Attalia
"Heah! Heah! Don't get on that cah!" cried the conductor the following morning, as Sidney Wyeth was climbing aboard the Jim Crow car of thePalm Leaf Limited, bound for Attalia. He backed up and looked about him in some surprise, and than demanded the reason why he shouldn't get aboard that "cah".
"I thought I tole you once we had an extra heavy train, and no colored passengers allowed; but since I see yu', now I see you ain't the same fellah that was here awhile ago." And then, in a few words, he explained that, owing to the rush of people to the south during those first days of January, the Jim Crow section of the train had been dispensed with for that day. He explained further that a second section of the same train would follow shortly. As it would, in all probability, pass them at Lexington, Sidney, with a mumble of thanks, gathered up his grips and returned to the waiting room, catching the same an hour later.
Kentucky soon lay before him. As far as eye could see, a snowy mantle covered the ground, for it was winter. Presently, countless rows of frame buildings appeared. A new brick station, which extended for some length along the track, gave the traveler welcome.
When the train came to a stop, Sidney's attention was arrested by the sight of a creature that may have been called a man, but gave every evidence of being an ape.
"I wonder," said he, to a fellow passenger, "do those things grow 'round here?"
They both enjoyed a laugh.
He was now in a land in which a portion of the people, apparently, possessed little sense of humor, judging from the way his jokes were accepted.
On the car were two women, among the half dozen or so colored passengers. Sidney overheard one of them say to the other:
"I'm from No'th C'lina; but I be'n in Oklahoma two ye's. I'm go'n back home t' stay. Whe' you from?"
"Tennessee, Knoxville. I'm livin' in Bloomington, Illinois, now."
They looked inquiringly in the direction of Wyeth, and presently he was drawn into the conversation. The latter possessed fine sense of humor, and when he found these people so serious, he took delight in joking.
"Whe' you from?" they inquired, with all that is southern and hospitable in their tone.
"From theRosebud Country, South Dakota," he replied. Their faces were a study. Somewhere in the years gone by they might have heard of that state in school, but theRosebud Countrywas Greek to them.
"O-oh," they echoed, and then looked at each other and back at him. Presently one of them inquired: "Where is that?"
"In Africa," he answered, but they did not catch the joke, and to this day, they speak of the man they met from the Dark Continent.
At that moment, the train was crossing a stream over the highest bridge Sidney had ever seen, with possibly one or two exceptions. It seemed a thousand feet to the crystal water below, and every eye was fixed upon it. The porter, a long, lank, laughing creature, scion of the south andsomeporter, seeing an opportunity to draw attention, rushed up in a Shakesperian pose, and related dramatically, the incident of an intoxicated man, who, while crossing that very stream, fell, of a sudden, smack dab over-board, right into it. In concluding, he looked about him more dramatically than ever, as the many "O-ohs," and "Mys!" greeted his terrible story. And Sidney Wyeth, with eyes wide open, inquired if he got wet.
"Jes' listen at that," they cried in chorus, and the joke was lost.
Down, down the train whirled into the bowels of Dixie. Far away to the east, rising gray and ghostlike above themists, the pine covered Cumberland Range appeared and reappeared in the distance. Outlined like grim sentinels, the scene, to the hero of this story, recalled the many tragedies of which those mountains were the back-ground. The moon-shiners, the feudists, the hill-billies and the rough-necks, always had a haven there.
The puffing of many, many locomotives, the sight of buildings, and the glare of electric lights gave evidence that they had reached a large city. Chattanooga, city of southern trunk lines, and railroad center, now greeted his eye.
He spent one night there, and the next day, resumed his journey toward that most conspicuous of all southern towns, Attalia. It was a hundred and fifty miles and more by rail. The train became more crowded as it neared his destination, while the people grew more cosmopolitan. One of these, a black man, entered at one of the many stations, and greeted Wyeth pleasantly, inquiring where he was headed for. Wyeth answered Attalia, and his companion became very sociable.
"Understand," said Wyeth, after a moment—the other had possessed himself of a portion of the seat upon which he sat—"that Attalia is one of the best towns in the south, and has one of the finest stations in the country."
"La'gest 'n' finest in the wo'ld," said the other, with a show of pride. He was a resident of the state of which Attalia was the capital, and was, furthermore, a preacher. Wyeth didn't care to argue, so let itbethe largest and said:
"That's wonderful! I hear also, that it is a great commercial center as well, and that the city is growing like a mushroom."
"Oh, yeh," said he. "Out-side Noo Yo'k, it's the busiest and best town in the United States. Yes, yeh," he went on thoughtfully, "Attalia is sho a mighty city. Eve' been theah?"
"Not for more than ten years," replied Sidney.
"Indeed! Well, well, I mus' say you'll ha'dly recognize it as the same."
They were now approaching the embryo city. Cloudsof smoke, and the whistling of innumerable locomotives filled the air. Wyeth began making preparation to leave the train, when the other touched him, saying: "No hurry, my deah suh, no hurry. Be's a long time yet befo' we 'rives in de station, be's a long time yet."
"Well, well!" the other exclaimed, in some surprise.
"Oh, Attalia's a mighty city, a great city. Wait until you see Plum street 'n' the sky-scrapers."
Meanwhile the train had arrived, and stood outside the station, through which it had just passed. It was indeed a large and imposing structure. As it rose behind them, under the bright sunlight, with its many cornices glittering as so many diamonds, it was truly a city pride. From where the train stood, the city lay like a great scroll, and vanished in the distance. Smoke and dust filled the air, and hovered over the medley of buildings like a dull, red cloud. Rising in uncertain lines, as if to escape the gloom, a line of sky-scrapers appeared in the background. "Those must be on Plum street," mused Sidney, as he looked about for a conveyance.
Besides being the capital of the state, and the greatest commercial city southeast of the Mississippi, Attalia is the city of conventions, the southern center for insurance, a progressive journalistic city, and a uniform town. It is also a center for the education of Negroes, since it has a number of colleges supported by northern philanthropy. Yet the city is unable to maintain a proficient and complete course of education for its many colored children. Unfortunately for the Negroes, when the white schools are amply provided for, not enough is left for the proper training of its black population, which constitutes one-third of the whole.
Sidney did not fail to take note of the fact, as he passed through the station, that, contrary to previous reports, the colored waiting room was cleanly kept, almost as well as that of the white race. White-coated flunkies flitted about nimbly in prompt attention to the weary traveler, in spite of an air of sleepiness.
Presently, Wyeth made inquiry regarding conveyance. No sooner had he done so, than he was deluged withsolicitations from a score or more cabmen, who seemed literally to raise out of the floor. They would take him in jig-time anywhere he wanted to go.
"But that's it," he said in a confused tone. "I don't know exactly where I want to go."
"Deed, suh, I c'n take yu' any wha', jes' any wha' 'f you'll jes' name de place."
Not being able, apparently, to make him understand that he was a stranger, unacquainted with the city, he presently settled on the charge, bundled in, and ordered to be taken to the best colored neighborhood, and in a few minutes he was being trundled on his way.
They turned into a street, after a block or two, that happened to be one end of the leading business thoroughfare. On a corner post, Sidney read Walthill. The cab took him up this street, surrounded on either side with the many busy shops and people, and it continued until a viaduct was reached. Attalia's broadway was just ahead. It was a wide street, and yet not wide enough. It had been made wider recently, and in making it so, the sidewalks had perforce been made narrower. They had not been sufficiently wide before, and now this threw many pedestrians into the street, where they walked along much slower than in Cincinnati even. As the cab rolled along, Sidney observed that the street was considerably wider after some distance, and this was the business section. To the right and to the left, in fact in every direction, buildings, brick and stone, concrete, stucco and an occasional frame, stood, here low, there high, and still higher, even to twenty stories. As he looked, the setting sun played subtly about the topmost peaks. Presently, the cab turned into Audubon Avenue.
This street sloped down hill for many blocks, and when the cab had made its abrupt turn further on, Sidney observed a large, red, brick building with stone cornices rising skyward. Adjoining this, he caught a glimpse of the outline of still another building, apparently unfinished. Strangely enough, he felt this to be the property of black people. On down the street the cab rolled.
It was a street quite wide enough, and paved in partwith cobble stones, and further on with asphalt. Glancing from right to left, as he proceeded, he saw that it was given over largely to business conducted by Negroes, Jews, Italians and Greeks.
Presently, his wandering gaze took in the proportions of a small book shop, before which stood a tall, lean Negro, whom he surmised rightly to be the proprietor. In the window, displayed conspicuously and artistically, were numerous books by Negro authors which he had read, and, of course, some he had not.
And still he was trundled on. His gaze met the sight of a mammoth stone church, where he saw many colored men standing about the front. Some were brown, while others were yellow, and still others were almost white. They were preachers, he knew, for all were fat. Only preachers were always so, he recalled, and that's why he knew. Across another street and on the same side, they came abreast of the structure that had arrested his attention before. The first portion rose to only two stories, but was so artistically constructed, that it caught his attention, and commanded his admiration. Next to this, the other portion reached to six stories, and, as he came to the front, he viewed it very carefully. On one side of a wide entry, over which was written many words which he could not decipher, was a first class barber shop where black men were being shaved. On the other side, a bank occupied much space, and this, he observed, for the first time in his life, was conducted by black people—no, they were between and betwixt, but that does not matter, they belonged to that race. At the rear he saw elevators moving to and fro, while the entry was filled with these same folk. His bosom swelled at the sight, for he was proud of his people.
"Heah's a place you might look ovah, deah brudder," said the cabman at last, as he halted before an old frame structure, across the front of which was written in large letters
THE BIXLEY HOUSE
Sidney was not favorably impressed.
"How you lak it?" asked the cabman.
"Nix," he replied. "Try another."
The horse was turned about, and they journeyed back over the same street from whence they had come. Two blocks were thus covered, and then they turned into a street that intersected, and stopped before another place less impressive looking. At this point, the cabman suggested a lady friend of his, who kept nice rooms, and to this he was straightway driven. He was satisfied at last, paid his fee, and in due time was fairly well installed.
Sometime later, Sidney went forth on a tour of inspection. The first place he decided to visit was the book store, where he had seen the serious looking man at the front. He turned out to be so, very much so, as Sidney learned in after months. His name was Tompkins, and he was very affable, even pleasant.
"A-hem. Glad to know you, Mr. Wyeth," he said, accepting the introduction. When Sidney stated the nature of his business, he answered his many questions very pompously, and further said, that the colored people of the city had an inclination for literature.
Sidney, however, began to feel, after more questioning, that Tompkins was stretching things, and that his statement, that the colored people were great readers, was largely exaggerated. It was, as we shall see later; but for the present, he thanked Tompkins, and promised to drop in again.
When he had dined at one of the many little restaurants, he wandered back into the business section of the city. He failed to recognize any of the places he had once known, which proved conclusively that Attalia had progressed. He found himself on Plum street again, through which he walked and reentered Walthill, and, after seeing many of the sights, entered a large book store, where he inquired for a volume he had long desired to read—rather, he inquired of a large, fat man, whether he had it. The other looked around a spell, then replied:
"We sho God has," and stood waiting undecidedly. Presently he held it toward Wyeth, who, somewhat hesitatingly, looked irrelevantly through the pages. He was not sure, whether it was customary to take it in his hands.
"All right," he said, and reached in his pocket for the money.
"Do you-ah—wish it?" the other inquired, still hesitating.
"Sure," Sidney replied. "That's why I called for it." He was obviously surprised, and expressed the fact in his eyes. The other observed this, and made haste to apologize:
"Ce'tainly, ce'tainly. Beg yo' pa'don. Not many cullud people buy works of fiction, or anything besides an occasional Bible, school books and stationery. That is why I was undecided whether you wanted to buy it or not."
"Indeed!" echoed Sidney, taken suddenly aback. Then said: "I read a great deal myself."
The clerk observed him closely for a moment, and then said: "You don't live in these parts?"
"No."
"And you read a great deal? Where are you from?"
He was told.
"That accounts for it," said the other, proceeding to wrap up the book.
"Accounts for what?" curiously.
"Your being a reader."
"I don't understand.... Don't the colored people down here read a great deal also?"
"No," said the other simply.
"Well, I declare!" said Sidney in surprise. "I have only two hours or less ago, been told by a book-seller that they do."
"Lordy me! Who told you that?"
"Tompkins. The—"
"Tompkins is a booster. He's all right, though," said the other, with a low, amused laugh. But Sidney's curiosity was aroused, and he continued:
"There's a multitude of teachers and preachers, and I should think they would buy lots of current literature to keep themselves informed for their work; but perhaps they are not so well paid, and get it from the library."The other appeared perplexed for a moment, but said presently, without looking up:
"They have no library of their own, and the city library is not open to colored people, but they do not seem to be very anxious for books. The teachers, and the preachers—" He threw up his hands in a gesture of despair. "You'll find out for yourself. You are, I see, a keen observer, and you'll find out."
Sidney left the store in a reflective frame of mind. "I didn't believe Tompkins," he muttered, as he walked back in the direction of Audubon Avenue. Just then he glanced to his left, into the largest barber shop he had ever seen. It was for white people, but conducted by a colored man. It was not only the largest he had ever seen, but the finest, the most artistic. He forgot, for the time, what he had just been told, and which was causing him some concern, and again he felt his breast swell.
There was much to be learned about his people that he now realized he did not know; and yet, surrounding it all was a peculiar mystery that he decided to solve for himself. He did so, but that remains to be told.
Next Day—Discoveries
At eight-thirty the following morning, Sidney set forth, carrying a small case containing a half dozen books. His purpose was to feel out the city from a practical point of view. He had been told that the better class of Negroes could be found by walking down Audubon Avenue, as far as the residence section. So he followed it until the business had been left blocks to the rear. At the end of the paved street he turned into a house. It was a very sumptuous affair, with an attractive lawn before it. He was told by a passerby that it was the home of a club waiter. He ventured up to the front door, and, upon its being opened by a mulatto woman, apparently the waiter's wife, he turned on his spiel. She listened to it patiently, even speaking some words in praise, as he explained the narrative in brief, but he failed to make a sale. He tried more subtle arts, but in vain. And then she told him frankly that their finances would not permit her to purchase the volume. This excuse always made Wyeth desist from further effort.
He turned into the next house, and the next, and the next, until a half dozen had been made, but with the same result. Since he had invariably sold to three-fourths of the people whom he approached, he was not nearly so confident by this time. These people lived in and owned homes that were a pride, and it was not that they did not wish to buy; people so easily approached can be expected, in a large part, to fall victim; but 'ere long it became more clear to him. They werenotable. It was well that he perceived this; for hope of success was small, if it depended upon purchasers here. Most of the people he found in these homes were dependent upon a very small salary. The cost of living was as high hereas in the north, in fact, the ordinary commodities were higher. The sums they were receiving would not be considered sufficient to care for the same people in the north, therefore, why should it here? This was contrary again to what Sidney had always been told.
Presently, he happened upon a letter carrier. No time was lost here. This man was paid for his work, so he forthwith became a victim of the most artful spiel, and bought the book, cash. This served to spur Sidney to renew his efforts, and he attacked those he approached more vigorously. For a time he met with no more success.
He had a lunch at a nearby restaurant, of pigs feet and sweet potato custard. After an hour, he resumed his efforts. And this began his discoveries.
Entering a yard, he came up the steps of a house from the back way. He passed a refrigerator, and crossed the porch to knock at the door. But—a bottle of Kentucky's John Barleycorn calmly rested upon this same refrigerator.
The door at which he knocked was opened presently, and he was invited to enter, which he did; but, when leaving by the same way, after selling another book for cash, "John" was gone.
At the next house, his customer was a tall woman of middle age and dark skinned. She drew him adroitly into a prolonged conversation, and then bought the book.
Now, Attalia is aprohibitiontown in a southernprohibitionstate. Yes, itis—and itisn't. When Sidney Wyeth left that house that afternoon, he had spent part of what he received for the book, for beer and whiskey. Moreover, he was told that more than seventy-five places on Audubon Avenue were engaged likewise, and in the city all—but that is a matter for conjecture!
Obviously,prohibitiondid notprohibit—but more of this later in the story.
That evening, while dining, he became acquainted with Ferguson and Thurman, who will, for a time, occupy a part in the development of this plot.
Ferguson was a preacher, but at this time—and for some time—had not preached. He admitted painting tobe more profitable from a financial point of view. He complained, however, that if the "New Freedom" continued in power much longer at Washington, and with the way things "was a-goin'," he would have to give that up and go back to pickin' cotton.
"They ain' nothin' in preachin' no mo', that's a sho thing."
"I do not agree with you on that score," said Sidney; "for, from what I have learned already in regard to these parts, there must apparently be more money in preaching than anything else, judging from the number of preachers. And how fat they all appear!" Ferguson looked up quickly at this remark, and as quickly down at himself.
"I didn' get this flesh preachin', I assuah you," he retorted, with flushed face. And after a pause, he went on with some heat:
"But that's what don' sp'iled preachin'; too many lazy nigga's a-graftin offa de people!" But Ferguson, as Wyeth learned later, was something of a pessimist, and predicted all kinds of deplorable things. And it was at this moment that a dejected creature made his appearance. He was bald headed, bowlegged, but, notwithstanding these possible deficiencies in his make-up, aggressive. His name was Thurman, and, said he, between bites of sweet potato pie:
"Aw, nigga;—youah allus a-p'dictin'—som'thin' awful!—To—heah you tell it,—since the democrats—has got int' powah—cawse a buncha crazy nigga's—didn' know how t' vote—at dat aih convention in Chicawgo—the world is—liable to end tomorra'!"
"It mought!—It mought;—'n' 'f it did—you be one—a d' fust—t' bu'n in hell—too; but don't you 'dress me lak dat no mo'—in sech distressful terms! You autta be 'shamed a-yo' se'f."
And he munched pie for a time, uninterrupted by speech.
Thurman only grunted unconcernedly.
"What are the prospects of the colored people down here at the present time?" inquired Sidney, hoping to relieve the tension; but he could have rested easily onthis score, for, as he learned later, they carried on that way every night. That was their diversion; but Thurman was now heard from.
"HELL!" he answered calmly.
"Good Lawd man!" cried Ferguson shocked. "What's comin' ovah you!"
"Lyin' 'n' stealin'; drinkin' cawn liquah 'n' gittin' drunk; bein' run in, locked up and sent to d' stock-ade 'n' chain-gang;" he resumed, ignoring Ferguson's shock entirely. Whereupon, Ferguson looked more distressed than ever; but only wrinkled his face in a helpless frown, and said nothing.
"Gee!" cried Sidney; "but that's an awful prospect." All this time Thurman had not smiled, but accepted everything as a matter of course, from the way he partook of sweet potato pie.
"You must not pay any attention to Mr. Thurman, Mister," said the proprietress, from across the room. She was a patient-faced, sleepy, short woman. And now, for the first time Thurman moved in his seat, and took exception to the words. Said he, somewhat loudly, and emphasizing his words with a raised hand:
"Pay no 'tention! Pay no 'tention; wull I reckon yu'd bettah. Hump," he deliberated, pausing long enough to fill his mouth with more potato: "Pay no 'tention when yu' know yu'se'f that Jedge Ly'les 's a sentincin' mo' nigga's to the stock-ade 'n' chain-gang than he's eve' done befo'. 'N' a good reason he has fo' doin' so too! Lyin', doity, stinkin', stealin' nigga's," he ended disgustedly.
Presently, before anyone had time to deny his sweeping assertion, he resumed:
"Mis' M'coy, yu' know dem taters I got frum you tuther night?"
"I rember them quite well, Mr. Thurman," she replied, resignedly.
"I took them taters home 'n' put 'm in muh trunk, locked it 'n' put th' key in muh pocket 's I allus do. Now what yu' think happened?" he halted, and surveyed the atmosphere with serene contempt. "That low down li'l' nigga in th' room wi' me, sneaks int' that trunkwid a duplicate key, 'n' steal eve' last one'm!Jes' think of it!" he emphasized, with a terrible gesture. "Stole eve' las' one uv'm! Then talk about nigga's!"
"We did'n' say nothin' 'bout nigga's would'n' steal, man!" complained Ferguson. "You jes' nache'lly went offa yo' noodle widout 'casion."
During all this conversation, a girl sat opposite Sidney. She was a dark, sweet-faced maiden, with an expression that was inviting. Sidney, happening to glance for the first time into her face, smiled and nodded. She smiled back pleasantly. Ferguson and Thurman continued their harrangue.
"They are a pair," ventured Sidney, to no one in particular, but the girl smiled and inquired:
"Who are they?"
"I never saw them before," he replied.
She observed him closely, and said presently, in a very demure voice:
"Indeed. Ah—then—you don't live here?"
"No," he answered, and told her.
"O-oh, my," she echoed tremulously. "It must be fine away up in the great northwest. And—do you expect to be here—er, some time?"
"For a few months at least." Whereupon she inquired as to his business, and he likewise inquired of hers.
"I am employed in service," she said.
Now it happened that Sidney had, a few months before, met an agent in Dayton, who persisted in canvassing nowhere else but among this class. He thought of this, and made inquiry. He was told in reply, that practically all the domestics were colored.
"I would like to see the book you sell," she said, presently. "If you could bring it to the number where I am employed, and if, after seeing it I am pleased with it, I would buy one." He could not have wished for anything better, and told her so. Elevating his eye brows in pleased delight, he said:
"I most assuredly will. Only tell me how I may get there—I'll make a note of it," and he immediately did so.
"Catch a Plum Street car," she directed, "and get offat West Eleventh Street, walk a block and a half west until you see a large house numbered 40. They are Jews, so, should you lose the number, inquire for Hershes'. You may call any time after two P.M."
"I will be there tomorrow at that hour if the sun rises, and if it doesn't, I'll be there anyway," he laughed. She was amused.
"All right," she said, and took her leave.
The next day was beautiful; the sun shone brightly, and the air was soft and fragrant. Plum Street, besides being the leading business thoroughfare, is likewise the most imposing resident district, at its extreme end. Large cars, modern and built of steel, thread their way, not only to the city limits, but they penetrate far into the country beyond.
And it was aboard one of these modern conveyances that Sidney Wyeth reclined, observing the size and grandeur of the many magnificent residences, that stood back from either side of the street in sumptuous splendor. Magnolias and an occasional palm adorned the yards, while green grass and winter flowers filled the balmy air with a delightful odor.
He alighted and found himself very soon in the rear of No. 40. Success was his, for he sold to the girl, and three more at the same number, and the next, and the next—and still the next, until darkness came. Thus he came in touch with people who were more able, and positively, more likely to buy.
A few days after this he dropped in on Tompkins.
"Hello, my friend!" that worthy one said. "Why haven't you been in to see me? I've been thinking of you."
"Indeed," said Sidney, in glad surprise. "I've been too busy," he concluded shortly.
"Too busy!" echoed the other in evident surprise. And then he waited expectantly.
"Oh, sure," Sidney smiled, looking over Tompkins' supply of books, mostly Bibles, for such was the most Tompkins sold, as he learned.
"Been selling lots of books?..."
"Hundred and sixty-five orders in eight days."
"Great goodness," Tompkins exclaimed. He dropped all work for a moment, and stood with mouth wide open. Then he inquired artfully: "Have youdeliveredany?"
"Fifty copies last Saturday and Monday."
"Man!Are you telling me the truth!" he exclaimed dubiously.
"Isellbooks," Sidney replied calmly.
Tompkins resumed his work in a very thoughtful mood. Presently, as Sidney was leaving he called: "Say, drop in and see me some day when you have time to talk—a long talk. I'minterestedin you."
And He Never Knew
Weeks had passed. Mildred Latham could be seen sitting dejectedly by the window of her small bed-room, gazing down a street that led to the river. Every day since that next day when she had been told that a man had called to see her, and instinct told her it was Sidney Wyeth, she had sat thus. On this day, however, things were different. There had been a change—a great change in her life; for she was today, and henceforth, free, in a sense, but this is further along in the story.
Presently she picked upThe Tempest. This was nothing unusual. Although she had read it in two days after she had received it, she had, in the weeks that had just passed, picked it up and reread certain parts of it. But, as a change had come since the last time she held it, she read it today with unusual interest. After reading for a few minutes, she laid it aside, took from the table near a map of South Dakota, and for a time studied the part of it across which was writtenThe Rosebud Country. She allowed her mind to wander meditatively back to the past. She saw this land as it was when the country was young; when the bison and the native Indian held sway; when mighty herds roamed across those plains, molested little by the red man. She picked up the book and read a little more. For scores of years they had lived and died, and at the end of this regime, came the inevitable white man, the greatest race of conquerors the world has ever known, without doubt. And behold the change of a few short years! Nature in wild profusion, then materialism in the extreme. They, these conquerors, had almost changed the world. And among those thousands that crossed the densely settled prairies, and made conquest ofThe Rosebud Country, were only a few black men.Judging from this book, they could be counted upon the fingers of one hand. One of these was Sidney Wyeth.
Yes, he had gone forth, hopeful and happy and gay, and had become a Negro pioneer. So he began, and did a man's part in the development of that now wonderful country. Thus she imagined it, and felt it must have been. Itcouldnot have been otherwise, because onlymenwent west, to the wild and undeveloped—and stayed.Hehad stayed for ten years. How he spent those years, Mildred Latham could imagine. Through the pages of that narrative, she had followed his fortunes to the climax—the culmination of a base intrigue. What a glorious feeling it must be, she felt, to be a pioneer; to blaze the way for others, that human beings ever after, to the end of time, may live and thrive by the right of others' conquest! He had plowed the soil, turned hundreds of acres of that wild land into a state of plant productivity, which should bear fruit for posterity. And if Sidney Wyeth had in the end failed, in a way it was only after he had done a man's part in behalf of others.
But then came the evil.
In the lives of all men, the greatest thing is to love. Sidney Wyeth had hoped, at some time, to gain this happiness, the love of a woman. Had he earned it? Apparently not, from another's point of view. That was all so singular, she thought, time and again. For the evil creature, evil genius, was a preacher, a minister of the Gospel. "I can't quite reconcile myself to that part of it, yet I should," she mused, now aloud, "formyfather is a preacher."
Mildred Latham's thoughts drifted from Sidney Wyeth for a time, and reverted to her own life, and that of her father, who was a preacher. Soon, they wandered back to Sidney, to his life of Hell—the work of an evil power—the torn soul upon its rack of torture—and finally the anguish—always the anguish, followed by the dead calm of endless existence.
Yet during their acquaintance, he never spoke of the past. No word of censure, or of unmanly criticism, passed his lips.
So Mildred Latham could feel in a measure relieved, for she had secrets,—and she kept them all to herself, too.
Directly, she shook off the depression, and rose to her feet.
"It is all settled," she said half aloud, and, going to her trunk, laid the book in the tray, lifted the latter out, and, reaching to the bottom, took up a small steel box and set it on the dresser. She then inserted a small key, opened it, and took therefrom a heavy, legal document. Examining it for a time, she put it into her hand bag, locked the box, returned it to its place, replaced the tray and locked the trunk again. This done, she slipped into a street suit, and, gathering up the handbag firmly, left her room, locked the door, stepped into the street, and caught a car that took her up town, where she alighted before a mammoth office building. She entered this, took an elevator and got off on the twentieth floor, entering the office of a prominent law firm. This visit had been pre-arranged.
An hour later, she left a large bank on the ground floor, returned to her room, took the box from her trunk, and replaced, not the legal document, but a long, green slip of paper.
"All is now settled on that score," she whispered drearily, and then busied herself mechanically about the room. Again she fell into that fit of meditation. She could not—try as she might—shake off the despondency. And always, in the background somewhere, lurked Sidney Wyeth. Was this because she felt she would never see him again? She couldn't, she knew, as she recalled her secret.
Suddenly she threw herself weakly across the bed, and sobbed for hours. "Sidney, my Sidney," a careful listener might have heard her lips murmur. But she was alone. Perhaps that made it so hard, for she was alone now, always alone.
At last she got up and bathed her face, as she had done many times before.
Always, too, she had a presentiment down in her heart, that somewhere or somehow, some day fate would bekind and send him again into her life. And then would she be ready?
O that persistent question!
Now Mildred Latham was not a weak woman. Far from it. In spite of the secret, which was everher burden, she was not the kind to give up without struggle. This was perhaps the cause, in a degree, of the suffering she endured. It was this sorrow which Sidney Wyeth had observed, and wished to dispell. "If I could only have permitted him to do so," she said, so many, many times. But alwaysThe Barrier.
"I will sell his book henceforth for my living," she said to herself at the end of that day, as she had often said before. "And in doing that, I shall ever live with his memory—God bless him!" For Mildred Latham loved Sidney Wyeth.
And he never knew.
B.J. Dickson
When Sidney Wyeth's work among the domestics was an assured success, he decided to rent desk space in the large office building referred to, get a typewriter, do a little circularizing, and concentrate his efforts upon securing agents elsewhere, for the purpose of distributing his work.
Accordingly, one Sunday morning, after being told that the custodian of the building could be found in his office on the fourth floor, he betook himself thither.
But let us pause for a moment, and retrace a long span of years, that we may interest ourselves in the history of this same structure. For it has a fascinating tale to tell.
Before freedom came to the black people of the south, pious worship had begun. Despite the fact that it was an offense to teach Negroes during that dark period, or in any way to be responsible for allowing them to teach themselves, many, nevertheless, did learn to read; and perhaps because the slave-owners were inclined to be God-fearing people, they did not, in a general sense, openly object when they found many of their slaves worshipping. So it happened that, since men were in the majority of those who learned to read, the first channel to which they diverted this knowledge was preaching. And since, as above mentioned, they were not always forbidden, worshipping the Christ among Negroes had been practiced long before freedom came. Therefore, after freedom, preaching became the leading profession among the men.
The reader is perhaps well acquainted with the pious emotion of the Negro; our story will not dwell at length upon this; but the fact that, to become a preacher as aprofessional pursuit, was the easiest and most popular vocation; and from the fact, further, that Negroes had become emotionally inclined from fear in one sense and another, so that it is inherent, preaching and building churches swept that part of the country like wildfire.
Of the different sects, the Baptist seemed to require the least training in order to afford the most emotion. All that was required, in a measure, to become a Baptist preacher, was to be a good "feeler" and the practiced ability to make othersfeel.
History proves that people of all races (when still not far removed from savagery) are inclined toward display. This is an inherent nature of Negroes. Indeed, Negroes of today, in many instances those who have graduated from the best colleges, seem yet largely endowed with this trait, as this story will show later.
So, shortly after preaching and shouting became the custom, another feature entered which permitted these people more "feeling," and this was lodges, secret societies and social fraternities. These, like everything else—omitting possibly the extreme "feeling" exercised during religious worship—was patterned after white custom; but, insofar as the Negro is concerned, a great deal more stress and effort and feeling was put into the things mentioned. In a sense, they were the Negroes all.
Naturally, these many lodges, etc., must have some object. And that object for years, was irrevocably, to care for the sick and bury the dead.
Our story will be concerned with the United Order of the AAASSSSBBBBGG, which, for the purpose of this story, will answer as well as the real name, and will be much easier to refer to.
The AAASSSSBBBBGG, is one of the oldest lodges in Dixie, having been in operation among the black people for generations. And its great object was, until a few years ago, to "ce'h fo' the sick 'n' bu'y the dead."
In the course of events, there had been elected to a very conspicuous position in this same lodge, a man with a square jaw. He was of medium height and build, but aggressive, very much so, in fact, a born fighter. Happily, the latter trait was peculiarly necessary to the one who held the office of grand secretaryship in this lodge—and to this office Dickson fell heir.
Now Dickson was no ordinary Negro. He was ambitious, not the kind that is likely to be satisfied with the past duties of the order. Because, and it might be well to mention so strange a coincidence: This lodge had not been able to spend all the money that had come into the treasury for burial purposes. So the reserve totalled $40,000 cash. It was confidentially whispered that the officers, a united click, preceding Dickson, had calmly planned, when this amount reached $50,000, to grab it all, and start a colony—for themselves, of course, in Africa. But, alas! enters Dickson, the determined, the ambitious. And if anything can serve to disturb an order like this, it is ambition. In all the years of its existence, the slogan had been to crucify ambition religiously, but Dickson crucified them. At this time, at least, they were relegated to the scrub timber, where they lay dreaming of a time never to return, for "the old order changeth."
In addition to the office of grand secretary, Dickson was an editor, and before the moss-backs had realized it, some years before, he was editing the official mouthpiece,The Independent. They thought little of this, in fact, they didn't care, because, in the first place, no one else cared for that job; it required too much thought to edit a paper that the members would be likely to read.The Independenthad come out at spasmodic intervals, reporting, in detail, the death of Miss Sallie Doe, "a member in good standing, who had met her Jesus on the altar of evermore;" or, that Jim Johnson, another member, "had been incarcerated in the county jail, along with many others, for disturbing the peace;" or, that at the revival at the Antioch Baptist church, of which Brother Jasper was the pastor, "a soul stirring revival is going on with scores 'gittin' right with Jesus'," etc., etc., etc. But its greatest ambition, apparently, had been to come before the people, guaranteed not to be read.
So fancy, when, after getting control, Dickson "did itall over."The Independentbecame "some" paper. It fairly ripped and snorted. It took up the instances of officers that were sluggish and backward and slow, and made great headlines. "Whew!" the members cried, who had never read the paper before. While others declared: "Ah allus knowed dat nigga's crazy!" But everybody began reading the paper. They objected and scrambled and stewed about what was said, called him the biggest liar, bull-dozer, and everything else, but read the paper. So the circulation doubled and trebled and quadrupled, and then doubled all over again, until it was reaching every "live" member of the order. Dickson didn't care whether it reached the others or not, and he told them so; moreover, he said—in not so many words, but it was read between the lines,—that they could go to Hell. They took the paper then.
There came a time at last when the treasury was reeking with Sam's good gold, and Dickson had more enemies than could be counted readily. But Dickson was wise. He had looked deeply into the condition and inborn weakness of these black creatures, and had surmised that they only patronized each other when they mutually hated. If they loved one another, they were allowed to starve to death undisturbed.
He saw that Negroes would only build and occupy an office when the white man refused to rent him anything but the attic—and not even that sometimes. So, with a flare, a blaze and a roar, out cameThe Independent, and said that the AAASSSSBBBBGG lodge had decided to erect an office building of its own. It was to be six stories in height, of brick, with stone cornices, and what not. Moreover, a picture of it completed appeared on the front page ofThe Independent. That finished it! They prepared to send him to the mad-house, and forthwith gathered for that purpose, which was what Dickson wanted. They arrived in twos, threes and fours, and then in droves. To the tune and number of thousands they came and were met (?) by a brass band! And away went the music: "Ta-ra—ta—ta-ti-rip-i-ta-ta-ta-tu!" It got into the Negro blood. Music, of all things, always haseffect. Before they were aware of it, they were cake-walkin' and doin' the grizzly bear, and it has also been whispered confidentially, that two preachers, high and mighty in the order, "balled the jack." The music stopped for a spell. Through the crowd—the black crowd—came a cry, "Arrah! Arrah! for the Negro, the greatest race since the coming of Christ!" And it was answered: "Arrah! Arrah! So we is. Who said we wasn't!" "The white man!" came back the reply. "He's a liah!" went back the words heatedly. "If so, then," came back, "why do we continue to do our business in his attic? Why?" This was a shock. But before recovery, sayeth the cry: "$50,000 odd we have in the treasury to care for the sick and bury the dead! With $60,000 more we can have a building all our own, with elevators and mirrors and a thousand things, with our own girls to tickle the type and scratch on the books." A wild dream flitted across the minds of these black men, the underdogs, the slaves for a thousand years; their wives, the cooks and the scrub women; their daughters, the lust of the beast. And then from somewhere came another cry. It was soft and low, but firm and regular. It came from a body of women, black women. "With our hands, from the white people's pot, we will give unto thee thousands, and back again to the pots we will go and slave, until our old bones can slave no more, and pay, and pay until a mighty building, the picture of which we have seen, shall stand as a monument to the effort of BLACK PEOPLE!"
And now there was a scramble to the front! It was a scramble as had never been seen in Attalia before! $60,000 was fairly thrown over the heads of one another to B.J. DICKSON, the grand secretary.
Six months and a year had elapsed. And the monument stood serenely in the sunlight, as Sidney Wyeth came down the street that Sunday morn. To the side of this monument stood another, imposing and grand, not yet finished, but soon to be, and it had all come through the indirect efforts of B.J. Dickson. They were notsatisfied with the one, when they learned theycoulddo things, but needed another—so they subscribed the necessary funds without effort, and built the other.
Before entering, Sidney walked across the street and viewed the structure from the other side.
Thus he saw his people, as others see them.
For his life had been spent, for the most part, in white civilization.
As he surveyed it carefully, he was relieved to find that, to a stranger, there was nothing to indicate that colored people occupied the building.
An intelligent looking man came out of it, and, crossing the street, bowed casually to Wyeth. The latter, returning it, inquired regarding the building and Dickson, and he was told the following:
"Yes, while there are many who do not give Dickson the credit, he is, nevertheless, the man who has made all that possible."
"Everything is well kept apparently," said Wyeth. "That is unusual for our people."
"That's Dickson," said the other. And then aside he inquired:
"Have you ever been through it?"
"I am just going," said Sidney.
"You should have done so during the week. Any time before one o'clock Saturday."
"Why one o'clock Saturday?"
"Because everything ceases at that time."
"Indeed," Wyeth commented in wide surprise. "System?"
"That's it. That's Dickson."
"Indeed! Does he have charge of everything?"
"Indirectly, yes. That is, he does not own everything, of course not; but it's like this: Do you observe how everything is in order?" Wyeth did, and waited.
"Well," resumed the stranger: "You can bet your boots that it would not be that way, if it were left to those in the buildings altogether. No; they would—some of them—get into a fight, knock out a window or two, and bring a pillow from home, to stick in the hole. Thefirst time it rained and blew in at the window, the plaster would fall. Then, others, posing more than anything else, would have a crap game going on and sell whiskey on the side. As for the letters in gold which you observe on the windows, they are Dickson's ideas. Negroes would use chalk naturally. But Dickson won't stand for anything like that. When anything is amiss, he goes at them, as for instance, those stores in the front. Many of the proprietors, when they empty a box, instead of putting it to the rear, would stick it in the front, right up where every passerby could see it. To augment it further, they would allow dust and dead flies to collect. Cobwebs too and perhaps, pile a few old rags up on the top of it. But B.J. goes to them, as I said, invites them across the street, and shows it to them. He takes them up to one end of the building, and walks them to the other, and allows them to see it as the casual observer would. If he doesn't think or consider this sufficient, he takes them up town, and allows their gaze to compare it with the way things are conducted by the first class white people. And then he says: 'Now just look at it! That's nigga's. Nigga's proper. You conduct your place so that every stranger, seeing the city and the sights, when he gets before this building, realizes at one glance that Negroes occupy it.'"
Sidney laughed a low, amused laugh. The other continued:
"That's why you see things as they are. Our people are not bad to handle. They are, in fact, the most patriotic of all races, and are surely anxious for the success of each other, only they don't know it. They are like a herd without a leader. Dickson's a leader over there."
"Ah!" thought Sidney, "that's where it comes in. The race needs leaders!" Again the other was speaking.
"Of course, we have a great many that would be leaders, oh, yes, indeed! Over there in that building are many who are pining their lives away. They are confident they are leaders, and are exasperated because they have no following. They hate the people because they are notawake to the fact. They declare, that they haveeven been to school and graduated from college and know everything, whichaloneshould put them at the head. For some peculiar reason, they cannot realize that leaders are born, not made.
"Now you leave the building and wander about over the city, and you will find a score or more of these would-be leaders, all with the same delusion in regard to themselves. They include, for the most part, teachers, preachers and doctors. They are so wrapped up in this idea, that they are utterly incapable of appreciating what the race is actually doing, and trying to do. Of these, perhaps the worst are the teachers. This is probably because they are paid by the county, and do not have to cater to the masses for their support." He paused, and extended his hand. "Glad to know you, stranger, and good-by."
Sidney Wyeth watched him disappear, and then crossed the street to the building, and entered.
"Oh, You Sell Books"
One beautiful day, thePalm Leaf Limitedcarried another passenger southward, aboard the Jim Crow car. It was Mildred Latham, and her destination required a change at Chattanooga. Turning her course, however, she went west and alighted at a town, happily located upon the banks of the Mississippi. It was a large metropolis, a fac-simile of a sister city, Attalia.
Miss Latham left the depot at once, and proceeded to Beal Street, which was entirely occupied by Negroes. She entered a restaurant, but soon came out, and started in search of a room. However, the land-ladies all told her they preferred men, so she decided to look elsewhere.
A car put her off at a corner far removed from Beal Street. She passed down a clean, quiet street, lined on either side by comfortable homes occupied by colored people. She paused before a small but handsome stone church. It was the First Presbyterian, so the cornerstone read. To the side, and back from the sidewalk, completely surrounded by vines, was the parsonage, at least she took it for such. And so it proved to be. She hesitated a moment, then, with an air of finality, she opened the gate, entered the yard, and mounted the steps.
The door was opened by a kindly lady, whom she judged to be the pastor's wife.
"Pardon me, please," began Miss Latham demurely, "but I am a stranger, recently arrived in the city, and have been unable to secure lodging. I noted the church next door, and surmised that, if this is the parsonage, and if the pastor is in, he might assist me." She hesitated, and for a time seemed at a loss how to proceed. In the meantime, the other surveyed her critically. Strangewomen were always regarded with suspicion. Finally she replied kindly, swinging the door wide:
"Come in, my dear child. You look tired and surely need rest. You must have come a long way. The pastor of the church you refer to is not in for the present, and, I regret to say, is out of the city, and is not expected back for several days. I am his sister, however, and will help you all I can." She paused as she placed a rocker at the disposal of the stranger, and relieved her of coat and hat.
"You are very kind," said Mildred gratefully. "I hardly know how to thank you."
"Please do not speak of it, my dear. As I am alone, you may stay with me until you have found the kind of place you desire." She was silent and thoughtful for a moment, and then asked softly, "where are you from?"
"Cincinnati."
"I do declare!" exclaimed the other in mild surprise. "I have relatives there; but I have never seen the city myself."
The stranger appeared relieved.
"And do you expect to be in the city long?"
"I cannot say. I am here to sell a book,The Tempest, a western story, by a Negro author. And, of course, it depends upon that, as to how long I shall stay."
"Oh, you sell books." Mildred did not correct her. "I used to sell books, and, indeed I liked it. I am fond of reading. I am anxious to see the book you speak of when it is convenient, since I have observed advertisements of it."
"It is a nice book," Mildred commented. "And as soon as I can have access to my trunk at the depot, I shall be delighted to let you see and read it."
"I shall indeed be pleased, I assure you," the other smiled back sweetly. "I am always so interested when it comes to books, that I wish, when you have had something to eat, you would tell me the story ofThe Tempest."
"It will be a pleasure; but you need not fix me lunch, for I just ate a short time ago, as I came from the station. So, if you now wish, I will tell, in as few words as possible, and as best I can, the story of this book.
"The story opens up on the banks of the river, near this city.... It concerns a young man, restless and discontented, who regarded the world as a great opportunity. So he set forth to seek his fortune.... Thus it began, but shortly, it led through a maze of adventures, to a land in the west. It is, perhaps, the land of the future; a land in which opportunity awaits for courageous youths, strong men, and good women.... This land is calledThe Rosebud Indian Reservation. It lays in southern South Dakota, and slopes back from the banks of the 'Big Muddy', stretching for many miles into the interior beyond. It is a prairie country. No trees, stumps, rocks or stones mar the progress of civilization. So the white men and only a few blacks unloaded at a town on or near the frontier. I think it is called Bonesteel. And then the mighty herd of human beings flocked and settled over all that broad expanse, claiming it by the right of conquest.
"Among these many, conspicuous at the front, was the hero of this narrative. He came into a share, a creditable share, and, although far removed from the haunts of his own, and surrounded on all sides by a white race, he was duly inoculated with that spirit which makes men successful.
"Time went on, and in a few years there was no more reservation, but it becameThe Rosebud Country, the land of the optimist.
"Then, of course, came to him that longing, that dream, the greatest of all desires, the love of a woman. But of his own race there were none, and he did not feel it right to wed a white wife. But at last, he found one of his own blood. She was kind, good and refined, but in conviction she was weak, without strength of her own. She loved him—as such women love, but to her father, a preacher, she was obedient,—subservient. They lived for some months in happiness, until that other—her father—came to visit them. These two, her father and her husband, differed, both in thought and action, and, naturally out of sympathy. In short, they disagreed upon all points, including the daughter, the wife, and atlast the mother, for in time such she became. And that, strange to say, instead of being the birth of a new freedom, was the end of all things.
"So o'er this land of the free there came a change, a sad change, that led to the end, the end ofThe Tempest." She paused, and allowed her eyes to remain upon the rug before her, while the other listened for more. Presently she said:
"And was it her father—who stooped tothis?"
The other nodded and remained silent, with downcast eyes.
Mildred Latham could not have said more had she wished—just then. A peculiar feeling came over her, and her mind went back to a night not long before.
The Office of the Grand Secretary
When Sidney Wyeth walked into the office of B.J. Dickson that Sunday morning, he found him alone, engaged in reading. When a step sounded at the door, he laid the paper aside and glanced searchingly at the intruder. Wyeth saw before him, the man of determination: the square jaw, the determined set of the neck; otherwise he would not attract any particular attention in a crowd. But this was B.J. Dickson, of whom he had heard much since coming to Attalia, and even before.
"Mr. Dickson?" he inquired, respectfully. The other nodded, and pointed to a chair.
"You have charge of the renting here, so I understand?"
"Yes."
"I'd like to get desk space for the present, and later on perhaps I might require an office."
"I see," mused the other, surveying him meditatively. "Well, we have nothing left in this building; but I think there are two or three rooms not yet rented in the building you have observed in course of construction. What kind of business are you engaged in?"
"Books," replied Sidney, simply.
"M-m. Well, I can't give you any information as to desk space. You can, however, see Morton tomorrow. His office is on the second floor, the board of trade. He can enlighten you on that score."
"What do you receive for the rooms?"
"$12.50 a month."
"That is quite reasonable," said Wyeth. The other looked up with a pleased expression.
"You're one of the few who have made such a remark," he commented.
"Indeed! That would be considered cheap in my section of the country," said Wyeth.
"Where is that?"
Wyeth told him.
"Oh well, you come from a place where the people are accustomed to something. These down here have been used to nothing but an attic or an old frame shack, a fireplace with wind blowing in at the cracks, and, of course, cannot appreciate steam heat, electric lights, first class janitor service, and other modern conveniences that go with such a building."
At this point, several men entered the room, most of whom were distinguished looking, compared with the average Negro. Wyeth was introduced to them, and learned that two were physicians, one a dentist, another a lawyer, and still another was a letter carrier. The stranger was soon the object of their many questions. They were answered deliberately, for Sidney Wyeth was well informed.
"What do you think of the colored people in the south, now that you see them yourself?" he was asked. He noted the pride and air of dignity along with the question.
"I am considerably impressed with what I have seen, I am sure," Wyeth began cautiously. "It is unnecessary to say that this is probably the most commodious structure owned and occupied by our people, in any city. And, I have noted with a great deal of pride that you have in the building, also, some half a dozen large insurance companies, owned and conducted successfully by members of this race. All of this and other creditable things, too numerous to mention, count for much in the solution of the race problem. Much more could be said in praise, but I do not consider it necessary. And still, with so much to their credit, there is much also to their discredit—very much. I refer to this, since it is a thing that can be remedied, and positively should be. To begin with, the people as a whole, do not read nearly as much as in the north, and are poorly informed in matters of grave concern and of general interest." He paused, and saw that they were puzzled. They were, all of them,taken aback. They looked at each other, and then began to gather color and heat as well.
Sidney Wyeth had stirred, by his last words, his criticism, the hornet's nest.
"And what, may I ask," inquired one of the physicians icily, "has given you that impression?"
"Well, many things," Sidney resumed calmly. "For instance: I am in the habit of buyingThe Climax, which is, as you know, published in New York, and edited by a man who used to be professor of sociology in one of your colleges. Now, in all the places I have been" (he didn't refer to the north, realizing that it would cause more argument not bearing on the discussion), "I have found this magazine much in circulation among our people; but here, at only one place have I found it. You appreciate that the Negro population of this town is to exceed, without doubt, sixty thousand. It receives but fifty copies a month, and does not sell all ofthem—of course there are annual subscribers; but, so there are everywhere else as well."
"Now—" all began with upraised hand, but Sidney stopped them with:
"I've made this remark, so hear me out, that I may show that I am justified in making it."
They were quiet, but impatient.
"You have several large drug stores, doing a creditable business in the city. Omitting a few operated by white men in Negro neighborhoods, you will hardly find one that does not carry a goodly stock of magazines for his trade. Not a colored drug store carries one. Tompkins, other thanThe Climax, does not sell any. Now, gentlemen, with such a population as you have," (he was very serious now), "is it consistent to believe that these black people read in proportion to what they should, when there is so little current demand for literature?"
The outburst that followed this was too intense to describe. The composure that was in keeping with their appearance and training was, for the time, lost. Everybody had something to say to the contrary, and, at the same time.
"I have five hundred dollars worth of books in my house," cried Dickson.
"I takeThe Climax, and have since it began publication," cried still another.
"Derwin, its editor, is a traitor to his race, and I can prove it," persisted another.
"Theah ain' nothin' in it, nohow," yelled another whose English was not the best.
"It's the only magazine edited by, and in the interest of this race," retorted Wyeth; "and has a circulation more than double that of any other publication by Negroes since freedom."
"You northern Negroes think a whole lot of Derwin, and are imbued with his point of view," cried Dickson; "but we had him down here before he went north, and we know him for what he is," and he looked about him meaningly.
The others gave sanction.
"He's the author of the only book in sociology, that stands out as a mark of Negro literature. The book is a classic, and is one of possibly two or three from the pen of a Negro since Dumas."
It is difficult to foretell where the argument may have ended, but Sidney slipped out. As the door closed behind him, a mighty roar of indignation came over the transom. "He's a liar." "He's crazy!" "Like all from that section!"
When these men met Wyeth afterward, and for some time, they did not recognize him. He was not surprised. They are, and the best of them, in a measure, still incapable of accepting criticism as it is meant. Our story will go to prove this more conclusively later on; but for the present, Sidney Wyeth had made friends....