"This Man Is Losing His Mind"
"Hello, stranger," said Miss Palmer one beautiful morning, when he came strolling by. "I haven't seen you for a long time," she said, smiling not overly pleasant. In fact, Miss Palmer looked worn, and acted likewise. She did not present a hopeful example, as Wyeth saw her now. She was sweeping the sidewalk in front of her place with a broom that was worn to the last threads, and more. These had been cut, and only the small wire held it to the handle.
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, upon looking at it. "What do you call that?" and pointed at it with a laugh. She looked sad and replied:
"That's my broom. Isn't it a shame? But it's all the broom I have. Won't you buy me one, and give it to me as a present? You make plenty of money, and I have five fifty in the house for you myself." She smiled up into his face now wearily, and he was touched. He was, moreover, sorry now for what he had said. But to make amends, he replied cheerfully:
"Sure, sis. Take any part of what is due me, and use it for that purpose."
"That is so sweet of you," she smiled, gratefully. "I always believed you were sweet, regardless of the fact that of late you have become so awful."
"How's that?" he inquired, curiously.
"Oh, I have been constrained to believe you are losing your mind. You have succeeded in criticising about everybody and everything, that pertains to the good colored people of this city."
"Oh, Miss Palmer," he cried, looking hurt, "I have not criticised everybody and everything. I have only shownthat I think a lot of the so-called good people are four-flushers and selfish creatures, with no real love for the race, nor any regard for the civic improvement of these black people. But I know lots of good, kind, sincere colored people in this town, that I am proud of as members of the race."
"Come into the house," she invited, and presently they were seated in the parlor. At once Miss Palmer took up the discussion of society, and the buying of homes, which had reached a degree of impracticability among the colored people, notwithstanding the sound idea.
All over the country, during this pilgrimage, Wyeth had witnessed this purchase idea with a mark of encouragement. And, to say that they were succeeding, was a fact that meant a great deal to their future welfare.
Miss Palmer delighted always to discuss the buying of a home, and marrying. Another teacher was visiting her that day, and likewise shared her views. Wyeth did too, but he always had questions to ask, that sometimes made the discussion rather upset.
Now he read the Negro paper, and had fearfully observed that an unusual and alarming amount of foreclosures was the order. In conversation with the numerous real estate dealers, he learned, moreover, that many of the attempts at purchasing, were foredoomed to failure when made; that to own a home, in a great many cases had become a fetish, and was, therefore, not based upon a practical consideration in the beginning.
A very successful dealer, colored, had told him confidentially, that he sold many homes, and would have bet, if it had been expedient, that they would not be able to keep the payments up for a year.
"How does so much of this come about?" he had inquired.
"Notoriety. Too many people do not study, although they may have a liberal school training among our people. It's the great ambition of too many, to get into a home with the first object of being seen therein, to show to their friends and put on airs. They buy withno idea whatever as to value, liability or anything. They have simply stinted themselves until they have managed to save a few dollars, and desire to get into the biggest home possible, to be where they can be seen by their friends."
"The rate of interest appears to be very high, I have observed," said he, by way of comment. The other looked at him meaningly, and then said:
"Interest eats these people alive here; just sucks their life's blood—but it is not that alone. Not one in five knows how to arrange a loan. They permit themselves to be governed by some dealer, who, in almost every instant, is the worst grafter possible. They will make a loan with a life of three years, at eight per cent interest, and five per cent commission. Now you know that no loan running three years, on property that poor people are trying to buy on the installment plan, is practical. Yet that is the kind of loan that most of these cheap sharks offer to the masses of our people, who have no judgment. A Negro is unable, as a rule, to realize that three years is a very short time. He is compelled to learn by bitter experience. The worst feature of this is, that at the end of it, he is so discouraged, that often he does not benefit by this experience, because the failure has gotten his heart, and he is done for.
"At the end of three years, which seems like three days when they are trying to buy a home, the shark is around for a renewal of the mortgage, and must, therefore, collect another cash commission of five per cent. Think of it! In two-thirds of such instances, it takes every dime they have paid in those three years. Sometimes more. Now how can people pay for a home under such conditions! But there is another side of it. And it all comes from the inability of our people to see further than their noses.
"Almost all these purchases are made beyond the extension of the sewerage, often the water works, positively no street improvements, and side walks are rare; but, in three years, in order to boom the property, the promoter is active in bringing some of these improvements within reach of this property. That adds about one-half to two-thirds more to the cost of the property he is trying to buy. Moreover, when these people know anything, they will not buy a house built by these promoters, for it is nothing but the cheapest shell they can get to stand, but attractive from the outside. In two years, the occupant is fortunate if he doesn't have to build another.
"Then comes the great day. These people cannot pay that commission over again, and the loan company doesn't care to increase the loan, maybe, by including the commission in a new one. If they are unable to make arrangements with a bank, and that means they are going to deed them the property, seven cases in ten, foreclosure proceedings are instituted. The property is finally deeded by the sheriff to the mortgagee. Now here is another phase: This piece of property can then be sold quicker than before, for this reason: It is very easy to frame up a tale, to the effect that a party who was purchasing the place was a shiftless drunkard, or anything, and imagination can supply the rest; but, inasmuch as they had taken the property back, they are now offering it at a greatly reduced price and better terms. There are so many subtle ways of drawing people in, that it would take a volume to relate them all; but they come to the same in the end. Installment property at two thousand dollars can be bought for about twelve to not exceed fifteen hundred. Instead of commission and everything else, buying by the installment plan in this, and every overboomed southern town, costs from twice to three times what the property would actually cost, if the purchaser could pay half of the purchase price cash, for, in that way he could secure terms, and could pay interest rate on the remainder. In time he would get the same paid, and have his little home."
"And that, you feel, is the reason for all this foreclosure?" said Wyeth.
"That is thecauseof it. Why, advertising property for foreclosure has become a feature of competition, between the three Negro papers in this town. They getmore money out of that end, than they do from the advertisements through straight business, for the purpose of selling it originally."
"It would seem that the people would get on to such methods by and by," Wyeth commented.
"Some, of course, do, and avoid it; but you cannot imagine how many do not. It all comes about through a lack of general intelligence. Too many of our people do not read anything; are, therefore, without any vision or judgment of their own. They don't know. And, of course, are made the goats of those who do."
"So that explains why a portion of this town to the west, and which is occupied almost exclusively by our people, has such dreadful streets and no sidewalks whatever."
"That's it. They will, perhaps, have none for the next twenty-five years. Too much property is being bought, and so little is being paid for, that it is a continual change about."
"I find a great many of the people—intelligent people—who do not care to see this side of it," Wyeth remarked.
"Half of the school teachers, for instance, seem to wish not to see it. And they get stung! But they are so anxious to be seen, and to be referred to in a position beyond their means, no wonder."
So Sidney Wyeth had to take this man's point of view for more than one reason. Like Attalia—but worse, these people considered literature, as a whole, dead stock. More than sixty thousand in number, the demand among them for books and magazines, was insufficient to justify any one's running a place for such a purpose. It was not large enough to justify either of the Negro drug stores carrying periodicals in stock, even those that were carried by all white drug stores, excepting those in districts occupied and patronized by the colored people. And with all this, there was not the least claim for that kind of knowledge. More than a hundred churches never encouraged the people to read anything but the Bible: apparently, the obtaining of a library had not worried any but Sidney Wyeth; it has been seen how theyworried over the securing of a park. Is it a wonder, with all this under his observation, that Sidney Wyeth, who came from a land where people read and thought, and had some perspective, eventually came to be regarded as a chronic critic? He had witnessed more murders than he had in all the days of his life.
Having digressed to such a length, we will return now to Miss Annie Palmer, who was possessed with the ambition to be established in a home of her own, and to be seen by those who knew her.
"Just think of it, suga'," she said to the other teacher. "You can get the nicest kind of a home in the west end for a moderate sum, and only fifty or a hundred dollars down on the best of them. The rest is paid just like you pay rent, and no more." It was this, Wyeth recalled, that got them. "It cost no more than to pay rent after the first payment."
"Um-um," from the other.
"And the sewers, and sidewalks, and streets and lights are all there," said Wyeth kindly.
"Oh, there you go for an argument," Miss Palmer retorted, angrily. Wyeth grinned.
"Well, these things have all been completed to include this property...."
Miss Palmer said nothing to him in reply.
"And you can get it after the first payment like paying rent," commented the other teacher.
"Um-m," let out Miss Palmer, sweetly.
"What sweet real estate dealer offers such bargains andeasythings?" said Wyeth, humorously. The druggist, who knew everybody's business, had told him that Miss Palmer, at one time, was the object of every real estate shark in Effingham. And then some one lodged her in the suburbs, and since, she had been left alone. So he wondered whether it was because Miss Palmer, as a lady high in colored society, could not conveniently get such an amount together.
"This man is losing his mind," she said, to the other teacher. The other now regarded Wyeth dubiously. He grinned and then said:
"If you start buying, or biting on one of theseeasyhomes in the west end that you refer to, you are going to lose your head."
"Oh, is that so," Miss Palmer essayed, with much spirit. "Do you suppose, that with me teaching in the schools of this city for thirteen years—" and she had begun at twenty-two, so she told him once—"I do not know something! And if you infer that I haven't a hundred dollars, then you haven't become acquainted with Annie Palmer! Don't you worry about her, for she always has a roll convenient. And you never see any collectors coming here, and leaving without what they came for." She was very dignified now, as she went to the door to answer a knock.
The room in which they sat opened into a small hallway, which was entered from the street by a glass door. It was at this open door, that a man stood, who, however, could not be seen from where Miss Palmer's company sat. He could be heard, though. And they, the company, couldn't help hearing. They were not eavesdropping. It was then that Wyeth learned Miss Palmer was vain. He could not help recalling, that if "no collectors went away without what they came for," it was because they expected nothing when they came. So, when Miss Palmer had completed her trite sentence and sallied forth to answer the knock, they could not help hearing her say very quickly, and with some embarrassment:
"Oh, you are too early. Come back tomorrow. I have my books to deliver this afternoon, and will be ready for you tomorrow, so—"
That was as far as she got. And her company could not be censured for overhearing the rest of it, that is, what the other made in reply. The chances are the other was not aware of their presence, a few feet away, but that is a matter for conjecture. Miss Palmer could be heard attempting to finish with him, without his words that came in a flow. She was nervous, but he would have his say, and so he said, cutting off her discourse:
"I'm tired of this stalling, all this stalling you have been handing us for months. This has got to come to an end."
"I'll bring it to the office, I—"
"You'll do nothing of the kind, and you know you won't!"
"I'll pay you tomorrow, sure, sure, sure!" Why didn't the man be a gentleman and go, go, go! Plainly Miss Palmer was dreadfully nervous, more, as she could be heard by those who were listening. She was plainly in agony. The collector was on the warpath, and went on relentlessly:
"If you haven't made some disposition of it by Monday a week, get that stuff ready for the wagon," and a moment later his steps died away in the distance.
For one moment, Wyeth saw the face of her friend, but he couldn't believe it! And still, when Miss Palmer returned and resumed her discussion with regard to buying homes, he would have sworn that the other had to smother very quickly a gleeful expression.
"I'll Brand You as a Faker"
"Eh, there! Get that car on switch A! Now, let her come back to the left. All forward no-ow! Engineer, what's the matter with you today? Are you drunk? Pull that train forward and back it up as I tell you, or I shall report you to the superintendent! You're devilishly contrary today."
"Oh, Sam," called some one.
"Aw, don't bother me today. I'm in a hurry. I am called by the board of directors to talk over the purchase of the A.G.S. I am chairman of the committee, and have no time to talk with you."
"Hello, Sam," greeted Wyeth, as this worthy came hurriedly by. Sam halted a moment and gazed at him, then walked forward and extended his hand, crying:
"Mr. Morgan. I'm glad to see you. I am called by the directors of the Southern Railway, with regard to purchasing that line and merging it with the L. & N."
"I see. Who owns the L. & N. now," he inquired, casually.
"Me."
"And the A.G.S.?"
"I only have a half interest in that now."
"I understand that you refused to buy out the controlling interest in the Tennessee Coal and Iron Company."
"Yes, I refused. I don't like the line-up in the directorship. And, besides, I cannot see my way clear to act as chairman of the board of control, therefore, I considered it unwise to invest any millions in the thing."
"Well, I won't detain you, since I know you are so busy. Good day."
"Good day, Mr. Morgan. Try to call at my office in the Empire building before you leave town.
"Engineer, if you don't switch better, call at the office this evening and get your time. I will fire you," and Sam hurried to his office, just as John Moore came from another direction, sleepy-eyed, and looking like the "last rose of summer". The Mis' was waiting for him, and as soon as he was inside, she inquired with concealed suspicion:
"Well, where were you last night?"
"In jail."
"You seem fond of that place of late."
He shrugged his shoulders sleepily.
"Where did they get you this time?"
"Rosie's."
"You've been quite a frequenter about there of late...."
"That's mah business. Don't try t' hand me no argerment this morning. Fix me something to eat. I'm hongry."
"Didn't you have breakfast up there; but then it seems you left before breakfast? How came you back so early? I didn't look for you so soon."
"How did you know that I had been got? You are too smart nowaday's anyhow."
"Who went your bond?"
He regarded her out of impatient eyes now. He glared at her, but said: "I was eight dollars winner, and had two dollars besides."
"Um-m. So you give that to a professional bondsman."
"Hello," came a call from the outside.
"Hello," called back the Mis'. "Come in."
"Is John Moore here?" said a bad looking Negro, with a head like a monkey and no chin at all. Moore looked uneasy.
"Oh, here you are," said the other, as he spied Moore. His tone was full of contempt, and a touch of anger was mingled. "Where is my part for the stuff you disposed of?"
"Ssh! Not so loud."
"Not so the devil! You can't shoo me away any longer. You ain't paid me for the last bunch a chicken I brung heah; and now you want t' shoo me away on this last stuff we done stole togedder."
"Will you hush. We'll talk this matter over outside."
"We's go'n talk it over heah, 'n' you go'n hand me ove fo' dollah's, ah I'm go'in' t' take it outta yo' stinkin' hide!" He looked at Moore now with an evil eye, and that worthy backed up and picked up a pair of scissors, that he had brought in late one night from one of the mysterious directions.
"Oh, you go'n push them things through me, eh! All right, ole nigga. This is wha you 'n' me mixes it. I gi'n fix you ah you gi'n fix me," and with that he started in the other's direction.
"Now, Sha'p Head. Ain' I done always treated you right?" Moore whimpered.
"Naw, naw! 'n that's what I'm gi'n land on you cause!"
"Now just name a time when I ain'," Moore temporized, nervously.
"Naw, I say. Git out that winda 'f you don't wanta be killed. Git out wi' out awgument, cause I g'in to make you run some. Don't you b'lieve I'm go'n run yu?"
"'C'ose I b'lieve you. I b'lieve you go'n come in heah 'n' run me outta ma house, outta ma house," cried Moore, piteously.
"Come pickin' up a pair a-scissors two feet long to push in me," roared the other. "I got a notion t' run yu ontell yo' ankles gits hot. I'll run yu six blocks, you lop eared bull dog!"
"You outta be 'shamed t' treat me that way, Sha'p head, 'n' you know you outta!" went on Moore, soothingly.
"Come outside, John Moore, 'n' leave yo' coat inside. I'm go'n' run y' six blocks, so help me Gawd!"
"All right, Sha'p Head. 'F you jes' gotta run me outta ma house, then go on outside. I'm a-comin."
The other came through the room where Wyeth andLegs were trying to play a game of checkers. He was puffing so hard, that he appeared to be afraid of himself. "That low down skunk! I'm go'n run that nigga ontell 'is ankle's done be so hot that the streets go'n melt behind him! Doggone 'im!"
"Are you outside, Sha'p Head?" called Moore, nervously.
"I'm out heah, you liver eater. Come out wi' yo ankle's greased, 'cause you go'n run six blocks faster yu ebber did in yo' life; 'n' when you gits to d' end of it, I' gi'n kill yu!"
"Bang!" went the door, and the key turned. To describe the indignation of Moore for the next few minutes; what he would do; what he ought to have done, would be beyond the possibilities of our pen. He was positively so bad that he had much effort to keep from doing injury to himself. Legs winked at Wyeth, and then, rising, unlocked the door and slipped out quietly. A moment later, a terrible banging was instituted upon the door. Wyeth held it closed, with a great feigned effort.
"Let me at him! Let me at him!" cried Legs from the outside, but John Moore didn't wait to hear any more. A crash and a rattle as of falling glass scattered about, showed that an exit was unconventionally made in the rear. Wyeth and Legs came around in time to see him going over the back fence. The next time they saw him, he was leading the other by about two rods, as they went up the street.
"Jumped right into his jaws," laughed Glenview, as they watched the chase from the porch.
Ten minutes later, some one tore into the house, and turned the key of the door so quickly, that it seemed like an automatic spring lock.
It was John Moore.
"Let's go down to the drug store," suggested Wyeth. Legs didn't hang out in that direction, so Glenview was the recipient of the suggestion. He couldn't, so, presently, Wyeth went alone.
"They are going to fall down in both those towns, onthe securing of a Y.M.C.A. for Negroes, and I knew they would when they started," the druggist was saying, when Wyeth entered.
"Negroes can secure nothing but churches down south," commented another.
"They have only a few weeks left, before the time limit on the appropriations from the Jew expires. He offered twenty-five thousand to any association where the people secured an additional seventy-five thousand. Now six months after the campaign for the association in Grantville," so said a mail clerk who ran to that city, "less than five thousand in cash, out of a total of more than thirty-three thousand dollars subscribed, has been collected to date. How can this—what is the name of the secretary of the proposed association—yes, I have it, Jacobs—Rev. Wilson Jacobs, figure they will be able to secure one in that town?"
"It's all stuff. Nigga's down here would do nothing with an association no way," said the druggist.
"I stopped at the Y.M.C.A. when I was in Chicago this summer," said the bookkeeper in the Dime Savings Bank. "It appears to be conducted with great success, and is surely a fine, clean, up-to-date place to stop, regardless of the fact that almost everything is open to Negroes in that city."
"Yes, but the Negroes in Chicago are civilized," said another. "These Negroes down here would have to have a half dozen police standing around to keep order, if they had one."
"But don't you feel such a thing in this town would act as a great moral benefit?" suggested Wyeth, at this juncture.
"We now hear from Tempest," smiled the druggist. He had not been able, as yet, to reconcile himself to the bet he lost some months before, and had since a grudge against Wyeth.
"I see by today's paper, that Wilson Jacobs will address the people of the city in regard to the Christian forward movement, and will be assisted by several white men of high standing in the city."
"Well, speeches will be all right; but I'd bet a dollar to a dime that they will never secure a Y.M.C.A. in the town he represents. As for Effingham, no chance."
"You seem to be successful in getting the biggest kind of churches here," said Wyeth.
"Yes," returned the druggist, "and they will be paying for them, as they have been for the last—since I ever knew anything."
"But they have the churches, nevertheless."
"Oh, so far as that goes, yes."
"They must have had to pay as much as forty per cent of the cost, to secure a loan for the remainder?"
"Yes, Tempest; but what has that to do with it?"
"Well, if the big church on the corner up the street could be secured at a cost of seventy-five thousand dollars, half or more of which I understand has been paid, then, a like amount should be available in a town of this size, and which has an equal number of colored people, shouldn't it?"
"Tempest is out for argument," said the druggist.
"No argument, when almost every large city in the north—and some not as large as this town—have a Y.M.C.A. for its black population. And more than half that have such, have not nearly the colored population that this town has, and positively have not nearly the need."
"Tempest has been worrying about a library, a park, and everything else for this town, in the months he has been here," the druggist said, looking almost amused. Wyeth took exception.
"Iaminterested in this town, and in another, where I see and read of more crime and murder, than I ever dreamed was possible."
"Then, Tempest," said the druggist, naively, "you ought to get one. Or, at least, you ought to awaken, by some initiative on your part, some enthusiasm to that end. You see all we need, you do, a globe trotter, and you have certainly criticised to that end, and now," his voice took on a cold, hard tone, "I say: Do something to prove this criticism worth the while, or I'll brandyouas a faker—a frost, with all your premeditated ideas!"
Every one about was silent, while their eyes turned and regarded Sidney Wyeth. About the corners of their mouths a smile that spelled of a sneer, played subtly. If Sidney Wyeth didn't see it, he at least felt it. And in that moment, he realized that he would not dare show his face about this place, lest he be scorned henceforth, if he didn't take the stand the druggist had taken.
"Very well, Dr. Randall," he said, rising. "I shall do so." He regarded them all for a moment, with a firm sweep of his eyes, and, next, he turned and left the store.
The Arraignment
"I guess that will do," whispered Wyeth to himself, arising from his typewriter at one-thirty the following morning. Carefully he placed the typewritten pages in the drawer, and retired.
"A colored man to see you, Mr. Byron," said the clerk, to the managing editor of the EffinghamAge-Herald.
"Show him in," said the other shortly, and kept about his work. A moment later, Sidney Wyeth stood before the editor.
"Well?"
"I should like twenty minutes talk with you, Mr. Byron," said the other calmly.
The editor laid down his pen, and raising his eyes, he began at the feet, which were somewhat large, ran the gaze up a pair of long legs, and finally saw a chin, a nose and the eyes, and there they stopped. He had been in the act of freezing, what he was confident was a crank, a fool, or a knave. To walk calmly into the office of the managing editor, and ask for twenty minutes of his time! It was incredulous. And yet, when he saw the eyes of the other, something therein told him strangely, that this man was no fool, nor a knave—nor any of the things he had been feeling. He was—well, he was a colored man, which made it stranger still, for colored men had not been in the habit of coming to his office at all, much less asking for such an amount of time on his busy day. He shifted his position, and finally, after swallowing guiltily, the words he started to say, he added:
"Be seated."
"I realize that you are busy, very busy, Mr. Byron," Wyeth began rapidly, not waiting for the other to sayanything more. "But my business is a matter of grave importance, of the very gravest importance. And that is why I have called, and asked for the amount of time which I am aware is not customary for you to grant."
The other said nothing. He knew of nothing to say; but, somehow, he simply sat viewing Sidney Wyeth out of curious eyes—and waiting. The other unfolded one of several papers; they were, the editor now saw, previous issues of his paper. He wondered. He had been very careful to kill stories that smelled of strife between the races.... He did not conduct his paper with an appeal to race prejudice. Mr. Byron was proud of the fact, too. Moreover, while he had doubts as to the hurried evolution of the Negro race to a place in the least equal to the one of which he was a member, he had always tried, when he could conveniently do so, to say a word of kind encouragement with regard to the colored people. Only that week, he had run a strong account on the front page, with regard to the governor's visit to Tuscola, at the invitation of its principal, who had extended it. The invitation came for the purpose of allowing the state government to see, by a personal inspection, whether the colored schools were entitled to a portion of certain funds, the Federal government had appropriated for the purpose of farm demonstration work. Following his return to the city, the governor had, without reservation, announced that the appropriation would be so divided, as to allow Tuscola Institute and another Negro school, a liberal portion of said funds.
Steven Byron justly took some of the credit for this, and now is it a wonder that he held his breath, while this young Negro, whom he had never seen before, unfolded the paper and finally began.
Coming to the side of his desk, Wyeth reseated himself, and, pointing to an article, said: "You recall this incident?"
"Yes," said the editor, still wondering.
"And this one also," said the other, with another paper unfolded and spread before him.
"Of course."
And for the next few seconds he showed him others. The other was still wondering, when Wyeth said:
"Do you recall following this particular Wednesday, when you published this article in regard to the park for colored people, the number of teachers and preachers who presented themselves as the commissioner had suggested and requested?"
"Well, yes. There were—"
"Eight, to be exact. Three preachers and five teachers."
"Yes." The other was still curious.
"Have you any idea what number of preachers and teachers you have among the colored people of this city?"
"Why, a great many, I am sure."
"Three hundred or more, according to the directory. I don't think they got all that teach elsewhere, and make their homes here during vacation; and I know they have not all the preachers, but that is neither here nor there.
"In regard to this article about securing a library for the colored people. How many visits, can you recall, were paid you by any of the teachers and preachers following the publication of it? And can you recall how many letters you received, or anything else connected with the instant?"
"I can quite well, I regret to say," replied the editor; "for the simple reason I received no letters nor any visits."
"You requested, in your paper of recent issue, and which is before you, that the leading colored people—and of course this includes the teachers—should call at your office to make arrangement for the coming lecture in regard to the need of Y.M.C.A.'s for the colored people of the south. I suppose you have been favored with many visits?"
The other shook his head sadly, as he replied: "No one has called among your people."
"Very well. Has it ever occurred to you, Mr. Byron, that an unusual amount of crime appears to be the order in this city?"
"Who couldn't realize it, that lived here or knew of the place through the columns of the papers?"
"And, unfortunately, eighty per cent of the murders are committed by a certain two-fifths of our population. That two-fifths represents my race."
The editor nodded.
"Then, in view of what I have just called to your attention, does it occur to you that the leaders—or the should-be-leaders of my people of this city, are indicating, by their actions, that they care a hang what becomes of the race?"
The elements were beginning to clear now. The editor said: "It certainly doesn't appear so."
"And yet how many of these people, in conversation, are ever ready, when there is a mob demonstration, to exploit—which in itself is much in order—the 'best' people. And what consideration should be shown them, regardless of the ignorance and crime of the masses? Does it not occur to the casual observer, that a great deal of negligence is the order when it comes to moral uplift, on the part of the leading Negroes themselves?"
"I cannot help but agree with you."
"Then, Mr. Byron, I have prepared an article arraigning this element of my race, that I have brought with me, and ask you to examine it, with a view to publication. I beg you to read the same carefully, and if you feel you would like to run it, I shall appreciate it. And if you do not, I will call tomorrow and get the same." Forthwith, he handed the editor the typewritten pages he had prepared the night before, and, with a bow, left the office.
"The colored man that was here yesterday, Mr. Byron, has called again, and waits outside."
"Show him in, show him in at once," cried the editor, turning about, and preparing himself for a conversation.
"Well, sir," said Wyeth, after greetings had been exchanged, "you, of course, realize what I am here for."
"And I am certainly glad you called," returned the editor, with a serious face. "I have read the article,and reread parts of it." He paused, and was thoughtful before he went on, "and must say that it is certainly strong. Whew! The colored people are liable to lynch you for such an arraignment, if I know them a little."
"I had considered all that before I submitted it," said the other, resignedly.
"If a white man wrote such an article and brought it to the office, I would not, under any consideration, publish it. But, since it has been written by a colored man, well, that makes a difference." He was silent again.
"Do you know," he said, regarding Wyeth keenly, "I thought over what you wrote all last night. I have thought of it in that way before, but it would never have done to give utterance to it, me, a white man. But, take for instance" (he drew out the manuscript, and turned to a certain page): "You say here, that multitudes of these so-called leaders have accepted the work and the teaching of the wizard of Tuscola, merely because the white people have; and that, in accepting him and his views for the welfare of the race, it has been merely to be on the popular side, because the wizard is so much so; but that they have no sincerity whatever in the words they say about him." He laid the sheets down, and, raising his finger, said: "How true that is! Why I know personally, scores that would kick him for the statements he has made, if they could do so. But, as you say further, they seek to get into the band wagon, at any cost. Now you refer, at some length, to the proposal to secure a park.
"It is a positive fact, that the good white people of the south, are made the object of bitterness by the northern people, on account of something for which they cannot always be blamed. Now, who would believe at the north, that the white people were willing and ready to give the colored people a park, a place for an outing for the children; and the colored people didn't want it?" Wyeth shook his head.
"Nobody!" declared the editor. "Nobody in the world, and yet here is an example in this very town,which has more murder and crime among its black population than any city in the world, regardless of the size! And your race; that body of people, the teachers and preachers, to whom we have naturally looked and asked for cooperation in securing a park, have simply ignored our invitation!
"Now, in regard to the library. Here is the article, and which I, with care, prepared myself. What good has it done? I have asked their cooperation, not their money; but I have been ignored, the same as the commissioner was in regard to the park. And before and since then, crime continues.
"We know the law-abiding colored people cannot be altogether responsible, for the crime of the polluted and the criminal; but, Lord! One would not suppose that they would so utterly disregard an effort on our part for their civic welfare.
"In the end, you call attention to the churches and the condition of the pastors. It is certainly time someone is calling to time ignorance in the ministry. Frankly, I have long been of the opinion you advance in the article, that an educational requirement should become a law with regard to preachers, as well as to men in other professions. Think of it! A profession, calling for the highest general intelligence, having the lowest rate of intelligence!
"And, again, this church building bee has submerged the Baptist church, among the colored people. How can any of them be of any practical service, when there is one for every one who can say 'Jesus!'
"You draw attention to the inability of the southern cities to secure Y.M.C.A's, where the great masses of black people, of course, live. Not a one is in operation, as they are conducted by the whites, or by the colored people of the north. It is easy to excuse the matter by pleading poverty. But, while that is a plausible excuse, it seems quite feasible to build great big churches for a certain few. They have two churches in this town that would cost more than a Y.M.C.A. building, complete. And yet, in Grantville, and the other town, and Attalia,they are required to raise only about one-third of the amount necessary.
"What, then, is the cause of this failure? You have answered it in the pages of this manuscript.
"I am going to publish it. And in doing so, I am forewarned that it is going to arouse a world of indignation among your people, or I miss my guess. But it needs to be done. Something should come before them, to awaken this sluggishness with regard to uplift among their own. So you may look for it—the entire article, on the front page of next Sunday's issue. Good day!"
"That was sure a dirty deal Dr. Randall and Dr. Bard handed Tempest, wasn't it?" remarked L. Jones, editor and owner of the EffinghamReporter, colored, to his assistant.
"I don't fully understand. What was it? I hear that Wyeth bet, or rather, made a bet with Dr. Bard about something," said the other, attentively.
"Made a bet with Bard and beat him a mile and Bard, through his friendship with Randall, who has had it in for Wyeth since he came here, over a bet that Wyeth won from him, hedged on it the dirtiest you can imagine."
"Tell me in detail about it," requested the other. At that moment, a private detective entered the office, and, upon overhearing the conversation, said:
"I can tell you all about it, because I was there when the bet was made.
"It was like this, or came about in this way: Down at the drug store, Wyeth has had the nerve—I guess that is how you can place it, since the bunch, including Bard and Randall—especially Randall, don't appear to appreciate that any one knows anything but themselves. At least, they have been this way in regard to that fellow Wyeth. So an argument came about that Wyeth got into. He quoted an editorial in regard to the prosperity of California, and mentioned that California had more automobiles, in proportion to population, than any state in the union. Randall had no reason to take exception to this, further than he was so anxious to put this Wyethin the wrong. He started an argument, but, of course, he had his dose last summer and knew—if he would have admitted it—that Wyeth was not arguing on something he didn't know. But Bard, who accepts Randall as the man who knows everything, and who has argued so much that he would try to down anybody for the sake of it, was regardless as to the merit. Bard took exception. Those fellows cannot appreciate anybody's knowing anything, unless he is a doctor. So, in the course of the argument, Bard offered to bet Wyeth five dollars, that the state of Iowa had more automobiles than California, in proportion to its population. Wyeth called him, and they put up the money.
"I heard Bard explaining to one of their friends, that Iowa had so many automobiles; but was away down when it came to population. Wyeth overheard him, and agreed that Iowadidhave lots of machines, but that he was wrong in regard to its being away down in population. That, in fact, Iowa had almost as many people as California. The crowd ridiculed such an idea, and cited the big cities of California, as an evidence of the fact. 'There is no call for argument when the same is down in black and white. Look it up in the census,' Wyeth declared. Bard colored, while Randall fished around in his belongings, and found a book containing the last government census report. Now, what do you think of a bunch that are always arguing, and not one of them knew the population of either of those great states. Not a one, and most of them graduated from college. Which showed that they have not studied what is around them, while Wyeth had.
"The report they found, had Iowa's population for fifteen years before. 'Wrong,' said Wyeth calmly. 'Well, here it is in black and white,' they all cried at once. 'But it's wrong, I say,' declared Wyeth. 'You can't convince Tempest on anything,' declared Randall disgustedly. 'You cannot convince me that Iowa has not increased in population in fifteen years. The census you are poring over there, is fifteen years old.' They were taken aback. They looked at the top of the pageand saw they were all wrong again. Not a word did they say. No, they wouldn't admit in words to him, that they were wrong when it was before them. Wyeth called the population, and when they looked just to the side, there it was. It was the same with California. And still, not one of that bunch said: 'By jove! He's right.' No, but they all knew then that he had won that bet. And Dr. Bard was sick. Just sick, while Randall was sore with himself.
"Now here is how they hedged and kept from paying it: Wyeth wrote to two of the biggest motor magazines, and to the department of commerce. The department of commerce wrote back that the information he required, could be gotten by consulting the magazine he had written to, and stated what issues gave it. Wyeth brought the issues and the letters. They then claimed that they would accept the information from the secretaries of the states only. He wrote to these people, and, strange to say, they did not answer. And that was how they hedged. There was only one of the bunch that frequents the place regularly, who was man enough to tell them how cheap it was, and that was Dr. Landrum. He purchased Wyeth's book and read it, and told Wyeth that he had done finely for a beginner; Randall has had more criticism to offer upon it than any one else, but would not, of course, honor Wyeth by buying one."
"I guess he more than paid for one, from what I have heard," laughed Jones, and related the incident of the bet, which had become known about town.
"Well," said the detective, "they are giving him the laugh down there now, about how Randall called him on his criticisms."
"I heard about that, too," said Jones. "But you take it from me. That fellow is going to make a fool of those fellows yet. The man has something up his sleeve behind all this criticism he is accused of, and I am looking for him to do something. I don't know what it will be; but I feel in my bones, that it will be something that we will all know about."
"I agree with you," said the detective. "That fellowhas no college education like Randall and Bard, and others, that feel they are the only fish in the pond; but he is a walking encyclopedia when it comes to every day facts about our country and the people, and some day we are going to hear from him otherwise than through the pages of his book. He didn't know all about writing when he wrote that; but it's some book at any rate," and with that, he rose and went his way.
Sunday was a beautiful day. The air was calm and soft. A crowd was on hand early at Randall's pharmacy, as was the usual custom on Sunday.
"Well," said Randall cheerfully, "today is fine. Wonder where Tempest is." And he looked about at the others, amusedly. A tittering went the rounds.
"He appears to be somewhat scarce about these premises, since you called him some days ago," said Bard, whereupon there was some more tittering.
"Well, guess I'll look over the paper, since our wise friend isn't around to teach us something," and, smothering his glee, he uncovered theAge-Herald. Laying the funny pages aside, he allowed his gaze to fall upon the front page of the general news section.
"What in Hell!" he exclaimed, in the next breath.
"What is it, Ran?" cried the crowd.
"Negro says race faces dreadful conditions, due to lack of interest by their leaders. Says selfishness is so much the order that there is no interest whatever toward uplift. Professional Negro the worst."
"Negro says race faces dreadful conditions, due to lack of interest by their leaders. Says selfishness is so much the order that there is no interest whatever toward uplift. Professional Negro the worst."
"Have you read this?" cried Professor Dawes, bursting in a few minutes later. "What do you think of it?" He was very much excited. So were many others.
"That Negro's crazy!" cried Professor Ewes, of the Mater School. Professor Ewes had read Wyeth's book, which was loaned to him by one of his teachers, who had purchased it from one of Wyeth's agents, in two payments. She had loaned it to Professor Ewes, and Professor Ewes had, in turn, loaned it to Professor Dawes, andProfessor Dawes had, in turn, loaned it to another professor, and after all three had read it, it was returned to the original purchaser, who had seen the advertisement, that it was on sale at the biggest white store in the south, and had been inspired to subscribe for it, on that account. When the book was returned to her, she had read fifty odd pages and liked it, so she told Miss Palmer. She further said, she hoped some day to know the young man, who had written such a great story. And then Miss Palmer told her. Forthwith, all interest became an argument.
"Do you mean to say, that fellow is the author of the book?" she inquired of her professor.
"Oh, yes," he said.
When the agent called for the remainder due, he was handed the book, with a statement that it was positively N.G. When the agent opened it, as he was leaving the rear of the house of the wealthy white people, a book mark dropped from between pages fifty and fifty-one.
"Did you read what he said about the teachers?" exclaimed a supernumerary, stopping in at the drug store, and seeing everybody excited over the article. Jones came in behind her.
"This is where you come in for a big article in your next week's issue," said Randall, who didn't take any Negro paper, shoving the article under the eyes of the Negro editor.
"I'm afraid Mr. Wyeth has said all I would liked to have said," he replied calmly.
"What!" several cried, in consternation. "Do you mean to say that you would have talked about the best people as this man has!"
"I mean that I would have tried to. I do not consider that I possess the ability to arrange it as he has. You see, his range and vision is beyond mine, which has been confined to the southland. While he has studied every section of the country we call the United States, and he has, as you will observe, written this article in appreciation of that point of view."
"But, great goodness, Jones," cried Randall, verymuch excited, and likewise forgetting that he did not subscribe for nor advertise in Jones' paper, which was the best Negro paper in the state. Because, he said to everybody but Jones himself, it was N.G., and didn't pay to advertise in it. "See what he has said about our teachers!"
"I have seen it. What of it?"
"It's dreadful—terrible!"
"About the park and library, you mean?"
"Sure!"
"How can you say that—or anything to the contrary, when you know all he has related there is true?"
Randall hesitated embarrassed for a moment, then said: "But he needn't have made such an issue of it!"
"But it's true?"
"Well—yes—of course it's true. But—"
"And about this crime, etc.?"
"Yes—but—"
"He shouldn't have told it where the white people can read it," assisted Jones, grimly. Those about became quiet very quickly, and looked at each other. Jones saw the lay of the land, and took his leave.
"At last, at last!" he cried to himself, as he went up the street, "the turning point has been reached. When I write again of civic conditions in my paper, and show up the fallacies among our own, it'll be read and notice taken of it."
All that day, indignation meetings denouncing the article by Sidney Wyeth, was the order among Effingham's black people. All the week following, it was further denounced. And thus we come to the end of this part of our story.
As for Sidney Wyeth, he left Effingham. He left shortly after writing the article, and went to another city. In that other city, he came back to where he started—that is, something had come back to him which was his dream, when we met him in the beginning of our story.
BOOK III
"That Gal's Crooked!"
When Mildred Latham left the church, she hurried to her room, greatly excited. Without delay, she threw her belongings together as quickly as possible, and without care. When she had them tied and ready for moving, she went out, locking the door behind her, and paused briefly to gaze up and down the street. After a moment, in which she satisfied herself that neither were in sight, she hurried down the street to where she knew a man lived who owned a dray.
"Can you get a trunk and other matter for me at once?" she inquired, subduing her excitement.
"I guess so. Sometime this afternoon. What number, Miss," he replied, regarding her with admiring eyes. She bit her lips in vexation.
"But I would like it moved at once—right away," she said, quelling her excitement as best she could.
"Oh, very well. Didn't know you were in such a hurry." He called to a black boy in the rear, and, after instructions, turned to her and said:
"Fo'kes out, eh! He-he! Where you want it dumped?"
"Oh,——why, yes—oh,—you may just keep it here until I call for it, please." Without further words, she hurried away. Down the street she came to a boy with a push cart, directed him to the address, let him in, saw to the loading of her luggage, and, when this was completed, slipped quietly out behind him. When a few doors away, she paused long enough to gaze longingly in the direction of the number she had just left. And then, after a smothered sob, she caught a car that tookher miles to another side of town, and where the houses were recently built near a new extension of the car tracks.
Two hours later, she had succeeded in getting a room from a woman who had a daughter about her age. She would get her meals at a small restaurant nearby, until she could arrange to cook them in her room, or, maybe, she might be allowed to cook them in the kitchen, on the stove of the family. She didn't request that privilege this day, for she was too greatly excited to say more than she had to.
"It's terrible," she moaned silently, when alone in the room she had secured. "I would not have left them like this for anything in the world; but I could never stay there and take the risk. I could never look in their faces again.... But, oh, how I dislike to be away from them! It is almost the only real home I ever knew, and the only ones who ever really loved me—but Sidney.... I must not think of him, I must forget. But can I? That is what has worried me these months. I can never forget how he looked at me that day; that day when he would have spoken....
"And then he came.... That night—but that was the end, the end of my dream. And yet, only yesterday, I don't know why, I couldn't seem to help it; but I had hopes, dear hopes—but today——" She went to sleep after a time, and all the night through, was asleep and awake by turns. It seemed that morning would never come; and when it did at last, she arose with heavy eyes.
She decided to go for a walk, and not canvass that morning. She was glad now that Constance's work was in another part of the city, and she could at least go about hers without any likelihood of meeting her.
"Did you rest well last night?" inquired the lady of the house, a hard-faced dark woman, whose appearance did not appeal to Mildred the night before, and now she was less impressed than before.
"Oh, very well, thank you," she replied quickly. So much so that the other looked at her keenly, and whenMildred saw her eyes now, she detected an air of suspicion therein. She flinched perceptibly. The other saw this, and was more suspicious still.
"You seem worried, nervous," said the other, with feigned kindness; but even in the tone, could be discerned a mockery.
"I never sleep well when I change rooms and sleep in a new bed," said Mildred, calmly. The other nodded.
"This is my daughter," the other announced, as a tired looking black girl came forward. Mildred accepted the introduction with forced courtesy, and only returned the greeting. The other did likewise, while her mother, appearing to wish to tantalize the feelings of her roomer, said:
"You and she can be partners. You must take her, Myrtle, around to see your friends." She now turned to Mildred and said: "Myrtle has many admirers, so you and she can go out anytime and turn on a 'stunt.'" She smiled a dry hard smile, that almost made Mildred shudder. She made an excuse, and hurried into the street, preferring the outside air to the evil atmosphere she felt within.
"That gal's crooked," said the black woman to her daughter, who had just come in that morning.
"How do you know?" said the other coldly.
"How do I know!" she repeated derisively. "Do you suppose I have been in this town and seen a thousand gals with her sweet face, and not know that she ain' got a white man—maybe two or three—on her string."
"You're crooked—so crooked yourself, Ma, that you see everybody else the same way," said the other, sinking into a chair and closing her eyes.
"I've always tried to make you straight, and you know that," her mother retorted grimly.
"A crooked mother can't raise a straight daughter. It's up to the daughter—and I've failed." A moment later, she was snoring loudly. The other regarded her now, with a pang in her evil heart. It always made her sad to see her only daughter like that. She had fostered hopes, while this one was growing up, that she wouldbe a lady; she had sent her to school with the funds she got in any way she could; but heredity was too strong. They wouldn't have the girl after six months, at the boarding school she attended in Grantville. No, they expelled her with an emphatic letter, that she should not return the following season. She swore when she read the letter from the president, and forthwith sent her to another. The offense was repeated. She sent her then to a catholic convent. But in some way she escaped from this, and when her mother saw her two months later, she was living in adultery.
Mildred renewed her canvass that afternoon, and, under the spell of the work, she was able, after a time, in part, to forget the worry that possessed her. She returned to her room, humming a little song, much to the surprise of herself. She hushed, however, when she approached the house. The face of the black woman seemed more cruel every time she saw it. She wished she had another place. But, since she had moved in, she decided to make the best of it.
All that week she worked away diligently. She worked to forget what had frightened her away from her friends, and her success was great. She placed the book in scores of homes through her concentrated efforts, and when she returned at night, she was invariably so much exhausted, that she retired early, and fell asleep the minute she touched the bed, and awakened each morning, rested and spurred on to a greater effort.
Sunday came again, and, having grown accustomed to attending church, she knew it would be a long day for her without doing so. She inquired of the people regarding a church, and was embarrassed to have the woman remark:
"Oh, you attend church! Well, there's a big Baptist church down the street and across five blocks; while there's a smaller one two blocks up."
"Thank you," said Mildred so sweetly, that the other looked after her with open mouth.
"I can't make that gal out," she said to her daughter, as they sat together at breakfast.
"I'm glad of it," growled the daughter, without looking up.
"She's a puzzle. Sells a book; but I will never bring myself to believe that she doesn't do something else on the side."
"Evil to him who evil thinks," said her daughter, still looking in her plate. "I think I might possibly have been something, Ma, if you hadn't been so evil. Now what right have you trying to trump up something against that girl. Supposing she ain't straight, does that give you any call for all time tryin' t' make her what she ain' showed herself t' be?" Myrtle was impatient, and her mother had a way of hushing up when she was in this mood.
"She c'n certainly make herself look good," commented the black woman, as Mildred passed out, and went down the street in the direction given to the big church.
"Has got some clothes, too," she commented further, as the other remained silent. "She certainly knows how t' have her men. Don't none of'm bother about where she lives; and 'she goes t' church on Sunday.'" She laughed a low, hard laugh, but did not look in her daughter's direction.
Mildred found the church. It was indeed a large structure. And a large crowd attended it. She sat to one side, where a window was raised, and the soft air floated in above her. As she caught the strains of the mammoth pipe organ, and heard the music from a score or more voices in the choir, she thought of her friends as never before, since she left them. She had told Wilson—who was so good—that some day he'd be the pastor of a big church. A big church like this, where thousands of people attended. Only forty members comprised his congregation; he was delighted, she recalled, when as many as one hundred attended. And she had wanted so much to help Wilson Jacobs and his sister in their great effort. As she recalled how unceremoniously she had left them, and at the very time they needed hermore than ever, she experienced a pain that made her turn in the pew.
She heard the pastor now. He was preaching. She settled herself for a long sermon. That was the kind the Baptists preached, she judged. Soon she found herself listening to the words that came from his lips. He told the story of Damon and Pythias. How glorious, she thought! Pythias was a man—and so was Damon. They were strong men—with, what was that, she was thinking of it all the time? Yes, they were strong men with the strength of their convictions. "Amen" came all about her. And still the pastor was preaching. And he was preaching a good sermon. She heard it all, and it concerned men—and the strength of their convictions.
"To be a Christian," she heard him now, "you must be strong. You must be courageous, and willing to sacrifice for your brother, as was Damon for Pythias. There are those who are Christians with all the feeling—on Sunday. Monday, they are like any other sinner. This version of Christianity and religion, is the reason Hell is getting so many people every day. Sometimes when I think it over, I don't wonder; because, all my life, I have been constrained to observe, that too many people regard Jesus as the individual, and not as the moral. It is the moral of the Christ, his teachings and example, that we are to follow. We do not know him, insofar as the Christian sense is concerned, as an individual. But it is a fact that so many of our preachers wax eloquent, and literally bring down the heavens, and, likewise, great demonstration from the congregation thereby. But, to be a successful practitioner, one must be strong; he must stand for something; to be a successful farmer, a man must be practical; to be a successful business man, requires application and fortitude; to be a good husband, and the father of a happy family, requires strength—in short, to be anything in this life, requires strength! Therefore, dear friends, fancy, if you can, how a weak man can be a Christian. For, to be a Christian, requires the strength of all things."
She was moved. Oh, it was a relief to listen to a goodsermon! And she was glad to hear a Baptist preacher speak so forcibly in such terms. She was not so very well acquainted with this denomination and its pastors; but, from her observation, she had almost concluded that they appealed to the emotion, rather than to strength. She wondered now, as she saw him making gestures in emphasizing his words, whether he had taken any interest in the Y.M.C.A. She decided to find out, if she became an attendant of this church.
When the sermon had closed, she contributed liberally to the table, whereupon she was looked at closely by the man who took collections. When she had reseated herself, and glanced in the direction of the table, she saw the man pointing her out to the pastor, whose eyes, for a moment, rested upon her in curiosity.
When she was leaving the church at the close of the services, someone touched her arm. She turned quickly, with a pang of the heart, recalling with fright, having been touched a week before. She had no need to fear, however. It was the man who had taken collections.
"The pastor would like a word with you, Madam," he said, with his hat in his hand, and all politeness. She blushed, and then, turning, followed him back into the church, where she came upon the pastor, standing among several people.
"Ah," he said, advancing as soon as she drew near. "And this is the young lady we observed. Pardon me, Miss, but you are a stranger among us. We wish you to feel welcome in our church. I hope the service didn't bore you." He was a good man. Her ideal of a true Christian. She replied with embarrassment, and blushed fearfully:
"Oh, no, indeed not, Sir! I enjoyed the service—oh, ever so much! And I am delighted to be made welcome here. I hope to come to services very often—every Sunday. I think you preached a wonderful sermon!" She paused now, too embarrassed to go on. He saw it, and made haste to dispell it. Introductions followed, and invitations were the order.
It was over now, and she was happy. At that moment, she felt at peace with the world. And this included the evil black woman with whom she roomed, and who didn't attend church. She grasped the hands that now sought hers, and murmured kind words. Then she turned, and before her stood the man with the scar. She uttered a low cry, and the next moment, fell prone upon her face, in a dead faint.