare. You won't have to walk back.'"
"Shoo Fly"
Wyeth had not been able, as yet, to awaken much literary interest among his people in the south, but he had a great many agents working all over the north. Of those he had secured in Dixie, he was deluged with complaints to the effect that so many people failed to take the books they ordered; so, he began shipping only fifteen when an agent sent in an order for thirty books. This worked better, and the office was not the recipient of so many complaints thereafter.
As for Slim, he went with the cook on Fourteenth Street, ate two meals there out of every three, and canvassed whenever he felt so disposed. He had some cards made, only one hundred. Four hundred more would have cost but little additional. He handed them about, advertising that he would conduct a singing class at his residence, beginning any time any one wished lessons. He was successful in delivering more books, when he returned to work among the domestics, but not so many that, at any time afterwards, was Wyeth put to such strenuous efforts to secure books, in order that he might have one for every customer.
When the colleges had closed for vacation, Wyeth hired the matron to work in the office, and, upon finding her very interesting, Slim became more in evidence about the office.
Just about this time, the auditorium was completed which was begun two years before, by the lodge of which B.J. Dickson was the secretary. It was decided to ask the head of Tuscola, the great Negro educator, to speak at the dedication services. He was secured, and this fact caused thousands to gather for the occasion. It gave Wyeth an opportunity to hear the noted Negro for thesecond time in his life, the first being twelve years before, in Chicago.
The day came at last. It rained in the forenoon, but was calm and clear in the afternoon. The night was fit, and the mammoth place was filled to overflowing, while thousands, unable to gain admittance, loafed outside, where they were entertained by a band, that served to keep them quiet. For Dickson, fully acquainted with his own race, was aware that they would disturb the speaker, if some diversion was not resorted to, for their amusement.
The speaker looked very tired and worn, and Wyeth felt a pang at his heart when he saw him. His years of service were beginning to tell upon him. He had returned recently from the west, where he had gone for the purpose of raising $150,000 for his school, and had, as he did in everything else, succeeded beyond requirements. He was not only an educator, but a practical business man as well. To one who sat near him, Sidney Wyeth said that evening: "And no one of these odd ten millions is competent, in the public's favor, to take that old man's place, when eventually he will be called." The other sighed as he made reply: "There are many, though, who feel that they and not he should be in the confidence of the world, and have wasted themselves in uselessness and inactivity, as a result of their imagination." The speaker's eyes, at the distance Wyeth saw them, seemed dazed, and his voice was strained; but he did not soon forget the words he spoke to those black people, in dedication of an instant that had been inspired by his work. B.J. Dickson came in for a worthy praise, which Wyeth knew he justly deserved.
It was some two weeks afterwards, that a convention was held, which brought together a class of men, who were largely leaders of this race. They were the doctors, the dentists, the pharmacists, and all men connected with physical and surgical dispensation; and they came from two adjoining states also. Sidney Wyeth had, therefore, opportunity to see his own people from a professional point of view, and was cheered to observe the most refinedset of men of his own kin, that he had ever seen. Dickson thought so too, and wrote as much inThe Independent, the following week; but he wrote of something else connected with the same men, and served to show Sidney Wyeth something he did not know, could not have believed; but Dickson made it plain to the thousands of readers ofThe Independent, of which Wyeth was a constant reader.
In the building, conspicuously located on the best corner, was a drug store, acknowledged to be the finest drug store operated by black people in the south. The new building included a street front on another side street, the drug store and many other trades on the ground space, with a row of offices to the number of about twenty-five, especially fitted for physicians and dentists. All these encircled the auditorium, and were regarded as the most artistic arrangement in the building. Moreover, this was advantageous in many ways. At all events, it happened to be convenient for the men gathered on the occasion referred to. In addition to being used as a gathering place, this auditorium could be conveniently cleared for the purpose of dancing, and was employed for that purpose, on the night the convention closed. And this was what B.J. Dickson wrote in the following week's issue ofThe Independent:
"COLOR LINE DRAWN AT THE PHYSICIAN'S BALL"Last week there was held in Attalia, the annual convention of the Tri-State Medical Association, as was stated in last week's issue ofThe Independent. Never before has this city been graced by a more refined, and obviously intelligent class of colored men. From all over the state, and the two states adjoining, which are members of the league, came physicians, surgeons, dentists and pharmacists, representing the highest body of men in the Negro race. They were entertained in sumptuous splendor, by the same profession of men in Attalia. This was facilitated by the fact, that the new buildings and the auditorium were employed for the occasion, and the members were not compelled, as they had been inthe past, to house their social function in some old deserted hall, in a deserted part of the city."It is, therefore, with deep regret, that we are called, by the bond of common sense and race appreciation, to mention a narrowness that pervaded this great occasion."It may be recalled, when the leader of our race spoke at the dedication, a few weeks past, that, on the committee were numerous doctors, some of them successful leaders, and some who were not. Yet it is and always has been the custom of our people, to honor these men in the best way we can, for we have long since come to appreciate that they are a part, and an important part of this new dispensation. Surely it is in order and keeping with the uplift of black people, to help men whose training has fitted them for such an important place. That, perhaps, is why their conduct of last week has constrained us to make this mention."They drew the color line. Plainly, and irrevocably. At the ball, at the stag party, and during the entire proceedings of the convention. Not a black person save one—the wife of one of the local physicians who married her for money—was invited. Such an example shocks us, so to speak. It seems incredible, in view of the condition of our race, both morally and mentally. And still, though we have forced our pen to ignore it, it has been, and is shown, right along. At the ball, not only was the color line drawn, but a white orchestra gave the music. Imagine such a spectacle! In the bourbon and always democratic south, our people hiring a white orchestra, at a fabulous sum; for, since long before we were free, Negroes have made music for the richest white people to dance by."Surely the old order changeth!"Negro doctors live by the patronage of their race, positively; the white people would not hire one to doctor a dog. In the dark ages, when it was felt that a Negro was incompetent for anything else but to act as a slave, some excuse could be given for Negroes to hire white doctors. But today, all race loving people give their practice to their own, except those who are nearly white,and wish they were. But more than half of those at the ball have white doctors, and wouldn't hire one of those with whom they danced. But Negro doctors expect Negro practice, and deplore it terribly when Negroes hire white physicians! On the heels of this, too, they say "Shoo fly!" to Negro musicians who are competent to play for the whites, but not for Negro doctors. Like everything else that relates to our people—except their money—our professionals wrinkle their faces, and conclude without trial, that no Negro orchestra is properly trained to play for their balls; and Negroes who conduct newspapers do not know enough to write a part of what they read; books of Negro authors are not read by them, because they don't know enough—in the minds of these hypocrites—and so it goes in everything. They could not have held their convention in the white auditorium, even if permitted to, because that would have cost more than they were able to pay."Now, if Negro orchestras are incompetent as musicians and are, therefore, relegated to the rear, and a white orchestra is hired to give music, and if Negroes as authors and editors, do not know enough to write a part of what they should read, and, moreover, if Negroes who happen not to be the scion of some white man, and, therefore, possessed of a yellow face, are not good enough to mingle and associate with them, then the Negro doctors are not fit to 'kill' us. Why not let the white man do this? Admitting that the white orchestra and the white editor and author have more advantages than do the Negroes in the same vocation, is it not credible that the same applies in regard to the doctors? Is it not to be appreciated that, while the white man, often and mostly the son of a rich parent, is taking a post-graduate course abroad, the poor Negro boy is slinging hash in a cheap hotel—most of the best ones hire white help now—to get the wherewith to go back and finish school?"Oh, we have thought this brave in our people these many years, and our very hearts and souls and sympathies have been with them in this great effort!"And we are repaid in these terms!"The black-skinned people who pay them their hard-earned money, that we might have a representative set of men as our leaders, have been scorned for their pains!"They, the doctors, set up what they silently look upon as society, "blue-veined people." How they must deplore that they are colored, in a literal sense! "We are the best people!" they cry. The insurance companies, started and led to their present position of success by black men, use every means, subtle and otherwise, to throw business to these men. Likewise do the lodges. And with all that, not more than a dozen or so are making a decent living in Attalia. We are still very poor people. Yet when society comes before us, the black ones are not good enough to play for. We must close. It makes us sick!"
"COLOR LINE DRAWN AT THE PHYSICIAN'S BALL
"Last week there was held in Attalia, the annual convention of the Tri-State Medical Association, as was stated in last week's issue ofThe Independent. Never before has this city been graced by a more refined, and obviously intelligent class of colored men. From all over the state, and the two states adjoining, which are members of the league, came physicians, surgeons, dentists and pharmacists, representing the highest body of men in the Negro race. They were entertained in sumptuous splendor, by the same profession of men in Attalia. This was facilitated by the fact, that the new buildings and the auditorium were employed for the occasion, and the members were not compelled, as they had been inthe past, to house their social function in some old deserted hall, in a deserted part of the city.
"It is, therefore, with deep regret, that we are called, by the bond of common sense and race appreciation, to mention a narrowness that pervaded this great occasion.
"It may be recalled, when the leader of our race spoke at the dedication, a few weeks past, that, on the committee were numerous doctors, some of them successful leaders, and some who were not. Yet it is and always has been the custom of our people, to honor these men in the best way we can, for we have long since come to appreciate that they are a part, and an important part of this new dispensation. Surely it is in order and keeping with the uplift of black people, to help men whose training has fitted them for such an important place. That, perhaps, is why their conduct of last week has constrained us to make this mention.
"They drew the color line. Plainly, and irrevocably. At the ball, at the stag party, and during the entire proceedings of the convention. Not a black person save one—the wife of one of the local physicians who married her for money—was invited. Such an example shocks us, so to speak. It seems incredible, in view of the condition of our race, both morally and mentally. And still, though we have forced our pen to ignore it, it has been, and is shown, right along. At the ball, not only was the color line drawn, but a white orchestra gave the music. Imagine such a spectacle! In the bourbon and always democratic south, our people hiring a white orchestra, at a fabulous sum; for, since long before we were free, Negroes have made music for the richest white people to dance by.
"Surely the old order changeth!
"Negro doctors live by the patronage of their race, positively; the white people would not hire one to doctor a dog. In the dark ages, when it was felt that a Negro was incompetent for anything else but to act as a slave, some excuse could be given for Negroes to hire white doctors. But today, all race loving people give their practice to their own, except those who are nearly white,and wish they were. But more than half of those at the ball have white doctors, and wouldn't hire one of those with whom they danced. But Negro doctors expect Negro practice, and deplore it terribly when Negroes hire white physicians! On the heels of this, too, they say "Shoo fly!" to Negro musicians who are competent to play for the whites, but not for Negro doctors. Like everything else that relates to our people—except their money—our professionals wrinkle their faces, and conclude without trial, that no Negro orchestra is properly trained to play for their balls; and Negroes who conduct newspapers do not know enough to write a part of what they read; books of Negro authors are not read by them, because they don't know enough—in the minds of these hypocrites—and so it goes in everything. They could not have held their convention in the white auditorium, even if permitted to, because that would have cost more than they were able to pay.
"Now, if Negro orchestras are incompetent as musicians and are, therefore, relegated to the rear, and a white orchestra is hired to give music, and if Negroes as authors and editors, do not know enough to write a part of what they should read, and, moreover, if Negroes who happen not to be the scion of some white man, and, therefore, possessed of a yellow face, are not good enough to mingle and associate with them, then the Negro doctors are not fit to 'kill' us. Why not let the white man do this? Admitting that the white orchestra and the white editor and author have more advantages than do the Negroes in the same vocation, is it not credible that the same applies in regard to the doctors? Is it not to be appreciated that, while the white man, often and mostly the son of a rich parent, is taking a post-graduate course abroad, the poor Negro boy is slinging hash in a cheap hotel—most of the best ones hire white help now—to get the wherewith to go back and finish school?
"Oh, we have thought this brave in our people these many years, and our very hearts and souls and sympathies have been with them in this great effort!
"And we are repaid in these terms!
"The black-skinned people who pay them their hard-earned money, that we might have a representative set of men as our leaders, have been scorned for their pains!
"They, the doctors, set up what they silently look upon as society, "blue-veined people." How they must deplore that they are colored, in a literal sense! "We are the best people!" they cry. The insurance companies, started and led to their present position of success by black men, use every means, subtle and otherwise, to throw business to these men. Likewise do the lodges. And with all that, not more than a dozen or so are making a decent living in Attalia. We are still very poor people. Yet when society comes before us, the black ones are not good enough to play for. We must close. It makes us sick!"
"Why Do You Look At Me So Strangely?"
The first books came, and among the many orders to be delivered, was one for the girl who had reminded Wyeth of a person who now belonged to a closed chapter of his life. He carried her the book.
"My madam has not paid me yet," she said regretfully, "but if you can bring it back next week, I will be delighted to take it."
He did so, and she was as good as her word. "I hope I shall enjoy it," she said, as she paid him.
"I hope so too," said he. "Practically all I have sold to told me that they liked it," he added. He looked at her, and while he was not aware of it, in that moment he had an insane desire. The past and the one connected with it, rose for one brief second before him, as he had known it. She noted the strange look, and was embarrassed. Presently she recovered from the effect it had, and said:
"Why do you look at me so strangely?"
"I don't know," he replied, non-committally.
She did not understand it, but blushed as she said: "You are indeed a strange person.... I have thought about it more than once, since you were here and took my order. Do you look at all your lady customers like that?" She looked full into his eyes as she said this, but what she saw there made her hastily retract.
"I was only joking. You are singular—strange, and—I do not know what to think of you; but you are more than an ordinary agent for the book. I'm sure of that." He remained silent. She looked keenly at the picture, and then at him. A small mustache and a different style in the trimming of his hair; but she inquired suddenly:
"Did you write this book? The picture resembles you." He looked innocent and said:
"Do you think so?"
"Indeed I do," she insisted. '"Then you wrote it?"
"Oh no, indeed," he lied, earnestly.
She appeared dubious, and then said, thoughtfully: "Maybe you have some private reasons for not wishing to be identified as the author, but I feel positive that you are." She smiled appreciatively for a moment, as she surveyed him carefully. "I think you must be smart and know a great deal, to be able to write such a big book. I shall always recall with pleasure, that I had the honor—though he did not acknowledge the fact—of meeting a real author." She extended her hand, which he took, as she said: "I am glad to have met you; and if you write another book, please try to remember that I would like to have a copy of it. Goodbye."
Slim was lolling in the office when Sidney returned. Mrs. Lautier, the clerk and ex-matron, found him very much to her humor, as did Sidney, and he was appreciated in the capacity of mirth.
"Well," he said cheerfully, "I'm doing a little better now. Delivered six copies today," and almost took Wyeth's breath away by handing him $5.40.
"Say," he cried suddenly, when they had settled up. "I happened upon something today in which I am deeply interested, and have been very anxious to tell you." He lowered his voice to a whisper, while Sidney looked surprised, but listened.
"It's a grocery stock that can be bought at a bargain."
"Well?..."
"A chance for you and me to get in right...."
"What do you mean?"
"We'll buy it?"
"But I am not in the grocery business. Books!"
"But you are out to make money?"
"I don't gather what you want or expect me to do."
"Well, I'll explain." He seated himself comfortably, and then went on in that low tone of voice. "A fellow is in partnership with another who is up against it forcash, and offers to sell his share, which is a half interest, at a bargain." He paused again briefly, and then went on. "I, as you know, having recently quit working in a grocery, naturally know all about the conducting of one."
Wyeth nodded understandingly, and remained silent and patient.
"I see in this thing the chance I have been waiting for, and am ready to consider it favorably. Big money is to be made, can be made out of it for me, and I can, at the same time and in the same enterprise, become a man of affairs."
"M-m," breathed his listener, "How do you propose to conduct it?"
"Well," artfully, "first, it should, of course, be incorporated. And then a competent manager and treasurer are necessary."
"M-m. Do you propose to increase the present stock?"
"Not at once. I think the stock as it stands at the present, is quite sufficient to care for the trade which, I have observed, is good."
"M-m."
"I thought as a favor, I would tell you and give you a chance. You could put in an equal share along with myself, which would give you a fourth interest, and you could become vice president."
"I suppose you will, of course, quit selling books, should you take over the affairs of this—er—corporation?" said Wyeth, with well feigned regret.
"Well," said the other, meditatively; "I have not fully decided as yet. It depends largely upon whether you can be brought to see the great advantage you would gain by coming in."
"But what little I represent—which surely isn't much—is tied up in the book business. How much will this thing cost?" Slim winked wisely, held his head low, and whispered it into his ear.
"Twenty-five dollars."
"I'll think it over," said Wyeth, feigning seriousness.
The next day, Slim had forgotten all about the grocery business, but tore into the office in an ecstasy of delightand secrecy. He had discovered something else. It was a soda fountain, rather, it was some old fixtures. When the drug store below had been moved into the new building, they had stored their old fixtures in an empty store room near. The same had been vacant for ten years, but Slim happened by, and saw a grand opportunity at a glance.
He told this to Sidney, with much feeling. "It's the greatest proposition of a decade! We can buy those fixtures for a song, rent the place they are in cheap, move the office up there, and conduct a book store and soda fountain in connection." His eyes opened wide, as he revealed the magnitude of the proposition.
"Can't do it, Slim. It's too big. Guess I'll have to stick to books." The other took on a disappointed expression.
"It's the chance of a life time," he said, with plain regret, and continued to look the part. "I thought you were down here to make money, and when I go out and find something that's an Eldorado, I cannot enlist you. You are making a serious mistake, and will regret it some day."
That was all for that day, but the next day he was mysterious. He didn't, however, "put" Wyeth next to this, but, on the quiet, he met others on the street below, where, at some length, they discussed a restaurant and hotel business, to be duly incorporated, and an office and a management to be appointed. Mrs. Lautier made known to Wyeth the inner secrets of this the next day.
"I'm certainly disappointed in you, Mr. Wyeth," said Slim, one day soon after, very grievously.
"How's that, Professor?" inquired the other, with assumed concern.
"You never seem to consider seriously, the many good propositions I have discovered, and have offered to you for investment."
"Do you yourself?"
"I could make a bunch of money if you would come in," he repeated artfully, but ignored the direct question.
The next day, he was more artful than ever. He was,indeed, full of another proposition. He smiled as he told his friend.
"I'm going to marry that woman out there," he said, low and confidentially.
"On Fourteenth?" the other echoed cheerfully, returning a sincere smile. "That's where you're a man. That'll sure be dandy. When?"
"Oh, not yet a-while, not until I get a divorce from the last one."
"Oh—then. M-m. So you've been married already, rather, you are."
"I have never told you much of my past life, except from a business point, have I?" He smiled naively, and, taking a chair, he became seated, placed his feet in the window, and proceeded to narrate a part of his past.
"I've been married twice," he began.
"Oh, twice...."
"Yes. My first wife died. We lived on a farm in South Carolina, and were as happy a couple as you ever knew. I owned a two-horse farm, and raised plenty of cotton and corn and some hogs, while my wife raised plenty of chickens and garden truck. We had two boys, whom I kept in school in town during the winter. And then, after my crops were laid by, my wife looked after the place, while I went out and sold song books and pictures, and preached."
"Then you're a preacher, too," said Wyeth, when he paused a moment. "I didn't think you were a preacher," he continued, looking him over.
"Well, not altogether. I preach sometimes, but not much since I married the last woman."
"How's that?"
"To tell you the truth, that woman almost made me lose my religion, she was such a devil."
Wyeth was silent, but attentive. Slim went on.
"Didn't you meet my brother? He was here not long ago. I had him up here in the office. You might have seen him about the building here. You could not have mistaken him for any one else, if you had seen him."
"Does he look like you?"
"Lord, no!" Slim exclaimed, with a laugh. "Not at all. And you would not have believed it; but ten years ago he was as spare as I am. Then he went to preaching, and since then he has become the fattest thing you ever saw."
Wyeth smiled naively. Coleman proceeded with his interrupted narrative.
"Well, getting back to thatwoman; I married her four months after my first wife died, and took her to live in the same house. We got along less than three weeks in peace. Then things began to warm up. She was a devil, if there ever was one on top of the earth, but I persisted faithfully." His appearance was now very pious. "The first big row we had was on Sunday. It was in the morning, and I, with my Bible under my arm, was starting to church. She didn't want to go that day, and had tried to keep me from going; but I always led the prayer, and preached during the pastor's absence, so, as I was saying, I was starting for church. When I passed a room in which she had enclosed herself to pout, she suddenly opened it, and hit me in the side with a big rock. If it had not struck the Bible, I think I would have been hurt seriously; but it hit the book and my arm, and rolled upon the floor.
"Well, after that, the devil was to pay. She kept me in Hell and hot water, and we got along like a cat and a dog. Each day, from sunrise until long after it had set, I asked Jesus whether I could hold out to the end. I had declared to his Holy Name, that I had taken that woman to live with for better or for worse; but surely I was getting the worst of it. And then, at last, it came to the point when it was beyond human endurance. She took to shooting at me for the fun of it."
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Wyeth. "You don't mean to say that she shot at you!"
"No," he replied calmly, "she didn'tshootat me; sheshotat me, and not once, but any old time she felt like it, which was more than once, by many, many times," he soliloquized, grimly.
"Good night!"
"Yes; she shot at me as though it were no more than throwing hot water on a bunch of rats."
"Save me Jesus!"
"Then one day I shot at her."
"Hush!"
"Yes, I shot at her and tried to hit, but I am thankful the good Lord was with us both against ourselves, I missed. I think I was too much excited."
"Deliver me!"
"It was a few days after we had had a big row for sure, and she had declared she would kill me."
Wyeth looked helpless. Slim smiled grimly, and went on:
"It was about my first wife. I had an enlarged picture of her that hung on the wall, and this devil had been eyeing it with apparent disfavor. That day, she stood directly under it, looking up at it with a double ax concealed in her skirt. I knew she had the ax, and watched her. I swore to myself that the day of Pentecost had come. If she touched my dead wife's picture, I would kill her on the spot."
"Be merciful, Coleman!"
"Yes, yes," he said, in a terrible voice. "I would have done so too, you can bet your last dollar on that.
"She kept looking up at it, and muttering in a low tone. I heard her say: 'I've a notion to tear you to pieces!' I decided that I would tell her, and in so doing give her one chance, a last chance to continue life in this world. So I said: 'Woman, woman, if you touch that picture, get ready to die, for, just as sure as I'm a nigga, I'm going to put your lights out!' Those were terrible days, terrible days," he sighed wearily, and for the first time since Wyeth had known him, he felt a pang of sorrow for him. He was serious. Presently he resumed:
"She went out without a word—she was always dangerous when she said nothing—and returned presently, with a brand new, great big pistol, and, without a word she began shooting. She and I then had it. She with the gun and me a-running, while she pulled the trigger, and run me all over that farm.
"After this, I armed myself and got ready. I took the children to my mother, sold off the stock and everything else but the furniture. I asked the Lord to spare my life, and not let one of those bullets from that gun she always carried, push daylight through me, and I would try to fulfill my promise, God's will be done. I offered her half if she wanted to quit, but she didn't. No, after she had shot at me and scared me out of my wits, she was ready for me to take her in my arms.
"For awhile, things became a little better, but suddenly she went off half-cock, and pulled the trigger of that big gun on me again. Then she got her surprise. I had a gun too. She had a Smith and Wesson, and I had a left-hand Wheeler. 'Ki-doi! Ki-doi!' my old gun barked, and the magazine would whirl around cleverly, automatically. She stood frozen to the spot for a minute, then, taking fright, she dropped hers, and flew with me right after her, shooting that old cannon at every leap. Across the country we went. I loaded and emptied it a half dozen times, and shot away twenty-five shells. I shot at everything in sight!
"After that, I finished selling out and went to Arkansas, where I was getting along all right, until I was fool enough to let her come to me. Again we got along very well for a time, but she got to cocking her pistol where and when I could hear it, so I set out again. Just lately she came to Brookville, and went to raising cain, trying to force me to take care of her. So, as you see, she made me quit there, and thus you see me."