And Then She Began to Grow Otherwise
The week following Miss Palmer's and Sidney's outing, was a week of conflictions for her. She was torn by them considerably. She hardly knew how to feel; whether to be happy or angry with herself for having acted as she did. He was kind to her, he was considerate; but that was all. She had exercised all her wits to make him see her seriously, but beyond that incident, he had given her no encouragement whatever. She felt guilty at her conduct. She accused herself of having acted unbecoming in her attitude toward him. Although he would not admit having written the book, which had aroused her curiosity, she, of course, knew that he had. She had finished it now, and knew all he had suffered. And, as she thought it over, time and again, she almost concluded that his life, as he had suffered, made him hard and unsympathetic. And almost in the same thought, she rebuked herself for feeling that way; because, above all else, he was certainly not selfish.
He called almost every evening when he had finished his work, and they sat on the porch in the swing if there was no one, and when there happened to be, they sat in the parlor on the davenport. And when they did so, it so happened they began to flirt. And this continued to develop until it reached a point she declared to be outrageous. And yet it persisted. At such times, moreover, she became bold. There came a time when she was almost disgusted with herself for being so weak.
After a few weeks had passed, she came to realize that her quest was in vain. Sidney Wyeth had no affection, beyond flirting, with her. And then she began to grow otherwise. He observed the change, and was sorry, perhaps. Still, Miss Palmer did not give up entirely. Shewas not that kind of person. After all, to kiss him and to be kissed in return, was some pastime. It was better than not being kissed or loved at all. So she flirted.
After this became the usual thing in their acquaintance, she began to assert other dispositions that had not before been evident. She inquired boldly where he went when he didn't call in the evening, as usual. She dictated where he should go as well. In desperation she continued her tactics—even to a point where our pen is constrained to relate.
"Do you know," said she one evening, when they had flirted shamefully. "I'm beginning to care for you." She said this from his knee.
"I did not," he sighed. He was not the least excited by her acknowledgement.
"I am," she affirmed. "More and more as the days go by." She smiled into his face, while he looked tired. "Have you anyone back where you came from, who loves you and calls you her all?" she asked now, as though she could think of nothing else to say.
"No, no, no!" He looked distressed. "I wish I had," he added.
"I know you tell what is not true—feel you do," she corrected. After a pause she said: "Do you happen to have just a little, only a little regard for me?" He made light of it by blowing her a kiss, and tried to change the conversation, but she had more to say.
"Of course you wouldn't love an old grass-widow like me anyhow," she pouted. He was at a loss what to say, so said nothing.
"Why don't you say something?" she said, put out.
"You should not make such remarks," he said, with a frown.
"But it's true, it's true, and you can't deny it." She seemed angry now, and didn't appear to care what she said. She left his knee with a last retort. "And you men are the cause of it all."
He leaned his head against the back of the davenport and closed his eyes, which angered her, and she cried:
"Go to sleep, go to sleep. You are the worst person I ever knew," and forthwith she left the room.
Enter—Mr. Tom Toddy!
When Legs had pawned and lost about all he possessed, he happened upon a job at one of the hotels, and went to work. To do so, however, he had to secure a white jacket, and a pair of black trousers. This was somewhat difficult on account of his long legs, but he managed to secure an old pair, and, too glad of the chance to work where he could fill his stomach regularly, he gave good service, and was soon on the good side of the head waiter.
"Say, Books," he cried one day, soon after he had commenced work. "You should have seen me eat today. Nice hot bisquits with butter, and dripping out around the edges, um-um. Man, the way I did eat! I got all them nigga's t' laffin' over somethin' funny I said, and then I'd slip back into the kitchen, open the oven and get me a half dozen hot rolls and butter'm good, and eat, and eat, and eat!
"There is but one thing I can't seem to get over, and that is that dollar this nigga Moore got me out of bed to lose. Say, that hurt me worse than anything in this world. I've drawn the line on him now though. He ain't nothing but an old always broke coon, a-moochin' around for somebody to stake him in a game. I could have made it all right when I came over here, if it hadn't been for him. And he never won anything, and kept me broke as long as I would speak to him."
In a very short time Legs was "on his feet," as the saying goes. He was making some money and spending it all. His good resolution with regard to gambling had been laid on the shelf until further declarations, and he shot craps whenever off duty, and when he could find a game. Moore he ignored; but that worthy was as fondof the game as a pig was of corn, so they occasionally ran into each other, nevertheless. In fact, as Sidney observed them, almost every Negro shot craps, with few exceptions. Whiskey and craps were so much in evidence everywhere he looked, that he drew this conclusion soon.
Now a man lived overhead, and rented from the landlady, whose name was Murphy. Wyeth called him "Smoked Irish." He was a creature with a dark record, so Wyeth was told, and he hailed from a little town in the state adjoining. Some years before, he had been a man of considerable importance, but with women and other pastimes, he had fallen into bad ways, was sent to the penitentiary for fraud, and had sought other parts after the expiration of his term.
As Wyeth knew him, he was a "bahba," and shaved chins and sheared wool in one of Effingham's fancy Negro shops.
Murphy had seen almost fifty summers, was about five feet eleven, and a mulatto with coarse, stiff, black hair, tinged with gray. His features were set, like a man with experience, and he could tell some wonderful stories. The Mis' called them lies. They might have been, but it is to Murphy's credit that they were good ones, and interesting to listen to.
On Sunday, and week days also, when he was home from the shop, and in his loft, Murphy sold whiskey on the side—or as a side line, and operated a crap game in addition. The law, of course, did not permit of this, as we shall see presently; but—well, it didn't matter—as long as the law didn't know it. And Murphy made money, Wyeth was told. It was up there Legs invested most of his earnings, winning once in a while, but losing more frequently. The fact that Murphy was so convenient with his diversion, was, in a sense, helpful to Legs, because he didn't have to journey far to his bed. And always as soon as he was "cleaned," he would retire and sleep as peacefully as a babe, until his work called him the following morning.
John Moore was a frequent visitor also. Legs put Wyeth wise, when he inquired why Moore was up thereso often, since he appeared to have no money. "He's a piker, a cheap piker that touts for Murphy, for the privilege of gambling and gettin' a drink a liquah, that he loves so well."
Much to the surprise of them all, one Saturday night about this time, Moore did make a winning. Legs informed Wyeth to this effect, when he retired from the battle "clean."
"Seven dollars and a half, the dirty devil. And he'll be as scarce as hen's teeth as long as he has a dime of it too." He was mistaken. That was on Saturday night. Sunday morning after he had risen and had some good whiskey, Moore dressed himself like a gentleman, and made some of the losers envy him for a few hours. Then he went back upstairs to Murphy's. When Wyeth saw him again, he was sitting under a shade tree, reading the Bible. This was a self-evident fact that he had made an investment. As further evidence of the fact, that night at supper he offered a beautiful prayer. He had failed to do so that morning, which was further proof of Legs' contention.
Legs came up while Moore was reposing sanctimoniously, and said: "M-m! Cleaned, eh! Glad of it, the cheap sucker. He's dead broke, too. Because if he had even a nickel, he'd be upstairs. You can bet a nickel up there. The only thing against it is Murphy's cut. He cuts a nickel a pass. And sometimes he cuts both ways, going and coming. So, with men betting a nickel against a nickel, Murphy is liable to take it all."
Moore retired early that evening, and slept peacefully. He had worked hard the night before, and that morning.
The following Saturday night, Legs came to the room, caught Wyeth half asleep, and borrowed a dollar. With this, he went for a joy ride, and got drunk into the bargain. Wyeth didn't realize that he had loaned him a dollar, until the other was whizzing down the street in the car. And then he was angry with himself. This disturbed him until sleep was impossible, so, rising, he betook himself to the porch. As he thought it over, he became more angry with himself than ever, because heknew Legs had borrowed it for the sole purpose of getting drunk and joy riding. While he was getting over it in the soft night air, the Mis' told him Legs had got paid that day, and, with the exception of what he paid her, he had lost the remainder of his two weeks' wage in a game. That made him more angry, and, in seeking a diversion, he rose, and out of curiosity, he decided to pay Murphy's den a visit.
Murphy had a good crowd that night—he usually did on Saturday. In a room that was near the middle of the apartment, surrounded by a crowd of Negroes, stood a table over which was spread a green cloth. At one side of the table sat Moore, and he called the points and fished the cuts; while in another room to the rear of this, with doors open, stood a large refrigerator. This, Wyeth surmised, was where the liquor was kept. It was, for, as he was looking, Murphy approached it, opened it, took therefrom several bottles of beer, and served it to the many gamesters who were working hard, and perspiring freely.
The green cloth, which at one time had decorated a pool table, was, as he now observed, employed to deaden the sound of the rolling dice, that slid over it from some perspiring palm. Not any large amount was upon the table; but many one dollar bills could be seen in the palms of the gamesters. Another roomer downstairs, and who read a great deal, was on hand and shot craps too. This was something of a surprise, since he was apparently very intelligent; but, as Wyeth learned later, literary training did not make them ignore the game by any means. As he stood watching, the dice passed to Glenview, the intelligent roomer. He made a point, and then threw seven before he came back to it. The winners picked up the money. Wyeth was relieved to see the dice pass to another Negro, who had been fidgeting about impatiently. He caught them up, and blew his breath on them, as they were held in his palm, before throwing them before him across the table. Wyeth advanced closer as the game became more excited. Glenview had thrown the dice, much as Wyeth had observed the whitepeople did back in theRosebud Country—for they shot craps there as well. But now, with a "clea' dy way, I'm a comin'," he let them roll.
"Throwed eight!" cried Moore.
"Eight I throwed! Now dice, do it again!"
"T' click-i-lick-lick-lick, 'ah eight!"
"Throw-e-d ten!"
"Haf 'e cain' hit!"
"Ah got yu!"
"Qua'ta' mo' I'n make it!" exclaimed the shooter, hesitating with upraised hand, but shaking the dice in them the while, and throwing a quarter across the table.
"Ah'll take yu'!" cried a burley on the other side.
"Shoot the dice, nigga, shoot the dice," commanded Moore.
"T-click-i-lick-i-lick 'ah-ha-eight!"
"Throwed five!"
"Ain' no eight on 'nem dice!"
"T-click-i-click-i-click 'ah, eaighter from Decatur!'"
"Throwed seben!"
"Ke-hu!"
"Tole yu he coul'n't make it!" cried a big dinge. "Now gimme dem dice!"
"Bet a quata!"
"Make it a haf!"
"Ah take yu!"
"Shoot the dice, nigga, shoot the dice!"
"Yeh. Cut out d' awgument 'n' let'm roll, let'm roll!"
"Gimme room heah 'cause ah kicks!" He did too. Raising his left foot he stamped the floor with it, kicking backward viciously at the same time with the other. He caught a Negro on the shins, which made that worthy angry with pain, whereupon he turned, and let the other have a good one in the usual place. For a time the game was threatened with a fight; but Murphy, who appeared to understand them quite well, interfered with success.
"T-click-i-lick-i-lick, 'ah, seben ah 'leben!'"
"Throwed craps!"
"Ya-ha! Makin' all da fuss 'n' lose d' fus' shot!"
"Dem dice 's crooket," he muttered.
"Yuz a liah," cried one of the winners, as if afraid they were, and he would not get his bet.
"Yuse a cheap nigga," said Moore. "Stand aside."
Next came a little Negro, with a nose that began at the ears, and peepy eyes which observed the dice suspiciously. He was displeased with the looks of them, evidently. They were a large white pair, and which, so 'tis said, can be loaded. He threw them across the table without making his bet, saying: "Ah gotta paih mah own," and produced from his pocket, a pair of huge celluloid ones, that were beautiful in the electric light.
"Haf t' use the house's dice, cain't substitute," advised Moore, judiciously.
"Why caint ah, I'd lak t' know. Why caint ah!" he exclaimed, beginning to perspire.
Moore started to say more, but Murphy came forward now, with "Let me see them." He took them carefully in his hand, held them between his eyes and the light, tossed them about, and then threw them on the table. "They're all right," and walked away. The little dinge grabbed them eagerly, rubbed them together fondly, blew his breath on them, and then, raising his hand above his head, he made a peculiar rattle and threw them bouncing and jumping across the table. The Negroes about had been observing him with ill omen, and now, as the dice jumped before them like little red devils, they sparkled in the light, and made their eyes blink.
"Throwed seven!" cried Moore.
"Dogone nigga's 's lucky 's 'e 's ugly," grumbled a loser.
"Shoot it all!" he cried, hesitating with the dice in his hand.
"Ah'll take it!"
"Haf 'e cain' hit!"
"Ah fate yu!"
"Let'm roll, let'm roll!"
"T-click-i-lick-i-lick, ah baby dolls!"
"Throwed five!"
"Raise ut t' a dollah!"
"Make ut sebenty-five!"
"Let'm roll!"
"T-click-i-lick-i-lick, ah, phoebe!"
"Throwed five!"
"Um-m-m-m-m!"
"T-click-i-lick-lick! a-ha dice!"
"Throwed seben!"
"Jes' look ut dat fool nigga, good Gawd!"
"Sech luck, sech luck, sech luck!"
"Shoot it all!"
"Fate dis nickel," begged a loser, with a whimper.
"Trow it out d' windu' shine!"
"Now watch dis 'leben!" cried the guy with the luck.
"Aw, Lawdy, Lawdy, Lawdy, jes' look ut dat nigga agin!"
"Nigga, dem dice yu' shootin' uz sho God crooket!"
"Shoot it all!" Five dollars was the size of the pot now. It was like five hundred to the eyes that now saw it.
"Whu, whu, whu!" He blew on them; while with murder in their eyes, the losers watched.
"I'll take it," said Glenview calmly. He placed a five dollar bill over the amount that lay upon the table. Several had now gone broke, while others declared silently, that he was a hoo-doo, and feared to risk him. Several little bets were made on the side, but no one was willing to risk much against such luck as he had displayed.
"Now, Anne Jane, bring home du' bacin!" he cried, as he let them bounce on the table. It seemed an age to the lookers before they stopped somewhat to the far side. A six and a five. Eleven. He had won again. There was no comment now. Every one was silent, and surveyed him, as if he were the clouds.
"Shoot it all," he cried again. A bit of muttering went the rounds before any one ventured to cover it.
"'E cain' keep ut up, 'e cain' keep ut up," declared one who held only three dollars out of a ten dollar bill a few minutes before. He threw a dollar viciously toward him. After much parley, others joined; John Moore saw Murphy'sback, eased a dollar from the cuts, and added it to the pool. Twenty dollars was now the stake, and it was like a million to those that saw it.
The winner now uncoated himself. He had on nothing beneath the coat but an undershirt. He flung his hat in the corner, revealing a little sharp head, shaven clean and upon which the light dazzled like a smoked opal. As Wyeth observed him, he was reminded of an ape, if he had ever seen one. He took plenty of time, as though anticipating something. Rolling up his sleeve, he exposed a pair of sinewy arms that made the crowd exchange glances. Sidney was standing near the window. At this moment he happened to look out. From up the street came a sound of merry rollicking. No other appeared to hear.
The dice were now tumbling over the table in their fateful quest. More than a dozen pairs of brown eyes blinked dryly at them, as the red material flickered beautifully. Wyeth now looked carefully in the direction of the sound, and finally caught the outline of Legs. From the distance, he saw that he was loaded. He was covering considerable space—so much so that it would have been extremely difficult to have passed him on the walk, which was narrow. And behind him came another. He was about half the height of Legs, as they now appeared. Wyeth recognized him as the runt, and his name was Tom Toddy, at least, that is what they called him about a hotel that was patronized by Negroes, and where he acted as a sort of goat and flunky. Wyeth had had his life threatened on one occasion by him. It was because he had called him "Graveyard." He was old, bald-headed and measly. So this epithet seemed quite appropriate. And, thereupon, Toddy had threatened to send him into eternity, if he addressed him again in such terms. He had a load also.
On they came, and for the time Wyeth forgot the game. Toddy was now beside Legs, and they embraced like man and wife. As Wyeth smiled at the spectacle, they began to sing.
"It's a long, long way to Temporary,"
and as they came on, they changed it to:
"We're a long, long way from home."
Wyeth laughed now almost outright; but those behind him never heard. They heard only, and saw with all eyes, that the apish creature had won again, and had strapped the crowd to cover the next bet he was now shooting for.
Legs and Toddy had reached the curbing, and, not seeing it, they tumbled over into the sand-covered street. As they picked themselves up, they sang lowly:
"You made me what I am today,So I guess you're satisfied."
On toward the house they now came, singing at intervals. Presently they stepped upon the porch, and rattled the knob. The door was always kept locked during such proceedings. From the lower end of town, a rooster crowed long and loud; while, at the same moment, a clock from some remote tower struck two. The dice tumbled onward to their fatal end, and Legs kicked the door a bang.
In the still night, it sounded like the discharge of a cannon.
Then here came a lull. All became so quiet that the ticking of a clock upon the mantel sounded like the pounding of a hammer. Faces turned about and eyes looked into each other. They were all colors and a sight to see. The little Negro, coolest all the while, eased the money into his jeans, as the others cried all at once:
"The bulls!"
And now began the scramble, and it was a mighty one.
Under the table went many, whereupon it turned over, and revealed them all wiggling like so many eels. To the room containing the refrigerator, went a half dozen others and closed the door. John Moore stood in the center of the room where he had been deserted by the others, his knees hitting together with a sound like rocks. Cold fear, for he was an awful coward, held him like a vise. Into the closets; into Murphy's bedroom went some more, and piled in a hurry into the bed, whereupon it gave way with a loud crash, mixing manyin a nasty, smothered mass, where they tried to extricate themselves with much difficulty.
And, in the meantime, the kicking continued. "Let me in! Let me in! What in Hell!" cried Legs, and it was punctuated with a piping from Tom Toddy.
"Yes,"—he was very proper—"open up! Open up! This is a He-ll uv a way to treat two gentlemen!"
John Moore was still doing the dazzle; but, now upon hearing the voices, he gathered enough courage to stand erect, and then he turned hurriedly and running to a rear window, put his feet out, jumped out full upon the soft dirt below, and landed without injury, apparently, for, a moment later, Wyeth heard him running around the house in the direction of the kicking. He didn't permit the miscreants to see him, until he had made out fully that they were not officers. When he had made sure they were not blue-coats, he advanced on them from the rear, and took them by surprise. He appeared unable to frame words of denunciation strong enough, but at last he made it. His voice was subdued when he did speak, he was so angry.
"Yeu! Yeu! Y-e-u long-legged nigga! Yeu liver eatin' bunch a-meat! And you! You little dried shrimp! Git ready t' die, 'cause 's sho 's I'm a nigga, I'm going t' part you from this earth t'night!"
They turned now, for a moment sober, and looked at him. He went on with his tirade.
"Makin' all this noise down heh, 'n' scarrin' everybody t' death, 'n' a-breakin' up the game! This is wha' you all 'n' me meets our Jehovah!"
Legs was now too near the edge, and, suddenly with a catching to save himself, which Moore construed as an advance upon him, he went overboard with a mighty tumble.
To this day, however, John Moore didn't know it was an accident. He didn't wait to investigate. A long pair of legs, with a long body on top of them was all he cared to see, and when they landed, he was going around the corner of the house and into the kitchen.
His hurry up ingress awakened the Mis', who bolted out of bed, and demanded to know what was up.
"The devil's up—on the front porch, a-raisin' cain."
"What are you talkin' 'bout!"
"That long-legged nigga from Attalia a-comin in heh a-kickin' on the door, and a-scarrin everybody outta the' senses!" he told her, much excited, and with his back against the door, not failing to listen in the meantime.
Wyeth descended the stair now, opened the street door, admitting Legs and Toddy. Legs entered first, while Toddy, blinking blindly, followed suit with a grip on his coat tail.
"Where is he," cried Legs. "I mean John Moore! I want to kill him! Death for him is the campaign for tonight! From this earth he's got to part! Where is he! Show him to me now, and in a minute I'll show you his heart, the skunk."
In some way, Moore did not hear this; but stood at the rear looking for Legs from that direction; and, in the meantime, declaring to the Mis' what he was going to do.
"I'm go'n throw that nigga out tonight! To-night, or I'll die tomorra, so help me Jaysus!"
Legs, who had entered his bedroom which opened into the kitchen, overheard this last. He now tore off his coat and hat, which Tom Toddy held, and forthwith sought Moore with a mighty oath. Glenview put in his appearance now from the rear, and kept Legs out of the kitchen, which fact sufficed for John Moore to make words. Our pen fails to describe this in detail.
"Git yo things 'n' go!" cried Moore near the door, and positive that Glenview was between them. "Leave mah house at once!"
"Oh, hush! Hush! Hush!" interposed the Mis'.
"Leave, leave, to-night!"
"Just let me get to him, just let me get to him! I want to eat'm," begged Legs.
"Yeh; let us have him. We're going t' skin him," squeaked Tom Toddy.
"This is terrible," cried the Mis'.
"Just let me get my fingers on the tramp, and it'll be all over in a minute," Legs begged.
"All but the funeral," assisted Toddy.
"Orderin' somebody out ofhishouse. You ain' nothin' but the flunky anywhere. If I was in charge here, I'd make you sleep under the bed!"
"I'd make him sleep under the house, the lousy rat," cried Toddy.
"Ah said you leave this house now," cried Moore. "These ah the orders from me. From me-e!"
"The Mis' ain' said nothin'," Legs cried again.
"Leave, leave, before I tear yu' t' pieces," Moore raved, stamping his foot.
At that moment, Legs gave Glenview a push that sent him reeling, and with a lunge, he cornered Moore. That worthy was frightened into Hades. He was speechless. Legs smiled on him as he reached out and got him by the ears. Grasping them tight, he essayed a bumping process against the wall with his head.
"Have you got him, boy?" inquired Toddy, making sure before he ventured forth with a small knife. "What shall I do to the sucker now? Just tell me, and I'll proceed to take off his nose or his lips; either one of them will make good dog meat."
"You shouldn't have come home disturbing everybody like this," said the Mis', and seemed hurt. This had effect on Legs, who was always considerate of the ladies.
"I'm sorry for you, Mis'; but I've had it in for this hunk a meat, ever since he got me out of bed to lose my last dollar." He emphasized the remark by another bumping.
"I'm a poor widow woman without protection, and you are ruining the only way I have of making a living." That was enough. He forgot John Moore for a second, and the next moment that worthy was locked in an adjoining room. Here he went into a tirade. Legs forgot the Mis' now and sought him, but the door was locked and bolted.
"Git yo things 'n' go nigga!" he cried boldly now, from his safe retreat.
"If you had called, or knocked, I would have comeand opened the door, as I always do. There was no call for all this!" remonstrated the Mis'.
"Don't lock me out, don't lock me out!" Legs raged.
"Git yo things and go, dy'e hear," from the retreat. Legs now became angry with the Mis'.
"Gimme a dollar Mis' and I'll go. If that thing in the other woom there is running this place, I don't want to stay."
"Git yo things 'n' go!"
"Gimme a dollar!"
"You ought to have known better than to create such a disturbance," the Mis' said.
"Gimme a dollar!" from Legs again.
"Let's get another drink!" from Toddy.
"I've always treated you like a gentleman."
"Gimme a dollar!" "Gimme a dollar 'n' a haf!"
"What we go'n give you a dollar 'n' a haf fo'?"
"I paid room rent in advance last Wednesday."
"Now! Here!" cried the Mis', "all of you go to bed and forget this noise."
"Ah'm go'n git 'n' officer, and have that long-legged nigga 'rested!" from within.
"Go to bed!" from the Mis'.
"Go'n have who arrested?" exclaimed Legs, mad all over again.
"'F you do'n git out at once, I'm go'n throw you out!"
"If I ever get my hands on you again, you old cheap nigga; you old broken nigga; you moochin' piker; you pot a-neck-bone stew!"
"Say," cried one of the roomers, just then, "a pair of bulls are coming down the street!"
That was the end of it.
The Disappearing Chin
Some years before, back in the west, and at the drug store in a little town near which Wyeth owned land, and where, during the cold wint'ry days, the more intelligent and pretentious, as well as argumentative were wont to collect and discuss science, politics and economics, a subject came up one day, that thereafter, became the topic on more than one afternoon's discussion.
It concerned chins, and grew out of the presence of an insurance writer, who was booziogically inclined. And, being so, and a man of no great means, if any, it was a puzzle to many how he could get the means to fill up on liquor daily, and pay for it.
The occurrence had remained in Wyeth's memory, and, afterwards, he had a new viewpoint in observing people.
Fitzpatrick was his name, and he was, of course, Irish. His ability to get the wherewith to get drunk daily, and have money for other purposes as well, came up one day for discussion. The more logical and nature study debaters, laid it to the fact that he was possessed of an indefatigable will, and that, in addition, was conspicuously evident in his chin. Fitzpatrick had a wonderful chin; one was inclined to take notice of it the first time he met the man. It extended some distance beyond his teeth, and was square and firm. A chin that was set in such a fashion and did not recede, was, they argued, an evidence of will. So be it.
Chins were carefully observed at once, and lo, the druggist was the only one with a chin that was inclined to disappear. It was plain at first glance, that not one of more than a dozen, possessed a chin the equal of Fitzpatrick.
It was then that Sidney began to see everybody's chin, apart from every other, the moment he met a person. When he had come back again among his own, after eleven years, his observation began to reveal chins, which according to the argument related, were, to say the least, discouraging. Almost two-thirds of his people possessed the disappearing chin. A bad sign, he was positive, but they had it, and he now studied this race to which he belonged, very carefully, and from an every day and practical point of view. He did not attempt a scientific study, for, in the first place, he knew little of science, and in the second place, to understand life from a practical point of view, and to apply one's thoughts and efforts to that end, seemed to him a more profitable occupation. In this research, he met many of his people who had gone through college, knew everything from the dark ages to Caesar, but many of them couldn't have bounded the state which they called home, for they paid little attention to their surroundings. As he became better acquainted with them, he was disappointed upon finding them ignorant. At the same time, they had little appreciation for another's viewpoint, unless he hadbeen to school and graduated from college.
Having digressed, we will attempt to return to the story.
The druggist was not an assuming person, and admitted, very gracefully, to the fact that he possessed neither will nor determination; but, as Sidney Wyeth knew his people, he did not expect many to be so frank.
So, it came about that when he met Miss Palmer, almost the first thing he took notice of when she came out of the darkness to the porch, was that she possessed a chin, the point of which was far beyond the lips. It was that fact more than any other, that caused him to try in every way possible, to secure her services. As we have stated, he had little confidence in chinless persons, a fact, which was so much in evidence among his people.
So, when he had known Miss Palmer a few weeks, and had been convinced, from a practical point of view, that she did possess will in keeping with the set of her chin,he confided the fact to her. She smiled very modestly, and, of course, deplored it; but, nevertheless, he caught her studying the reflection of it more than once, when a mirror was convenient.
That Miss Palmer was determined, vigorous, possessed courage and had strength of her convictions, was a positive fact. When she made up her mind to do a thing, if she failed, it was because it was beyond the range of reasonable effort to accomplish it. And it was shortly after this, that Wyeth discovered that such a fortune could be superabundant. That is, a person could be endowed with so many of these helpful qualities that it passed beyond the range of judgment to assert them. This happened to be what he discovered in Miss Palmer. He regretted it too, because he had begun to admire her.
The presence of these aggressive facts, began later to result in a change in their regard for each other. They disagreed in their point of view, and, still later, they came to a crash, literally.
For Miss Palmer was, in addition to the agreeable and admirable things he had discovered, pretentious to an alarming degree. And it was this, which caused the trouble.
Our pen has not before had occasion to relate that the change in the life of Sidney Wyeth, from the prairies to the present, was due, in a great measure, to the evil genius of an overly busy person. And yet, such was the fact. Therefore, being an observing character, and realizing these qualities, but not appreciating them in the creature whom he would always despise, he did, above all else, wish to avoid a person thus richly endowed. He had declared many a time, that he trusted the diamond back rattlers that infested the prairies, more than he did an unduly pretentious, ostentatious person.
Therefore, when he came to notice these qualities in Miss Palmer, it led to frequent disagreements. And yet, withal, no one could altogether dislike Miss Palmer. There came a time when he felt, that if she did not try to argue on everything that came up, without firstattempting to equip herself with a few facts bearing onthe subject, and which would serve to substantiate her argument, he could have overlooked much of her pretense. But, as he came to know her better, she argued on everything, and sought to force her conclusions upon the other, when her knowledge was quite foreign to the question on hand. She literally murdered facts. And, as time went on, he saw that her aim was, very often, merely to dominate, with no apparent regard for what might be learned by careful listening.
In Effingham, as in every other town, Wyeth had discovered, among his people, a set who claimed to be the more elite; they were the more intelligent, and called themselves society. On his pilgrimage, he had never sought to become a part of this society.
In Effingham, Sidney came to see this phase a little clearer than before, due to his acquaintance with Miss Palmer—that is, that side of it, the woman's side. As for the men, he met that at the drug store, where he had relieved the druggist of two dollars, and where the more elite gathered and indulged. Arguments were usually in process there, he soon saw; and when not so engaged, they gambled and drank to an alarming degree, in the back room, and secluded, where he was not invited. Cards were the custom; but soon craps, he heard, became more conspicuous. The druggist was "a" shooter, and won quite frequently, so 'twas said.
Miss Palmer took pride—as well she might—in informing Wyeth of the fact that she was a member of the colored society of Effingham, and proved it by entertaining until she was ever bankrupt; she was always up against it for money; and this fact, no doubt, brought her to selling books, as a means to make ends meet during vacation. But Miss Palmer did not, could not, of course, be expected to admit such a thing. She could have said nothing about it, which would have been as dignified; but she made it a point to appraise Wyeth of the fact, that she only did it to help him, at which times she would smile, and show her little teeth. "I like you so much," and she would smile again, "that it is my great and ardent desire to help you."
Sidney had never appreciated it in this way.
At Miss Palmer's could often be found a gathering of teachers, of which Effingham, with its sixty thousand black people, had many. And these, to whom the masses looked to for tutor, he studied very carefully. He had, as before stated, never shown them the book; but the surprise of it was, that Miss Palmer had not done so either.
In one of the little suburbs, where they had canvassed, he recalled a row of very attractive homes occupied by the more respectable colored people. Miss Palmer had canvassed there very carefully, and had sold the book to nearly every one, but she had as carefully avoided showing it to a professor, who occupied the most imposing of the row. He had not said anything, but, of course, he could scarcely help noticing this careful avoidance of all houses where teachers lived. In some manner, the matter came up one day, and Miss Palmer merely remarked that the teachers were all broke, would be so, until school opened again.
Sidney had surpressed his criticism. But one day he called on Miss Palmer. He was just in time to meet a white woman coming out. The latter turned and thanked Miss Palmer for her kindness in giving her the list of thirty teachers, with the suggestion that they would be interested in the set of books for which she was agent. The lady had sold to twenty-five of that number, not counting Miss Palmer, who had cheerfully started the list. And the books were in twenty volumes, at one dollar each.
Of course, Miss Palmer showed them to her friend with much ado, stating that the same would be so helpful to her in her school work. He said it was very nice; but he wondered just what particular help the books could be to these teachers, for the set were a collected list of fiction, with no care as to whether it was a work of specific interest. The set included many volumes, by authors who issued a book every sixty days, all of which were on sale at any bookseller, or by mail at that time, and for some time past, at fifty cents a volume, ortwenty copies from the publishers at forty-five cents each.
Of course, Miss Palmer did not know this, or any of the other twenty-five teachers out of the thirty who had purchased—and lest we forget, it was this lack of knowledge that had cost the druggist two dollars, because he had been shown a work by one of his race, with a suggestion to buy. The fact uppermost in the mind of Sidney was, that the teachers with few exceptions, scarcely needed any such work to teach black children. Many of them would be unlikely to read as many as half a dozen of the books in their lifetime. And yet, by borrowing the book, they were readingThe Tempest. Some were even contemptible in their criticism; but all of them borrowed it and read it, including Miss Palmer; and she admitted it was the only book she had read that season, other than what she was compelled to read by the board of education.
But all of these people felt they were sacrificing everything for their race, and would deplore it, were they told that such was not true.
But the teachers were nice; much more interesting to talk to than the common herd. They could, almost all, smile beautifully; and they could pronounce their English more correctly, employing their "r's," and interspersing their discourse with a clever toss of the head or twinkle of the eye; and when one of the race, who had been successful, married, he invariably picked a teacher. They were sensible enough to realize that a husband who could keep the wolf from the door, was a treasure to be appreciated. It was thus Sidney Wyeth found teachers. But he could not understand why they seldom appreciated Negro literature to the point of purchasing, since they were engaged in the teaching.
Miss Palmer was buying a small home in one of the suburbs, and which was all she could boast of owning. As we know her, she secured her living by teaching nine months in the year, at forty dollars a month. And as we now know, she must perforce earn something during vacation, which was the real reason for selling Wyeth's book. So,from what we know of her, there is no reason why she should not have been conspicuous in colored society, since the masses, unfortunately, are all poor. Hence, wealth cannot be the dividing line, else there would be no society whatever.
Miss Palmer showed more ostentation as their acquaintance lengthened. Sidney was now thirty; and since nineteen, he had lived on the western ranges. And, as is usually the case, western people are great readers. But here, his people did not read. Not that they could not do so, but because it was apparently not a preference; considering the fact that few seemed to care for much reading beyond a newspaper sensation. And, as he met the more elite, he was surprised that they paid so little attention to the condition of the masses. Murder, as we have seen, was an established habit. Of all those he had met, the teachers impressed Wyeth as having the least regard for conditions. In other words, "they never worried." They dressed the best their means would afford, and aped the rest, which was easy. And this he found so prevalent, that he was, at times, dreadfully bored by it all. But he was relieved when he looked deeper, to find that the people who were actually succeeding in doing something, paid little attention to this set, which dominated society. But the set claimed them, nevertheless.
As he had known society from reading of it only, he had judged that literature was one of its chief features—but not so with this. Gossip and hearsay were more in keeping, and obviously more appreciated.
Wyeth was a literary man now for the sake of gaining a livelihood; but he had studied it, as we know, from a modern point of view. He had never, however, any difference of opinion with them, for so few knew of the late books, purchased few, and most of them not any magazines of interest. Not one in a dozen even read the race's only periodical,The Climax: though the editor had once been one of them, and had written a book, a novel. It was a failure, from a financial point of view.
The fiction they knew and talked of was in the order of Rip Van Winkle, Ben Hur and St. Elmo.
One day, when arguments were abundant, it came to a point where Wyeth made mention of the fact that so few teachers showed any interest in current events; did not read the magazines, and Negro literature they almost held in contempt.
"Is it because they feel that no Negro knows enough to write anything they would care to read?"
"The idea," cried Miss Palmer, indignant. "All the teachers take the magazines, and as for Negro literature, it has been the teachers who have robbed themselves to make the same possible."
"And yet other than 'Up From Bondage' and the works of the dead poet, you can seldom find a volume by a Negro author in any of their houses.... And, if I have investigated correctly, ninety per cent of this was placed there, after the white people had bought it and proclaimed the authors great. In the many houses I have been in with you, I have not yet seen any of Derwin's. Though one of them he wrote, and which is named after our souls, had a great sale among the white people even."
"I cannot see, nor appreciate either, your point of view with regard to the teachers' lack of literary interest, when not two weeks ago, twenty-six teachers among a list of thirty, purchased a set of twenty volumes each, and which cost them all that many dollars."
"And every volume by an author few know of, further than that he was white, and, therefore, knew something," he retorted.
It ended there and they were both relieved that it did; but neither forgot it.
Effingham, with its sixty thousand black people, had scores of drug stores which sold literature. Many newsstands also did such a business exclusively. There were four drug stores operated by colored people, and, like Attalia, not one sold magazines and newspapers as a side line; nor did any sell literature, which were operated by whites that depended upon Negro trade. Granting, of course, that many colored people bought such at whiteplaces, when they desired to read, it may reasonably be imagined how much literature was in demand among the colored people.
Wyeth usually purchased a work of fiction weekly, and sometimes more; while some weeks, of course, he omitted this custom. One day, he was asked by the clerk of the leading book store in Effingham, what he did with so many books when he had read them. "We have sold," he said, "seven copies of the book you sold us; but I guess you'll be surprised to know that we have not, as yet, sold one to a Negro." Wyeth was not surprised, but didn't say so. "That ad we placed in the colored paper, and have had standing a month, would bring dozens of curious white people in to see what it was. And, of course, some would purchase it to see what was said. Then, if the contents did not thrill or please, indifference would follow. But when nobody buys, not even inquires, we can only feel that your people don't have much interest in books, and we have had the same experience before." He smiled when he had finished, a smile that was embarrassed. He disliked to say it, apparently, but when Wyeth was so pleasant, he added: "We have bought what few books your race has written, for the purpose of sale, and have naturally expected some evidence of interest from them, by a call and an occasional purchase. And I am telling you the truth, if we depended on them to unload this stuff from our shelves, it would be there yet, as some of it is. You have personally bought more literature, in the way of current books, since you came in here, than all the rest of your people in this town together."
Wyeth went his way then, but he was no longer surprised, as he once was, for he had heard that many times before.
One day shortly after, Wyeth happened in at the druggist's place, the hot bed of argument. He inquired why a few magazines were not carried in stock.
"Hell!" cried that one, throwing his hands up in a gesture of despair and mingled disgust, "nigga's don't read."
The following Sunday morning, when the drug store was full, he happened to mention a new book he had, and which many of the idlers were inspecting, one by one, asking to borrow it when he was through. He suggested that it was on sale uptown, then quoted the words of the clerk, who had remarked that he, Wyeth, bought more books than did the rest of the colored people put together.
He was hooted down, so there was no argument. Each was positive that his friend had bought one; while that friend was likewise of the same opinion. And of the many, almost every one had read the book he wrote, having borrowed it from someone who had bought it. The druggist then offered an excuse for the absence of literature at his store, by declaring that almost all the people subscribed, and the same came through mail.
Miss Palmer and he were certainly very forgetful.
Literature was a dead issue, that could not be denied; but whiskey was not.
Effingham had no library for its black people, and they were not allowed the privilege of the white. Yet a part of their tax was paid to support the same. Still, no one gave that much thought, insofar as Wyeth could ascertain. When he mentioned it to the teachers, almost without exception they replied: "No use. Negroes don't read." And it was so everywhere. Yet every class but the doctors and teachers purchasedThe Tempest, when it was brought to their attention, and Wyeth even sold to three of these (two doctors and one teacher) in Effingham that summer.
No, no one he met had any worry about a library; but thousands of black children ran wild day by day upon their streets, went to jail in great numbers before they were of age, and filled convict camps as members of chain gangs long before they could be called even young men. There was no library, nor was there a park; but there were plenty of other places conducive to crime. And still Effingham had more than a hundred Negro churches.
"Can you not realize, that in your absence of such necessities for the training of these little black children,that you are growing children for the chain gang every day?" But this never aroused any visible concern. And sometimes they did say, emphatically:
"Aw, we don't need no library; and if we had a park for colored people, they would do nothing but fight in it." And still others would cry: "Git religion! 'n' read d' Bible; pr'pare y'self fo' Heaben." And still others were in disgust, as they replied: "A nigga ain' going to 'mount to nothin' nohow, so what's the use?"
"A library could be obtained, if the conditions here were brought to the attention of the northern philanthropists," he suggested to Miss Palmer, whereupon she cried:
"Oh, Mr. Wyeth, you bore me with your contention about libraries and parks and Y.M.C.A.'s and the like. These nigga's in Effingham are not worrying about such things; so why should you, a stranger, a mere observer, be so concerned!"
"Because, Miss Palmer, I cannot help but see all this murder and crime going on, which is undermining the foundation of colored society. Every day, when my paper comes, it's murder, murder, murder, and fully ninety per cent is among our people, although only two-fifths of the population is Negro."
"Haven't I told you all along, that the crime is among the low down, whiskey drinking, depraved element, and not among the best people?"
"Yes, but this country cannot exist in peace and prosperity and happiness; nor can this race, with the greater part ignorant, criminal and depraved. The more intelligent have, for their duty, the task of helping in any way possible, and by so doing, lift these unfortunates into a state of intelligence and self-respect."
"Well," she contended, resignedly, "that is for the churches to do, there's enough of them."
"And the teachers, because they are looked to, should help as much as they can with their higher intelligence, for the mothers are too ignorant and too depraved to do so. But of the many churches, of whichseventy are Baptist, not one has any connection or interest in a school here, directly or indirectly."
"I begin to think you are going to lose your mind, if you don't quit seeing the many iniquities of our people. If you would only see what the good people are doing, and try to interest yourself more in them, you would be happier," she said. He sighed now, and then said to himself: "What's the use."
"Quit it all, Sidney," she said softly, calling him for the first time by his first name. "Quit all this worry about these nigga's and be yourself; be sweet." And she kissed him.
"Wilson, Wilson! Mildred Is Gone!"
"Wilson, Wilson! Mildred is gone, Mildred is gone!" cried Constance, ringing her hands despairingly.
"Gone," he breathed, uncomprehendingly.
"Yes, gone." His sister sank into a chair, and gave up to a flood of tears.
"But why?" he cried, only now seeming to understand that she had actually left them.
"I don't know, I don't know," she moaned.
"This is certainly a mystery. Surely dear, you are mistaken," he insisted, greatly disturbed. "Mildred would surely not have left us so unceremoniously. And, besides—why, she—she, Constance, why she gave one hundred and fifty dollars to the Christian association movement only today. And you cannot mean that she has gone! It is hardly possible!"
"I only wish it were not so; but come," and, taking his hand, she led him to the room Mildred had occupied. It was deserted, save for the furniture that belonged there. Only once had he seen the inside of it while she occupied it. And now it did not appear the same; because then, it was decorated with much lace and woman's needle work and picture postals. But, strange as he had thought, when he happened to glance into it before, there were no pictures of girls and men, young or old, nobody excepting the picture of the author of the book which she sold, and which had been taken from the frontispiece.
"This is the way I found it when I came home a few minutes ago," she said, resigned. "I cannot make it out; I cannot make anything out, except that the sweetest friend, the dearest girl I ever knew, has disappeared strangely."
"She sang at the meeting only a few hours ago, and sang as I never heard her sing before. She was, moreover, in the best of spirits all day, and was so enthusiastic over the meeting. Dear me," he sighed wearily.
"If she had only left some word; given some hint that she was going to leave, but, of course she knew, and couldn't tell us, so there is no use at all. She's gone and I cannot imagine how much I am going to miss her."
Her brother sank into a chair, and gazed silently at nothing. He could not think clearly of the departure. For days he had slaved for this day of inauguration, and in his work, he had looked forward to her for much help. Her encouragement, to be near her and to hear her voice daily, was more to him than our pen can describe. He had felt that he could face the mighty struggle (which he knew was now before him) with all the strength of the strong; but now only, he fully estimated what she had been to him, and what he had dreamed that she would be some day. And all that, was now cast aside; in this one moment, his hope, his greatest hope had been shattered.
His sister looked at him, and for a moment, almost fell on her knees in sympathy. For she had not been blind. She had seen the change coming over him, with no thought but to encourage him. Constance had faith and patience and perseverance, and she had felt that everything would result favorably in the end.
And then she had watched this girl during that spell of a short time ago. She had seen her appearance change, as the result of some mystery. Her eyes became dazed from loss of sleep, due to the worry and subtle fear. It was then, with great cheer, that she saw it disappear later, until she was the same again. Constance was happy then, because the other was happy. She had been happier still, because she saw that, without effort, the other was making her brother happy. He had fairly thrived under it.
Constance felt that his lot was a hard one. She was confident that he would be a leader of men, in a greatermeasure than he was at the present. And when she had carefully observed the practical ability, as well as the intuition and foresight of Mildred Latham, she had longed, with all the craving of her heart, for a union between these two.
And, as she saw her brother now, with eyes dry and listless, her heart went out to him with all of a sister's love. It pained her more, when she realized that she could not help him. She would have to stand by and say nothing, at the very time he needed her more than ever before. He was too strong a man by disposition; he possessed too much will power, and was too proud to ask or accept sympathy. It would all have to be given in silence.
There was a knock at the door. She heard steps on the porch, and guessed it was the people calling in regard to the Y.M.C.A. And it was only then she recalled, that they had been invited to a supper. She called to him:
"Wilson, some one has called." She went to the door and admitted a dozen persons, members of the church, and foremost enthusiasts in the Christian forward movement.
"Well, well!" Martin Girsh, principal of the local high school cried, coming in ahead of the others. "You are both sitting here at home, when we have been looking all around for you. And you both show the effect of the strain you have been laboring under, in this affair." He said this after he had seen the look upon their faces, their efforts at self-possession, which they could not hide. They were glad he saw it that way.
"Where is the young lady, the dear young lady who showed such an interest in the movement by giving such a liberal sum?" inquired one, and it was immediately taken up by the others. It required an effort on the part of both, to explain that she was out and would not be back again that evening....
"Isn't that too bad! And all of us were simply wild to meet her, to hear her sing, and to know more of this courageous young person," said the professor, with much regret.
"She is positively a jewel, to say the least. Upon my honor," cried another, who was a letter carrier, "I didn't know she was such a treasure until she sang, and when she led them all in a cash subscription, I declared I would have to become better acquainted with her."
"I had heard her play and sing, but, indeed, I didn't know she possessed such a voice before."
"Suppose we arrange a banquet for this young lady, have her cut in the paper, and let the people know what a race-spirited young woman we have in this town," suggested one. The others took it up by acclamation. Wilson's eyes found his sister's, with a sickly green expression. And then he heard them again.
"When can we arrange this, Wilson? It is left to you and Miss Jacobs to set a date. The incident of this young woman's contribution to the colored Y.M.C.A., can be employed to a great advantage in the inauguration of this movement."
"Fire, fire, fire!" came an alarm from the street at that moment. All eyes sought the front, where, directly across the street and one door down, a large frame house suddenly burst into flames. Forthwith the visitors rushed, in a body. A wind was blowing strongly from the west at that moment, and the conflagration seemed to draw the flames. It had not rained for some time, and in an incredibly short time, the beautiful structure of a few minutes before, was beyond saving. From the way the flames were fanned by the wind, they threatened to endanger other buildings.
In a few minutes, the place was surrounded by spectators; while a number of fire departments were rushed to the scene from different directions.
It was hours later before the flames were subdued. Only a mass of charred ruins marked the place where the handsome structure had stood.
Services at the churches were well under way before many of the watchers left the scene, and the number included many of Jacob's callers who had, of course, forgotten their suggestion to entertain Mildred Latham, in honor of the beginning of the effort to secure aid for the colored youth of the city.
As they sat alone that evening, neither Wilson Jacobs nor his sister offered any comment upon how they were saved an embarrassing ordeal. They were both thinking, thinking, and seeing, with their eyes full of tears, a chair where one had sat and talked and laughed with them the Sunday night before.
Their hearts were heavy, very heavy, for, strangely enough, they felt that Mildred Latham would never sit in that chair again.