"I got four, how many did you get?"
"Eight," and they went on their way rejoicing.
"I Have BEEN Married," Said She
Thirty-five years ago, Effingham was an unsuspected factor. That was before somebody had demonstrated that the chain of red hills encircling the then small town, contained immense deposits of iron ore and coal, and other mineral matter, that could be converted into practical purposes.
Effingham lay, at that time, in the valley, where, as yet, most of it is found; then, it was regarded as only an ordinary town, without any expectation of future greatness. It had, to be exact, thirty-eight thousand, fourteen years ago, fifteen thousand Negroes, and the remainder white population, including a few Chinese. Today, the city boasts of approximately one hundred seventy thousand.
Thus the city had developed, regardless of circumstances, which our story will unfold.
But Sidney Wyeth, our erstwhile observer and literary contemporary, had not been long in Effingham, before he had come to learn that it was not the city Attalia was, in spite of its great industries, and its million dollar payroll, which was employed in advertising the iron city.
To begin with, capital—hard cash—was a very expensive thing to use toward the development of its extension. When the city incorporated the many little towns that make up a large part of its present population, it began to run in debt; a great deficit was customary at the end of each year, and now, at the time of our story, it was still energetically engaged in the same task—piling up a deficit. The many little towns that are a part of the city, and where most of the great industrial concerns are located, are practically controlled by the interests. But when the Tennessee Coal and IronCompany became a vested interest, it took over all these various concerns, and merged them into a trust, which is a problem to every congress. And now as Sidney Wyeth saw it, the company owned everything. It almost owned the Negroes, and thousands of foreigners who were employed by the company.
But there was one thing the T.C.I. company did not own, and that was train loads of liquor consumed by its black help, and, of course, the whites also, to a degree, but not in such proportion. Drink was very popular in Effingham, exceedingly popular. It operated to an alarming degree everywhere, and about pay days, held sway in certain portions of the town, and made everything run riot. And yet there were not nearly so many saloons in Effingham as there might have been. It cost too much for the privilege. At three thousand dollars a year, only about one hundred fifty saloons were in operation. But some years before, while the state was under prohibition, "tigers" became the order. And now many of them still operated. Especially on Sunday and after closing hours, they were busy. They dealt in a liquor known, in general, as "busthead;" and to say that it deserved such a title, is saying little enough.
It was Miss Palmer, who became at once a personal friend of Wyeth's, and who first told him of these conditions. From her, before he had time to observe of his own initiative, he also learned a great deal in regard to the black people.
He was waiting on the porch for her when she returned late that afternoon, in fact, it was night when she arrived. She was tired, but cheerful and greatly encouraged. She had secured eleven orders for his book, and collected considerable more deposits in connection therewith.
"I certainly did some talking to those Negroes this afternoon," she exclaimed, drawing herself upon the porch when she arrived. "I talked a blue streak; and believe me, one after another succumbed," she boasted.
"You work too late," he said, with a note of kindness and admiration in his voice. "I do not usually work to exceed six hours a day, and quit by six at the latest," he added.
"That's the trouble with Annie," said her cousin, and a teacher also. "She has so much ambition when she sees herself succeeding, that she invariably wears herself out."
"Have you met my roomers?" Miss Palmer inquired. He shook his head and waited, while she, with much ostentation, introduced them one by one.
"This is Mr. Jones, who carries mail upon a rural route; Mr. Farrell is a student at Tuskegee. He is spending his vacation in our city. And you have been talking with my cousin, Miss Black."
Mr. Farrell was a small creature, so black in the darkness of the night, that only a gloomy outline of his features was discernable, while his white eyes reminded Sidney as he winked them, of a pair of lightning bugs on a warm June night. This was augmented by the occasional flash of his white teeth. He was studying architectural drawing. There was another student from the same school, a West Indian Negro, and who, like his kind, was always apparently desirous of learning, and asked Sidney many questions. Mr. Jones, who happened to be another cousin of Miss Palmer, and the aforementioned mail carrier, was a suave creature who read books, and discoursed with much practical intelligence.
The following morning, Miss Palmer and Sidney were starting toward the car, on their way to canvass, when they stepped in a small drugstore conducted by a tall, slender man, of about thirty-five. Wyeth had been in the store two evenings before, or the day he arrived, and overheard a big argument. He had now come to know, that this was a place for warm debate, with the druggist ever conspicuous as one of the debaters.
He had not displayed his book there, or suggested a sale to the druggist. There were certain classes of his race to whom he never made a practice of showing the book for several reasons. The first and most significant of these reasons was, that he almost always found the Negroes who were engaged professionally, including teachers, not very appreciative of the work of their race, although any of them would have been insulted if thiswere told them. He had also made observation from other sources, concerning the possible sale of his book. His decision to dispense henceforth with showing the book to certain classes, had resulted, because of a little incident the year before in Cincinnati. He had observed the same in other cities before he reached Cincinnati. In Dayton, Indianapolis, and elsewhere; but in Cincinnati, it was so evident, that he was, in a way, ashamed to tell it afterwards. This is what occurred:
The colored people were making great efforts to secure a Y.M.C.A., and were, when he left the city, within fifteen thousand dollars of the amount they were required to raise. The white people had given sixty thousand. He became well acquainted with the secretary, and it was from him that he learned, without inquiring, that, of twenty-nine colored teachers who were receiving a minimum of sixty dollars a month, twenty-one had not subscribed one dollar toward this small amount the colored people were strenuously trying to raise. And of the eight who had subscribed, five had grudgingly given one dollar each. The secretary, himself a former teacher, admitted this with great humiliation.
Wyeth had always found the teachers profuse with excuses, when it came to buying the book. And he had found the doctors little better; but, to avoid what he had grown to expect, and which he invariably met, he had decided to ignore this class of his race. He did not offer criticism upon the whole teaching staff, because, of the three teachers out of twenty-nine in Cincinnati, who had actually contributed toward the colored Y.M.C.A., the professor had shown his sincerity and race appreciation, by subscribing one hundred dollars, and had paid it.
So Sidney Wyeth would never have shown the book to the druggist, with a view of sale, but Miss Palmer did. In her insistent manner, she urged him to buy. Now Wyeth, as was his custom, always went to the leading book store in each town, and had never failed to sell them a few books. The leading store in Effingham had purchased ten copies, and had placed an advertisement of ten inch space in the colored paper, that ran for amonth, and which the druggist had seen. So, when Miss Palmer approached him insistently, he declared that he had seen the book advertised at that store, and, as was their custom, sometime during the year they offered all books at forty-nine cents, he would, if he wanted the book, purchase it then. Of course, he didn't want it, and Wyeth was provoked that Miss Palmer had even shown it to him; but Miss Palmer had, and, upon being told of these conditions, she at once ceased her efforts.
Of course, the druggist was wrong, and Wyeth knew it; but the druggist didn't. He wanted to bet—any amount, that he was right—that one of the biggest booksellers in the southland, offered all books, regardless of "best sellers," sometime during the year at forty-nine cents a copy. It cost the druggist two dollars to learn that he could be wrong, or mistaken at least, even if he hadbeen to school and graduated from college, which, in the minds of his august contemporaries, meant that hekneweverything.
It was Miss Palmer who advised Sidney that Dr. Randall, for druggists were called doctors also, among these people, hadbeen to school and graduated from college.... And Miss Palmer was much chagrined that Wyeth had acted so hastily.... For times were hard and two dollars wassomething.... If he had caught her eye when she tried so hard to get his, she would have gotten him outside for a minute, one little minute, and then she would have told him who the other was.... She was almost in tears as she remonstrated with him for his hasty act.... Miss Palmer was sincere and meant it, because, for some reason, she was unable as yet to account; she really liked Mr. Wyeth. "He has such eyes," she told her cousin when she returned, while the bet was being settled.
"Well, we have lost two hours, so we will have to get a move on us now, to make up for lost time. Of course," he said cheerfully, "I've made two dollars, which is as much, maybe more, than we would have made in the meantime——"
"You did what!" Miss Palmer was amazed.
It was some time before she could be brought to believe it.
"We will go to a different part of the quarter today," she said after a time. Wyeth looked at her. Miss Palmer was very kind. And Sidney Wyeth longed for kindness. When he saw Miss Palmer as she was that day, he felt something amiss in his heart. She had said nothing today; whereas, yesterday she had acted, he thought, boldly.
The car now seemed to be flying through space. It roared like a mad thing, and filled him with a peculiar feeling; exhilaration overwhelmed him. For one moment he forgot everything, and he felt a burning desire to touch the woman. At his side sat Miss Palmer. She had been kind to him, even though he had known her almost no time. And then suddenly his hand found hers, and, closing over it one moment, he crushed it. A moment later the impulse had passed.
The powerful car thundered on its way.
Miss Palmer worked hard that day. All the hours through, she talked and talked. She simplymadethose black people buy. "The story of a young man, a young man of our race, who had the strength and courage of a pioneer, went alone into the wilds of the great northwest, and there made conquest. Think of that as an example, and incentive to effort for your children!" They nodded and joined her in seriousness, though they knew not what it all meant; but they did feel the strength of her eyes, and the insistence held them.
Wyeth suggested the route.
She offered no objection. Whither he suggested, she followed meekly, almost subserviently. And always, she sought, whenever she could get his attention, his eyes, and into them she looked for something; but it was ever something unfathomable she saw therein. But the more she was unable to fathom those depths, the more her eagerness to do so became apparent.
She talked of her work as a teacher, she told him then of her ambition, and her hopes; but Miss Palmer, withal she felt that day, could not, somehow, impart the secretof her great ambition. Vainly she tried, in her most artful way, to have him tell her something—something of himself.
But he never did. That made it harder for Miss Palmer, for soon, she felt, she justhadto know.
"Over there," said she, pointing to a row of new houses, uniform in splendor, "are homes that are beautiful and still economical. It is my intention to begin the purchase of one of them next year. All the people living there in those houses are personal acquaintances of mine and friends. And, as you will observe, there is a school just around the corner, which adds greatly to the value of the property. I want also to buy another home in that neighborhood, as soon as I have the first one well under payment, and so have it paid for by the time my boy becomes of age."
"Your boy!"
"Yes," she admitted, with a tired, hard smile.
"Oh...."
"I have been married."
"Oh...."
"But am now a widow."
"Oh...."
"But not by death."
"Oh...."
"No;heis not dead—at least he wasn't a month ago." She shrugged her shoulders, and went on now somewhat doggedly. "I am a grass widow, and you know what that means...."
He made no answer; but she knew he heard her, and was listening. She went on as only an unsuccessful and unhappy woman could. "Yes, when a woman marries a man that she loves, and gives to him the best that's in her, and, after years, is forced to give up the fight, her very heart, for a piece of paper marked 'divorce,' she is never the same woman she was, and might have continued to be. There are those who say: 'Oh, I don't care;' but I'm going to tell you, they do. The woman lives on apparently gay, but her heart is dead within her." For a long time now, there was silence. Presently, she spoke again.
"I am living entirely now for my little boy. He is all I have, and I am willing, I feel, to slave until the skin falls from my fingers, that he may have his chance. I am planning to graduate him as early as possible, and place him in a good northern school in the study of medicine."
Again Sidney Wyeth felt a peculiarity about his heart. His thoughts went back into yesterdays, and he recalled all that he had lived and hoped for, and then for one brief moment, another stood before him. Miss Palmer was talking, but her voice seemed to come from far away. Presently she touched him. He looked up and she saw thesomethingin his eyes, and suddenly all she had been feeling passed, as she now observed him closely. Her lips parted. They started to say: "You strange man. You've had your troubles too." And then something else seemed to say: "But you're game, oh you're game. You've lived a bitter pill, a very bitter pill. Look into those eyes; study them, and if you have suffered, and by that suffering you have learned, you can read that a secret lurks therein; you say nothing, but you feel, nevertheless." What Miss Palmer did say when her lips spoke was: "We'd better be going, Mr. Wyeth. It's getting late. Hear the whistle of the furnace, and across from that we hear another. That belongs to the Semet Solvay; but they both are right. It's one o'clock and thirty minutes. Time to canvass; we must go." Her voice was kinder now than ever.
They went.
"Eidder Stuck Up ah She's a Witch"
They now passed between two large industrial plants of the Tennessee Coal and Iron Company. To the left, roaring mightily, was one of the many blast furnaces, where the pig iron was made from the crude ore. Innumerable small cars, upon which sat huge ladles, whirled to and fro. Backward and forward they were pulled, out of the great shed, where they received their supply of molten matter from the largest cupolas in existence. Everywhere the white heat flashed. Hundreds and thousands of men, black and white (although as they were now seen, they were all black), worked away. System was everywhere evident. The cars, with their loads of molten heat, moved with systematic regularity, while each and every man seemed to know and fill a certain place. Only a little carelessness, a little disregard for established rules and regulation, would lead to death, of one to a score of men.
To the right of them, filling the hot summer air with sulphuric and gaseous fumes, the plant of the Semet Solvay Company was visible in all its activity. It rose grim and forbidding, with intense heat, and stretched back for a mile, seemingly, from where they passed. Even the dirt upon which they walked, as they went into the quarters between the plants, was hot and dead. No grass was to be seen. A sickly little short weed struggled for existence in this medley of industry.
And now, before them rose a hill, at the top of which were the quarters. High above the factories, as though seeking the air, and as if to be as much as possible free from the sulphuric fumes that at times almost stifled one, these houses stood, dirty, grim and forbidding.They rose sinister-like in the dull sunlight, and fell back beyond as they approached.
When the two had reached the summit and viewed the place closer, Sidney was, for a time, awed by the sight. Row after row of little red or brown, shell-like homes they were. With a thin board porch, they made little resistance against the intense heat, for it seemed hotter here than elsewhere.
At this hour, the inmates could be seen spread about on these little porches, if it happened to be on the shady side; or else, they could be seen in the houses, and some were even beneath them, anywhere they could find a spot that would permit of a little rest; for, from one to three weeks they must work at nights, twelve, thirteen and fourteen long hours. The furnace cupolas had not been cool, in many instances, since they were erected, and only two shifts were employed. They were predominantly black people.
Only here and there was a mulatto to be seen. Little children filled the grimy streets, that are made to stink fearfully from the slag used in the paving. And now, as the sun beats down, it was soft and stuck to the shoes, much to the provocation of the walker. Notwithstanding the apparent lack of comfort, evident everywhere in this little village of workers, these little black children, with an occasional Italian, seemed as cheerful and happy and gay, as those of the aristocrats of the South Highlands. They played busily, while their little faces, tanned by the heat, were full of joy. They were as courteous—more so than one would expect under the circumstances.
When Sidney Wyeth inquired, he learned that the T.C.I. company maintains and pays the teachers well in the schools for the education of these masses of little, growing human beings. Unfortunately, so torn and frittered by race law legislation, the city and the county and the state are far in arrears financially, and, were it left to those bodies, these little children would not all, by any means, learn the art of reading and writing; for, with all our boast as the greatest nation of civilized people, there is no law here, that compels the parent, guardian andwhat more, to send these children to school. Which, perhaps, accounts for the fact that forty per cent of the black population are illiterate, and almost as large a per cent of the whites.
They walked along together in silence, Miss Annie Palmer and Sidney Wyeth. This silence was interrupted only when they drew near one or a number of these little human beings, who smiled upon them, and made eyes back at Sidney, who winked humorously, and then made them all happy with a few pennies, for he loved children. They passed through this mass, which our pen has attempted to describe, and found themselves soon in a part given over to nature. Trees had made a brave fight for the right to exist against poisonous gases, and some had succeeded, in a measure; while garden truck, closer to its mother earth, had apparently succeeded to a still greater degree. Fences were in evidence; pride as well. The children were cleaner; the houses were not quarter-shacks any more; but commodious, even large homes, and were occupied by a class, while workers, nevertheless they had employed their earnings otherwise than for liquor and dice, and other frivolities, the curse that submerges the more ignorant and prideless. They were a kind people, these were, and when approached with a suggestion of literature, they smiled and replied: "We are fond of reading."
Thus Miss Palmer and Sidney Wyeth began work that day, and until the sun was hurrying toward the west, they talked and said words of kind sincerity to the many they met, for these people deserved it. What was more important, some made effort toward their betterment. These were few in number. For this reason, such kind words of encouragement—ay, very often praise, was necessary.
So, one by one they subscribed, and hoped for the book soon, until their orders were many. The evening had approached until the hour was near six, when they came upon another, a black woman truly, but pride, apparently, she had plenty. While not the finest, in point of value, her house was one of the cosiest. It was painted in twocolors, and reposed quietly behind a medley of small trees, around which was a fair stand of blue grass. The lace curtains, all clean and white, contrasted beautifully behind and below the pale green shades, while within the furniture was artistically arranged.
They were invited in, and made most welcome. "Yes," said the black woman, "I am fond, very fond of good books, and when it comes to one which my race has produced, I want it, for such are few. So you may take my name, and bring the book as soon as you can."
They thanked her profusely, and spoke, as they had spoken many times that day, kind words of encouragement and praise. She appreciated it.
Yet some said of this woman, before the two made this call:
"She's a mean nigger, and you'll neveh be 'vited in da' house! Um-m! She has no 'commadation 'bout her, and she's eidder stuck up, ah she's a witch!" Whereupon they shook their black heads, and went their way with a mutter.
But 'ere long another—and he was himself a practical and successful man—said: "She's O.K., a fine woman; but she runs a grocery store while her husband digs coal, and, well, she doesn't credit Tom, Dick and Harry." And then Wyeth and his companion understood.
The day's work was done at last, and they were hurrying back to town. They were tired, both mentally and physically, but their spirits were high. They were, moreover, grateful, and seemed, to a great degree, to understand each other. Their friendship has reached the stage at which they could indulge in confidences, Miss Palmer especially. She regarded Wyeth, out of her liquid eyes, and smiled kindly, confidentially. "I'm glad I took up the work—now."
She smiled with more confidence than before. "Yes; I am, really. I haveenjoyedit." And still she smiled. He did too. She smiled back, and then, in a voice that was so soft, and kind, and confidential, she said: "You wrote it, didn't you?"
He heard the car as it crashed along through the night, for the sun had set long ago. The trees, for they were passing through the forest, flashed darkly through the electric lighted car, and Miss Palmer waited. He did not reply. After a time—shall we say minutes—she sought his eye. She was languid, and resigned to a degree. "If you would only admit that which I am positive is true, it would be so nice. I would truly be satisfied."
"What matter could it make?" and then he stopped. She might be more interesting curious than otherwise.... He remained silent.
"Oh, why do you maintain this silence regarding the authorship?" she fretted, moving restlessly about.
"Cannot we go along and sell it—that, in particular, is all that matters, isn't it?" He tried to be reasonable. "You will, as you must now see," he argued, "only need to go to theindustrialpeople, and success will be yours." She was oblivious to all this. He resumed, somewhat uncertainly:
"If many people—especially those in the class to which I feel you belong—knew or thought that I am the author of this book, their possible interest might become doubtful; whereas, with no thought than the ordinary—that is the usual fetish—theymight, after reading it, be much impressed with its message. Don't you agree with me?" He wanted to be reasonable, but Miss Palmer was silent.
She was still so when they left the car some minutes later. When they had reached the curbing and stepped upon the walk, they saw Hatfield. He had his suit case and was in somewhat of a hurry, from the strides he was making.
"Where is he going, home?" inquired Miss Palmer.
"I don't know," replied the other, "but I wouldn't think so at least. He never said anything to me in regard to it, when I left him this morning." Yet so he was, though he never said so, when they met him and exchanged a few words.
"I'm going to a friend's house," and he gave Wyeth a number. They told him of their success, whereupon he secured a dollar, and that was the last time they sawhim. He went back with the same porter they had come over with.
It was Legs who informed Sidney that young Hatfield was going back to Attalia. Legs was having some experiences of his own. Before he related them to Wyeth, he inquired:
"Well, Books, how goes it?" He was cheerful as usual—in fact Legs was always cheerful—with one exception, which we shall cite presently.
"Fine, Legs," Wyeth beamed. "Couldn't be better, which is saying a great deal. How's things with you?"
"Couldbe a whole lot better," he laughed, with dancing eyes; "but they have been worse. I've been busy though. Working right along. Got me a gal now, and won a little change today that I might lose tonight."
He did—and more. He lost all he had, borrowed a quarter from Wyeth, wanted a dollar, but Wyeth halted him, advising that he loaned only to purchase the means to fill his stomach, and then only when it was begging for bread.
After this, and for some time to come, Legs' fortune varied from near prosperity, to going for a whole day without anything to eat. And at these times, he dispensed with his usual cheerfulness.
One day, he pawned his meagre jewelry for all he could obtain thereon, which amounted to only a dollar and a half. He ate a big meal at a cheap restaurant, got his shirts from the laundry, paid fifty cents on his room rent, and went with the remainder to a game. Luck was with him, as it is with all, once in a while. True, it was only in a small measure, but he had sufficient to finish paying his rent, bought a cold lunch that he sensibly tucked away for future purposes, and went to bed with a dollar in his pocket.
Sleeping peacefully at two A.M., he was awakened by John Moore, the man of the house, who told him—Sidney heard this—of a great game close by, and where hundreds were at stake. So Legs got up, not too cheerfully, from his comfortable bed and peaceful sleep,dressed, and a moment later, followed Moore out into the night, and to fortune. (?)
He came back in about an hour. He was drunk and broke, angry with himself, and more so with John Moore.
"Damn that nigger!" he cried terribly, when alone with Wyeth. "Damn him, damn him, d-a-m-n him! Came in here and got me out of bed," he roared, brandishing his long arms. "When I was sleeping the sleep of peace. 'Nigga's gotta big game on; all kinds a-money. I'n beat 'm in scan, know I c'n.' And then like a fool," and here he looked down at himself, as if to see which would be the best part to kick, "I up and goes with him. Of course, he must have a drink for himself; so a quarter first went to 'get him right.' And then to the game. No sooner had we arrived than 'slip me a haf,' said he, and like a damn fool I did. He bet a quarter that a dinge who held the craps wouldn't hit, and lost. He repeated—and lost again. He wanted the last quarter, declaring his luck would begin with it; but I forestalled him and got the craps myself and threw them dancing, clear across the table, and they turned up," Wyeth waited eagerly, "—craps!"
"Doggone that nigga! 'f he comes around me again, I'm going to shoot him in the head—right through the middle of the head!" And with this solemn declaration, he went forthwith back to bed. He slept peacefully, and awakened the following morning, hungry and madder than ever, as the fact dawned upon him. Wyeth loaned him a quarter, and gave him some good advice.
"Quit it! Get a job! Work! Honest work! Come to the room with a book, read and thereby learn something and save your money!"
"I will, so help me God!" declared the other, feeling repentant all the way through.
"And remember—in speaking of the God—he helps those who help themselves."
"My father was a preacher!"
Wyeth made no further comment; but Legs was a good rustler. He did better—for a while. He looked the town from end to end for the kind of work he followed,but without success. So it continued, day after day, his great problem was to get something to fill that stomach, which was now flabby, very much so at times. He managed, by diligent application, to drop something into it once and sometimes twice a day, and one night he came to the room with an exclamation, that he had eaten three times that day, and had a dime left in his pocket. He drew this forth, balanced it on the tip of his forefinger, observed it long and earnestly, and then said: "Little one, we are friends, it's true, but such we cannot possibly remain; for tomorrow you will have to go the way of the rest," whereupon he touched his stomach with the forefinger of his other hand. "So, tonight, on a pilgrimage of fortune we must go, you and I. It's more or less—possibly nothing. So, to the first crap game I take thee. And once there in the glare, I shall risk you against the rest. Therefore, little one, prepare thyself, for soon I shall bet thee, understand, in the first crap game I come to, a nickel at a time."
He did—and won. He continued then for some time to win and win, and resumed all the cheerfulness he once possessed. His winnings continued until he had redeemed his jewelry, paid a week's room rent in advance, was clean, and seven dollars to the good over all. Then it began to go the other way. He quit, however, and deposited five dollars with his friend Wyeth.
"I'm doing this," said he, "because these roomers, who shoot craps too, would not allow me to be otherwise than broke." Thus the fortune of Legs took a turn for the good, for one day. The next night he went broke. Thus we will leave him for the present, and return to Sidney Wyeth and Miss Annie Palmer, who sold books.
"A Bigger Liah They Ain't in Town"
John Smith was a large man, fat, and big-hearted as well, so Wyeth had been told previously. Sidney met both Smith and his wife, and she was larger still. She, too, was a good, kind woman, with a multitude of friends whom they had made by kindness to others. She was a full blood, while he was not more than half. Together they would weigh to exceed five hundred pounds. And, of course, he was a preacher.
Said he, when he had heard the story ofThe Tempest: "Yes, I'll take one—no, you may put me down for two." And then he seated himself with as much comfort as was possible upon the greasy counter, for John Smith was a successful merchant, who made his living by the sale of necessities, to a multitude of his clan, who were employed by the Semet Solvay Company. As he made the above remark, he was ready, as we can see, for a long conversation.
"Been takin' many odah's?" he inquired.
"Oh, lots of them," the other replied, cheerfully.
"M-m. Who all yu' got in that list?" he went on.
The other shoved it before him.
"M-m," said he, running his eyes over the order list. "See yu' have Lem Jackson down he' fo' one."
"Yes," said the other; "seems to be quite a fine fellow," he commented.
"M-m; but a bigger liah they ain't in town." He was not much excited by the statement, and went on calmly: "He's fine all right, though—to drink whiskey. M-m. Fight 'n' steal, and lay around drunk, and go regularly to jail, and likewise have somebody pay him out. I have done so myself, a few times, 's why I happen t' know. M-m. Two times in succession I have donethat in the last thirty days. M-m; but the next time he gets his black hide in there, in so fo' 's I'm concerned, he c'n stay. Yeh, 'n' 'twouldn't 'sprise me 'f the officers didn' come rid'n up at any time fo' 'im, 'cause 'es been actin' mighty suspicious the last few days. I'n bet he's been int' somethin'."
"Heah! Heah!" he cried, jumping from the counter and hurrying to the platform in front, "what'n the devil you all makin' all this he' noise 'bout!"
"O-oh, uncle," cried a little one, grasping his trousers and looking up, "the p'lice uz jes' gone ova the hill wi' Lem Jackson. Dey has 'rested 'im fo' stealin' coppa wiah."
Sadly, Wyeth drew his pencil through a name he had written not an hour before.
"I'm glad to get your opinion concerning these, Elder," he said gratefully. "The ones we have had down here have been pretty good, and I don't wish to be cherishing expectations that are not likely to be realized. So tell me, if you don't mind, who can be relied on."
"Aw, I do'n mind," he rumbled; "'cause them that's all right is all right; and them that ain't, ain't. So whateve' I tell you 's all the same in the end, exceptin' you won't need t' build on them that ain't.
"These people who had oh'd, 'n' took the' books so readily, 'n' did'n' haf t' wait fo' pay day, ah, among the good people we got out he', that's the reason." He took the paper from Wyeth's hand, and, pointing out the names, he began:
"He's Joe Sim's now, I see you have, 's as good as gold. You c'n count that book delivered; also I see you have Tom Hutchis, 'n' 'es O.K. Jerry Carter is also; but here's Joe Tuttle, outside-a Lem Jackson, a bigger liah, gambler—tin horn gambler, never lived; 'n' he caint read, why has he subscribed fo' the book?" The other looked at the name, and then said:
"I think Miss Palmer took that order."
"Aw, that's it. He's chivalrous, all right, and would be gallant enough to subscribe to anything a woman's carrying around; but he won't be man 'nough t' takeit, 'n' he knows it." At this point he laid the list down, stuck his big stomach forward, rested his hands thereupon, and with his finger to emphasize, he forthwith gave Wyeth a lecture on Negroology.
"I been runnin' this sto' heah fo' thoiteen yeahs, 'n' lemme tell y', brother, I know these nigga's fo' what they is." He paused a moment, and surveyed the list again, critically. Then, laying it down, said: "Jump up on the counter and rest yo'se'f, I gotta story t' tell yu'." Wyeth obeyed, and John Smith began.
"I was run outta Geo'gi', 'n' I ain' 'shame to admit it; but notwithstandin' the fact, 'twas a mistake 'n' aftwa'd the whi' people found it out 'n' was sorry, 'n' wanted me t' return. That, however, was afta I was ove' he' 'n' doin' business, 'n' mo' bus'ness than I had eve' done befo'. So I jes' thanked them fo' admittin' to the mistake, 'n' stay's he'. Well, 's I was sayin', I came ove' he' 'n' sta'ted a sto'. I had owned a big fa'm back the' in Geo'gi', 'n' I received $10,000 fo' it 'n' put's most uv it in th' sto' 'n' trusted cullud people. In three ye's I's broke—flat broke. Did'n' have nothin' but my credit. I had opened that sto' wi' the finest stock of eve'thing: Clothing, boots 'n' shoes, groceries 'n' hardware, 'n' 's I said, trusted my people.
"Now a nigga, with rare exceptions, will not pay 'n' hones' debt, oh, no! He'll lie, 'n' lie, 'n' lie! T' make a long story sho't, they lied me outta bus'ness. So I broke, but wi' plenty sense, I sta'ted all ove' agin, wi' the help of the Lawd 'n' the whi' people, what knowed I was hones' 'n' ambitious.
"That was ten yeah's ago. Seven ye's ago I made a 'rangement wi' the Semet Solvay Company t' give these da'kies credit, and th' company has since then, held the amount from the' pay envelope. From then on I began to climb, but I had a drawback that was like a tick in my shirt, but I'll git t' that later. Now nobody c'n say I gets my money by holding up these nigga's, either; fo' I gives 's much 'n' mo' fo' th' money than does the average sto' keeper 'bout he'.
"And so, with the help a th' Lawd, and a good wife,I have now twenty-nine houses 'n' lots, 'n' a little money besides. And he' comes the drawback I sta'ted t' speak uv. Eve' week that comes ove' my head, I mus' spend good money t' get some a these low-down big mouth nigga's outta jail. Last ye', 'n' you wouldn't b'lieve it, but I spent nine hund'd dollahs a-gettin' nigga's outta jail, 'n' this ye' promises t' exceed that."
"But why will you pay their fines?" exclaimed the other. "Why don't you let the skunks stay and work it out?"
"That's it! That's it!" he exclaimed, moving about on the counter. "I swear at the end of each ye' that I ain' go'n pay another fine, but they pr'ceed diligently t' get locked up, 'n' I, bye and bye, comes fo'th wi' the long green 'n' pays'm out.
"Now he's a incident uv it: Take this heh Lem Jackson, fo' instance. A low-down o'nry hound, it would be a blessing t' this dirty little district 'f he was in his grave; but the troubles comes by him not being there. So he, on earth a-runnin' a-roun'; but wi' a family—a wife 'n' chillun a-hollerin' fo' bread.
"It comes 'bout by his wife, who was one a-the finest girls in this burg when he married her. So yu'n see, when he pr'ceeds t' git drunk, 'n' drunk right, understand, 'n' then gets t' squabblin' wi' some other no count nigga, 'n' gets run in, who's affected?"
The other winced.
"It's the same wi' dozens of the others. I'd let them stay in there 'n' rot, so fo' 's they is concerned; but t' me comes a cry'n wife, 'n' a-string-a hongry kids, so I goes 'n' bails the devil out." He paused a moment now to breathe a spell. "'Cassionally," he resumed, "I c'n, with some 'nfluence I have with the judge, get some out without payin' a fine; but th' lawyer must have his, anyhow, 'n' a nigga, 's I done already said, would'n' pay the Lo'd Jesus when he's out; but promises to bring eve' dime he makes t' you when he's in.
"So, the're my bu'den, come day, go day. Over theah, fo' 'nuther instance, stands a nigga—see him? The one that's so drunk 'n' noisy? I got him out las'week, when he had received two hund'd days on th' gang, 'n' t'day I got his brother out who was locked up Friday."
"Why can they not keep out of so much trouble?" said Wyeth seriously.
"Whiskey. The minute they get the' pay, the first thing they wants is whiskey, 'n' then a crap game."
"And women," said Wyeth.
"Yes," said the other; "but they won't spend any money on them; no, that would in one sense, be too much like right."
"What per cent of them, do you think, who, after giving their word as a bond, would stand to it, a promise, you understand?"
"I'm 'shame t' admit it, I'm 'shame t' admit it; but, honestly, I wouldn't estimate that more than two out of ten could be trusted to keep their word, other than t' buy a pint a whiskey, or shoot dice until they did'n' have a dime."
"What effect is the white man's prejudice having upon him directly?" Wyeth inquired.
"None! None! In the days of old, and even yet, the white man's prejudice was very hindersome; but, as time has wore on, and the races have come to expect each other as they know they will be, the prejudice of the white man is not near so hindersome as some a ouh people would have you b'lieve it. Of co'se," he added thoughtfully, "politic's is in a way denied him; but a great many more can vote than they do if they would pay the' poll taxes. All in all, you'll find so much ignorance, and ignorance by preference among them, and their minds are so polluted with the devil, until politic's as they are now, would not make much difference. I sometimes shudder when I look around me and listen, to conclude what the race is sometime coming to."
"You have a large number of churches, a hundred odd, I think. That should act as a great feature toward the moral evolution."
"Very little, very little," he returned, shaking his head sadly. "For this reason: The churches, whilehaving, of course, many good men as their pastors, are filled up with more grafters, it seems, and mean rascals as well, until the calling is not fulfilled. I don't hesitate t' say that there are more grafters among the preachers, than any other profession among the colored people in this town. And the Baptists have, and still are, building so many little churches, until every dime available, and unavailable too, is used fo' this purpose, instead of some means to help the chillun."
"Don't you think, figuratively speaking, that there are too many Negro churches?"
"'Course the' is, a-course. Why there are more than seventy Baptist churches among Negroes in the town alone. That in itself, is an example of the utter selfishness tha' p'vails heh."
"How does it come about? It seems to me that the organization of the church system must be very loose, to permit of such a wholesale building of churches all the time. It would seem advisable that if they had fewer churches, with better conduct in the administration of those few, more good would result."
"Well, the Baptists are dominated, to some extent, by the association, but it is inadequate in many ways. For instance, when they rule a pastor out, he claims to a handful of devouts and friends, that he has been made the goat of a frame-up, starts him a church in some shack, or any other place where he can concentrate a few shouters, and continues."
"And what effect does all this have upon the children?"
He held up his hand in despair. "Brother, brother! That is the sad part. The colored child in this town is lucky, 'f he becomes anything else but a criminal before he does anything else. His surroundings 'n'—what's that other thing?" he stopped short, and held his hand to his head.
"Environment?"
"That's it! His 'nvironment is so bad. He is surrounded by eve' thing conducive t' crime 'n' degeneration. He sees, hears, 'n' is brought in contact, in his eve' day life, with all that is evil, 'n' learns t' drinkwhiskey befo' he gets into pants. And now, instead of the Negro churches concentrating their efforts toward the raising of the child, they put all the fo'ce into the preacher's lungs, trying t' convert ole sinnahs that nothin' but hell itse'f will effect."
"A library, and Y.M.C.A., properly conducted, might have some effect for the good, don't you think?"
"A dead investment fo' yeahs t' come, fo' the reason that they would have no incentive to attend either. Without clean, intelligent parents, 'n' better conducted churches, such cannot fulfill the purpose."
"Hadn't we better be going?" called Miss Palmer at this moment. "It's getting late."
The two shook hands as they parted. As Sidney went over the hill, that sloped for a long way down to the car line, he did not seem to hear Miss Palmer, and he answered her mechanically.
He was thinking, thinking of what he had learned, in the last hour, from John Smith, merchant.
"Yes—Miss Latham"
Three weeks had passed since Mildred Latham first saw the city she now called home. She considered it the only home she ever really had; because she had in one person a friend, such as she had never felt she would have. That friend was Constance Jacobs. Daily, they went forth together in their work, which was the sale ofThe Tempest. There was another, who was, apparently, a friend also. That was Wilson Jacobs—but more of him later.
Where there is congeniality, understanding and sympathy, there is happiness to a degree. When such is the case, every day—despite even an arduous task, within itself, becomes a holiday. Such were the days which Mildred Latham experienced. Constance was like a sister. One of those rare creatures, whose happiness came in her honest and sincere desire, to see that others were happy about her. She had found Mildred a girl secretive to an unfathomable degree, and, to say the least, strange; but withal, a personality, and a sympathy that was so sincere, even devout, that she loved her more than her own soul. That affection seemed to grow and become more apparent when she saw, slowly but truly, nevertheless, a cloud lifting from the brow of the girl who came to her door in quest of lodging, not long since.
"Wilson," said she one day, "do you know, can you appreciate how much it means to one to please somebody; to make one feel happy, relieved, and in turn, see that person, come to know her, and see how genuinely she can, in turn, appreciate what one does?"
"You are dealing in riddles today, Constance. I don't understand; but I will guess. Is it Mil—Miss Latham?"
"Yes—MissLatham," whereupon she smiled upon him, and then looked away.
"Yes," she resumed, looking out of the window upon a small garden she was trying to further, "it is she. I think if I know her until the end of my days, there will always be something strange—something I do not—can never understand; but, in addition to showing a kind regard for the little things it pleases one's heart to do, she makes me so happy."
"She keeps me puzzled," said Wilson. "I can never make up my mind about her. She is indeed a mystery. I do not, as I can see, have any clue in guessing who she is—and what she is, nor can I even conjecture. She is a lady. But as you say, and have said before, there is something about her that one can never understand." He was thoughtful. Presently he heard his sister.
"She is an excellent saleswoman, although I do not think she was selling the book until she came here. I have not asked her. She is one of these people who, while not forbidding approach, yet her manner does not invite questioning. But she is a business woman—girl. I cannot come to see her as a girl, and yet, in the sense we know her, she is not a woman."
"I finished the book. That young man had an extraordinary experience, to say the least," said Wilson.
"Mr. Carroll has finished the copy I sold him, but his sympathies are not altogether with the pioneer; he criticises him."
"How's that? Oh, yes, I understand. I have heard the same thing from others. They see it; that the pioneer should have seen the evil and insincerity of the preacher, and should have governed his happiness accordingly. Yes," he went on, "but the pioneerdidsee that the preacher meant no good; he was aware, fully aware that he was about to become the victim of an intrigue. But regardless of this fact, it must be appreciated, that if this grave incident had not come to pass in the life of that young man, we would not now have the book. Men do not——"
"And women."
"Yes, of course," he smiled, "write that kind of book unless their lives have met with extreme reverses; something in their souls has gone amiss, and, as a last resort—I can't quite find the words to explain it; but it—what they write—is a brief of the soul; while the public is the court, and to this court, as in the common court of the land, they cry out for justice, restitution."
"Well," sighed Constance, "whoever this Lochinvar is, and regardless of his misfortunes, writing the book has made one person happy. That person is Mildred Latham. The book is her hobby. I would give something to learn why she is so wrapped up in the work; but it gives her more pleasure, I am sure, to show it to someone, and tell them the story a dozen times a day, than it does some of those levee Negroes to get drunk. And the work, she is simply lost in it. She makes the six work days of the week seem like one, with her cheerful enthusiasm. The very life in itself seems to please her. To make readers out of multitudes who've never given reading a second thought, seems to be her great ambition. She succeeds, too. And at the end of such days, more than at any other time, she is like I fancy her to be: Feminine, lovable, sympathetic—human in all its depths."
"We certainly struck it rich when she condescended to play for the choir. And she can seem to get more out of the organ than anyone has heretofore."
"She sings too. I never knew that she could sing so sweetly, until she led last Sunday, when Bernice Waverly was ill."
"She almost made me forget my text."
"She's coming now," whispered Constance, as, upon the narrow walk, a familiar footfall sounded. Presently the screen slammed lightly behind the one of their conversation.
"I've been clear to the river, walked all the way there and back. Thirty blocks in all," she cried cheerfully, surveying both, smilingly.
"And after all the walking you did today in delivering!" Constance remonstrated softly. "You mustn't overdo your good health, dear. We would both be terribly upset if you were taken down in any way. Did you know that?" The other was taken by surprise. She was plainly embarrassed for a moment, and to dismiss it she plucked childlike at her skirts. Presently she said lightly:
"Always saying something, Constance." And suddenly she flew into the caress of the other. "I haven't become used to such words, yet, and you'll have to be careful in using them. Because," and here she buried her head against the other's shoulder, "I might be likely to boo-hoo." The three laughed it away now.
"Constance tells me, Miss Latham," said Wilson, "that you are an agent, sophisticated in all the arts that result in a sale." His eyes now sought hers with unfeigned admiration.
"Constance is, too; and did she not mention herself?" She rated Constance now the least bit severely. "You never give yourself credit for anything. Why don't you?" She frowned, but it was too grateful—her appearance—to be accepted seriously.
"How many copies are both of you delivering weekly now?" he inquired.
"We delivered eighty-seven this week so far, and forty-five last week," replied Mildred, sitting very close to his sister on a small settee.
"Have you ever thought, Mildred," said Constance, "that selling a book, or anything, for that matter, is a task within itself, calling always for initiative. The average person has not the courage, at least he has not practiced it, that would make a salesman or saleswoman. All of us, with possibly a few exceptions, are chattels, human chattels. The ordinary person would stand on his head on a nail for an hour, if someone told him that was right; whereas, to take upon himself the task of leading anything, he is an utter failure."
"Constance is psychological today, don't you think?" smiled her brother; but Mildred accepted the words seriously and listened for more. Constance had a turn of logic, and was in the habit, Mildred had learned, of saying some very serious things at times; although she could not be regarded as entirely serious.
"That is why I think you are so successful, Mildred," she went on. "You seem to be possessed with initiative; it seems a part of your construction; you seem charged with it; and, in addition to this, is your kind regard and appreciation, for another's point of view."
"Oh, please don't tell me so many nice things. I can't believe it; I have never seen myself in the way you speak of, and if you persist, dear," and her smile upon Constance was the softest, "you might make me vain—and I would almost rather be anything than vain—and spoil it all. Here!" She kissed her a long lingering kiss, and then flew to her room.
"Wilson," said his sister, when they were alone again, "when I think of the young man and his experiences in the story, and his make-up and point of view, I find myself connecting Mildred. She fills my dreams in that story as the One Woman. How successful and how happy that man could have been, had he had a treasure like her, for his own."
"Well, yes, possibly. No doubt; but if, taking the story as it is, if he had her now, after what has come to pass, I judge he could appreciate her real worth to a greater degree. Don't you agree with me?"
She was thoughtful a moment before replying. "Yes, I think I do. Itwouldbe different now." She was reflective for some time before she went on again. "The other day I said to her: 'If you had been in the girl's place in the story, how would you have accepted this father?' I shall not soon forget how strange she looked. Her entire being seemed to undergo a change. From the way I recall it, her mind seemed to go back into the past, and she was so odd for a few seconds, that I was sorry I said it. Then, after a moment, during which she seemed to struggle with something, she said: 'I would not, you may be sure, have been like the girl.' That was all, and I said no more; nor do I think I will again. She acted—ah, I can't hardly frame it; but, frankly, too peculiar."
"I'm going to bed, Sis'," said her brother now. His eyes were evidence that he should go. He was awakenow for a moment. "I've been much interested in what has passed tonight, Sis'. I'll be glad to talk on the same subject again." He was silent a moment, and then, rising, he said, "Good night."
"Good night, Wilson."
Then she heard his door close, after watching him until he reached his door; after that, she fell into deep and serious thinking. It concerned him. He was all she had—this brother—and his future was in her thoughts now, a grave concern of hers. Yes, and Wilson Jacobs was now one and thirty.... He had no wife—not even did he see women in that sense. Constance didn't think of herself now—nor at any other time, apparently. And yet she was twenty-eight; but she felt, if her brother was to be a happy man, he should consider his life more seriously. He was lost in his purpose. Mildred Latham was a girl, the kind of girl she would like to see him take notice of.
And then she was jerked back into a sudden reminder.... Wilsonhadbeen acting different lately. How could she, for one moment, have forgotten it. Yes, he had been actingverydifferently.... He was all attention when Mildred was saying anything. He was careful never to disturb her. And only tonight, when they had spoken of her together, he had almost called her by her first name.
Constance Jacobs was now oblivious to what was about her. She continued to think. Mildred was kind, she was intelligent; she was—and here Constance forgot the words Mildred had said not an hour before, 'I cannot stand vanity'—beautiful.
She retired presently, but it was sometime before she went to sleep.
"It All Falls Right Back on Society"
"Two Negroes killed yesterday in the city, is the homicide record for this town, which makes thirteen killed in the last week," said Wilson Jacobs the following morning, as he laid the paper down to take up his knife at breakfast. "Every day, at least, it is almost every day, there is a murder of each other by our people in this town. Saturday night or Sunday usually sees four or five such crimes."
"Isn't it deplorable?" breathed Mildred, seating herself at the other side. "What accounts, Mr. Reverend"—she somehow found it awkward to call him Reverend—"Jacobs, for such acts, that is, such is to be expected; but why does there happen to be so much of it here?"
"Ignorance—lack of intelligence in our people. This city has a preponderance of ignorant, polluted people among the Negroes. They flock into this town from all around, and represent the low, polluted, and depraved element of our race. They settle about the levee district, spend their earnings for the worst whiskey, give the remainder of their time to gambling and all forms of vice, and murder is the natural consequence."
"Is there no way, there are so many churches, it would seem that so many places of worship would have a good effect upon these people?" said the other anxiously.
"More than a hundred Negro churches in this town; but they are, for the most part, churches only. Seventy of these are Baptist, and they are building more right along."
"I meet it every day in my work," she said. "Always so many apparently good women, mothers and daughters, sisters, who say: 'I sho would lak t' have that book, but y' see, it's lak this. We's building a new chu'ch;or, a rally is on next Sunday, 'n' all the women is axed t' give five dollars 'n' the men ten,' etc. and etc. But that is not the most I hear; it is: 'Lawd, Lawd, honey, yu' sweet li'l chile. I sho is sorry to disappint you. I sho is. You walkin' way up heh 'n' bringin' tha' book; but don' you know, honey, that low down nigga man a mine went off Sat'dy night un got drunk, got t' fightin' and was 'rested. I did'n' pay no 'tention when 'e did'n' show up a-Sat'dy night; nor was I wo'ied Sunday; but when Monday mawnin' come 'n' no nigga, den I knowed de p'lice done got dat nigga. And dey had, Sat'dy night fo' fightin' 'n' 'sturbin de peace. So I done took yo' money, honey, 'n' got dat nigga out. 'n' now, honey, I jes' cain' say when I'll be ready, 'cause 'e done lost his job, too, so that means I gotta take ceh' a both uv us.'"
"If we allow our minds to dwell too long on it, frankly, Miss Latham," said he, "we will become discouraged. Where ignorance is bliss, it may be folly to be wise; but it is unprofitable, from a moral point of view. So, as long as we have a preponderance of ignorance, just so long are we going to have a dreadful homicide record in this, and other towns."
"I read an editorial in the paper recently, with regard to murder and the record per city," said Miss Latham. "I see that the south leads. And this town and Effingham seem to struggle for the lead of them all. It was not decided as to which had the most, but it stated that more people were murdered in either one of them than in any other city in the world, regardless of population."
"And that is not all. In both of these cities, no data is kept of the number the police kill. I know policemen personally, and see them on duty, who have killed as many as half a dozen Negroes."
"Oh, be merciful!" she cried. "Can this really be so?"
"Itisso," he maintained. "Why last week I stopped a few days in Effingham on the way from Attalia, and read on the front page of one of the leading papers, and which was accompanied by a cut, that an old policeman, who had seen twenty-five years on the force, and whohad recently been made a captain, had never killed a man. It was this fact, obviously, that was the most extraordinary."
"Cannot the city government do more toward the suppression of so much crime?" she asked, forgetting to eat her breakfast.
"They cannot to any great extent, because it is the task of society. The very foundation upon which this crime rests, is due to ignorance on the part of the masses. You cannot reason with a mind that has no training. Have you ever seen it that way?" he asked, more serious now than she had ever seen him before, notwithstanding he was a serious person.
She nodded.
"No one can, the law of the land cannot. It all falls right back on society." He was too serious now for a time to say anything, and he ate his meal with his face contracted in serious thought. Presently he said: "I am a minister of the gospel, and have the highest regard for the Presbyterian faith; but, honestly, when I see the Baptists with their loose system, keeping the black population that make up their body, and with little, almost no effort whatever toward the education of the children, and when I see still further, the Methodists with their better system, in that they are not held back so much by 'splitters,' I sometimes regret that the world took Martin Luther seriously. For, say what they will, the conduct of the Catholics in regard to the children, marriage and divorce, has an encouraging result in our civic life."
"I believe that if there were a Christian movement here as there is in the northern cities, Y.M.C.A. and libraries, and if those who are leaders of the race would encourage the patronage of these places, eventually, it would result to the public's good," she said, after some thought.
"Only one place in the south, as yet, seems to be making any effort along such Christian lines. And you would not believe it, but the greatest barrier to this has been the preachers. In their church effort, they havethe people fairly well under control, but to their own end. In Attalia, they have almost come to appreciate the fact, that a more intelligent and cleaner populace reacts to the welfare of the church. Everything seems favorable toward getting one."
"I am sure that would make a great difference in time," said she, heartily. "In Cincinnati, they expect to begin one soon. They have almost all the subscriptions in now." She was silent for a time, and then pursued: "Do you not think such a movement could be stimulated here?"
"Not at the present, I think, regardless of the great need of one, and of the great good it could do. It will be some time before the preachers would come to lend their support—in fact, I do not think it could be expected until they have been shown, in a majority, that such would react for the good of all."
"Oh, my!" cried Constance, entering at this moment, "you two appear to have worked yourself into a frenzy of excitement." She surveyed both, questioningly.
"We have," her brother replied.