CHAPTER EIGHT

Mildred's life was a diversion that was much to her liking. She was learning the greatest lesson a woman could learn—the study of human nature.

On Sunday, when she met others (Wilson Jacobs' church had for its members the more thoughtful and respectable Negro element), she was the recipient of many surprised expressions. They were, she invariably found, surprised that she canvassed among the servant class. She did not appraise them of the practical side of it; in fact, of the masses, these were more able to buy. She saw, as the Sundays went by, that much of the display was a pretense. Many of those who expressed such surprise were themselves unwilling to buy a book. Always she found (and especially among the teachers, whom she thought the most pretentious) some artful excuse. Most of them had a library which contained many books, but few by their own race. They had the works of a poet who had died some years ago; they also had a copy of a book or so by the principal of Tuskegee. And then, one day she learned, from a most reliable and unbiased source: "That those people bought the works of the now dead poet, because his name had become a fetish. The white people had accepted these men's work and called them great. Therefore, the Negroes had accordingly followed suit. So the Negro author must first get a white audience, which will laud the greatness of his pen, and then the Negroes will buy, calling the book great also."

Miss Latham found conditions thus, and governed her work accordingly. But, as time went on, she met surprises. They did not buy The Tempest, but they read it. She found it borrowed among them all. They never offered to buy it, but they read it nevertheless.

She did not understand this at first.

So she found the masses, often amusing, to say the least, but often with more active race regard. They had the many faults of ignorance; easy to influence into giving an order, they were still more ready to back out, lie out of taking it. Some of those who took orders, and even the books, did not read, she learned. While others could read, but did not; but when she told them all the story, the story of her hero, for now she held him thus, they were all thrilled, and inspired. Thus it happened that many bought the book because it was by a Negro, and said as much.

Mildred Latham succeeded in her work. And with her success, there came to her each day, almost every hour, thoughts of the one of her dreams. This day, and others as well, she shuddered when she could not forget what he had been told. It was worse, and more, because he had been told the truth. It hurt her. He was somewhere, and he didn't know that she loved him; but, even if he did, he could not accept this knowledge with any delight. No, he was out of her life, or, rather, she was out of his. He would never, no never, be out of hers. Never, because, as she felt every day, it was his memory that stimulated her, made her feel and appreciate what great good a life can do. And she did all she could, in her way, to assist others. Some day, maybe, she might be able to do more.

When she undressed each night to retire, she fell on her knees and offered thanks to Him that is Holy. She asked for strength and conviction and courage to continue in the same on the morrow. She struggled to lead a Christian life, and to be acceptable in the eyes of her Creator.... She was a believer.

Mildred was welcomed everywhere, and treated with all the courtesy due to a lady. When she left a house one day, where two women had given her their order, she overheard them say she was beautiful. She felt her heart throbbing. She was not vain, but she loved to be called attractive. Then she thought of him. He had called her beautiful also. She wondered whether he, at any time, forgot the words he heard, and remembered her as he had seen her that day. The day they had danced and he—kissed her. She seemed to feel still that kiss; she hoped to feel it always. She wondered, if he knew she was working in his memory and made happy thereby, would he be pleased—and would he, at least, try to forget as much as he could what he had been told. He could, of course, not forget. That made it hard. She did not expect him to forget.

When the day's work was done, and she had returned to her place of abode, she lay upon her bed, and for a time, she gave up to thoughts of him. She knew not where he was. She did not try to find out, that would make it worse. Sometimes she felt that if she did, perhaps, it might help her in her picture of him; then again, she did not think it best. That might bring him too conspicuously before her. Sometimes at night she would suddenly awaken, and her very soul would be on fire. She sat up at these times, and almost declared it could not go on this way. She must know his whereabouts; he must feel, know that she loved him. And then, when the spell had died—was killed, for its death was inevitable, she would lie down again and try to forget. But she never succeeded in this.

More than a month had passed since she came hither. She had, with the assistance of Constance, sold more than three hundred copies of the book. She had saved the greater part of her earnings. She wondered, one day, as she left a Negro bank, where she kept it, what he would think of her, if he could know. She saw him viewing her in many ways, as she was now. But always she was left undecided. Never would what he had been told, seem to leave her free and undisturbed.

One day she returned home very much excited. She didn't let Constance see her though. She had an adventure that day. She encountered a man who looked at her strangely, when she was offering the book. She had seen him in Cincinnati; and she recognized him by a scar on his forehead; but she had not known this until she looked into his face, and asked him to give her his order. Then he started. Did he recognize her? She thought not, because she had not known he ever saw her, when he used to pass by the house in Cincinnati, where she then lived. When she recognized him this day, she had bungled in her talk. This fact made him suspicious. He regarded her with undisguised curiosity. Presently his face cleared, and he said: "You remind me of a girl I once used to see and know in Cincinnati. Where are you from?" She tried to ignore this question; she pretended not to hear him. Despite this effort, she choked. He observed it, and was convinced that she was the one he had seen and known. Then she was frightened, and, of course, did the worst thing she could have done. She asked to be excused, and forthwith fled. She had not gone many steps when she heard him mutter: "Well, I'll be damned!" And still before she got beyond the sound of his voice, she heard him again: "The same. Wonder what kind of a game she is playing here. Books. Hump! Well I'll be damned!"

She didn't canvass any more that day. She couldn't. She was too nervous and afraid. Then she was upset for other days. She feared to meet him. She could never again stand that gaze of suspicion. All that she had lived suddenly stood before her when she recalled it. Night came, and she retired early. The incident persisted in her memory. She was exhausted, and then she did what any unhappy girl is most likely to do. She cried all night.

Even if she felt Sidney Wyeth had closed the chapter of her in his life, she wanted him. She needed him. To have felt now that he loved her, in spite of what he had heard, he could and would protect her. He stood before her now and she saw him as she had never seen him before. How strong and brave and courageous he was! He was her hero. She went to sleep after a time, a troubled, fitful sleep, and when she heard Constance calling her the following morning, she awoke with a start and was rested, although she could not understand how it was possible. But she was calm. After all, she felt, maybe, her fear was premature.

She worked that day with her usual good spirits.

CHAPTER NINE

"Well," drawled the other lazily, "having been born down here, and never having seen the rest of this great domain, I do not, of course, know the difference; still, I have always cherished a longing to go west. I intended going to Oklahoma years ago, and getting in on some of that government land they were giving away, but I put it off until it was too late, and then too, I had trouble in my family. My oldest daughter married a worthless rascal who burdened her with those children you see playing about the store, and I had to take care of them and her too, since her marriage left her in bad health."

The other listened without comment. Beasely, however, went on, apparently in a mood to relate the past.

"Smith has been telling me about you, and I have been anxious to have a talk with you. Smith is my brother-in-law, and he too, has had his share of trials."

By this time, they had settled themselves on the porch of an empty quarter house. Wyeth chanced to look around, and, seeing so many empty ones, said: "How does this come to be? So many empty houses?"

"Bulgarians lived in this row," he said, pointing to them. "Hundreds of them, and when the war broke out in the Balkan states, every last one of them left here and went back to fight, and have not returned."

"Some patriotism, eh!" Wyeth commented.

"It is singular about these foreigners," he said thoughtfully. "Have you ever observed them?"

The other nodded. Beasely went on.

"They come to this country without knowing a word of our language, and from a poor country. But they are not here ten years, before they are able, financially, to buy a car load of our people. Negroes are certainly a problem to themselves. These foreigners always have money, and many of them return to the old country and retire, after a few years of just ordinary hard work here; while many of our people at the same job, if they get sick a week, are on the county.

"Clerking in a store where the trade is of the kind we have," he went on, "is an opportunity for the best study in human nature you can possibly imagine. A man like Smith, for instance, can succeed with the trade of his people, when he can get it. Smith has succeeded on the heels of his own failure."

"It appears harder for one of us to succeed, than for any other race now, doesn't it?" commented Wyeth.

"It does, it does indeed," said Beasely. "Somehow the money gets through our fingers, despite our efforts to hold it."

"This morning," said Sidney, "I had an experience that amused me. I had the promise to take a book to a certain fellow in Averytown. I called accordingly with the same, but he had just left. His family didn't, rather couldn't tell me where I was likely to find him. I came on up the street that leads here, and made inquiries on the way. Every one who knew him gave me the same advice. 'If,' they said, 'he is not home, just go to every saloon between here and there, and you will be sure to find him.' I did so, and found him at the second one."

"And did he take it?" asked Beasely.

"Oh, I hadn't thought of it since. No, he didn't take the book—but I think he will. He had no money, and when I approached him he went to the commissary, took a scrip and got some groceries. These he took to somebody and sold them, a dollar and a half worth for a dollar. He then gave me a quarter, and told me to bring it next pay day." After a moment he said: "Smith is an exceptional business man for a Negro, and an interesting man to talk to."

"Yes," smiled the other; "but Smith is not his real name. He took that after coming here. And since we have spoken of it, I'm going to tell you the story of John Smith, alias Thomas Rollins." He laughed as his voice, very dramatic in what he had just said, came back to him.

The other listened, and prepared himself to do so comfortably, while Beasely mopped his forehead, drew his breath, and prepared to tell the following story.

Beasely was a black man—a full blood—and intelligent. Nearly fifty years he seemed to be, although, at a passing glance, he would have passed for forty. He had been a school teacher, and had some education, Wyeth had observed from his careful use of English.

"We lived in Palmetto, Georgia, where he married my sister. He was then a farmer and pastor of the Baptist church, while I farmed and taught the local country school. He had been in politics quite actively in the eighties and early nineties, as were many other Negroes during the reconstruction period, and had served as postmaster for four years. Now, in this town were what is called a bunch of pet Negroes. These were coons whom the white people used as local goats for their amusements. And, so to speak, they were a sort of privileged character, but became too familiar. As everywhere in the south, this town had its herd of the poor trash, that kept things stirred up in the way of lynching and other lawlessness. Considerable incendiarism had occurred of late, and some of these pets were accused. Friction had been evident for some time in this county and all around, and, with this burning and accusations, a wholesale lynching took place. About a dozen of these pets were herded into a box car, and burned alive. It was the most diabolical thing that could be perpetrated by human beings, and created much comment all over the country. It drove hundreds of Negroes out of the county, and you will find them scattered over the rest of the state and other parts now. Sometime after this, a strange Negro came to town, and hung around Smith's place for a while. He secured a job finally with a white man, who was one of the men who led the mob. It seems, one day, he overheard him relating how they burned the pets. This crazed the Negro, or it might have been that one of the victims was a brother of his, who knows. Well, this Negro took an ax, marched into the room, and without a word, split open the man's head.

"He made his escape. Pandemonium reigned. Lynching by hanging and burning at the stake became common, and a general state of lawlessness reigned for some time.

"Now, after this Negro had killed the man, he came by Smith's and got the clothes Smith's cook had washed for him. He threatened her with death if she ever said anything about it. Well, a lot of the poor crackers had become jealous of Smith anyhow, and they tried to implicate him in it, while he knew nothing about it. Smith stood well with the best white people; but when any friction comes up in these parts, the cracker is supreme, because he has the numbers. So, while the mob spirit was still prevalent, they decided to give vent to their jealousy, and called on Smith with a dark purpose. They charged him with having furnished this Negro with an ax and instructions to kill the cracker. So they were on the way to see him, when I warned him at church one Sunday morning, preparing to preach a sermon. He hurried home, grabbed a few things, and left the state as fast as he could leave it.

"That is how Smith came to be in this country and doing business; but there is another part of this chapter, and which brings us up to the present.

"A Negro worked for Smith back there, and after the thing had died out and people there saw that he was wrongly accused, this Negro came on here, and since then, this has been his home. Having known him back there, Smith trusted him in the store here, and continued to trust him until he was head over heels in debt to him. There came a day when Smith was tired of this, and called him to account. The Negro, then, instead of paying like a man, or making an effort to do so, howled his head off and was surprised, or professed to be. He told Smith that he was repaid from the fact that he had kept his mouth closed about his past, his changing his name, and all that. In conclusion, he threatened to tell the world, or that part of it in which Smith and himself were known. Now, if Smith had told all this in the beginning, it would, of course, have been different. But, having deferred it so long, he naturally hated to have it told and flaunted in his face by the Negroes here. You know, too, how Negroes like to hear anything, envious and spiteful as they are by nature. It was a nasty affair, and to hush it up, Smith let the bill go hang. But this was not to be the end of it by any means, oh, no! This Negro had the nerve to come back into the store and ask for more credit. Then Smith, with his nigga aroused, stood his ground. The Negro then got drunk, fighting drunk. He found an old revolver that had been lost for years in a trash heap, and ran Smith all over town. It wouldn't shoot, of course, but Smith didn't know that. The crowd finally got around the Negro and held him, while he raged and swore. Smith went to the phone, declaring he was going to call the officers. The Negro yelled that if he did—he knew. Smith desisted, but then into it came my sister, his wife. She has spirit and was now thoroughly aroused and with a big forty-five left-hand wheeler, she sought this shine. When the people that were holding him saw her coming, they turned him lose and flew. When they did, she began to shoot, and shot to hit. She missed; but she picked the dirt all about him, and he did some running.

"After that, the Negro—he had been doing fairly well outside what I have mentioned—began to go down. Whiskey and craps got all his money, and then he parted with his wife. But he still had it in for Smith, and it had come to Smith and me, too, that he intends telling it all at the ball game, today. Moreover, that he will kill his wife if she plays ball or attempts to, today. Smith's nigga is up, and he is going to the ball game, and if that Negro starts anything on that diamond, look out!"

"I'm afraid of these Negroes down here myself," said Wyeth. "A few nights ago, I was standing on a corner in Effingham, when one of them came up the street slapping his wife or woman, or whatever she was, something outrageously. I felt constrained to punch him in the jaw, the brute, especially when she ran around a bunch of us trying to escape the blows he was raining on her face. I didn't, and some time later I was talking with a cop that patrols that beat. I told him of the incident. 'That's nothing,' he said. 'I started to punch him,' I said. 'You'd better not punch any of these Negroes,' he warned. 'They'll shoot you down like a dog. This is Effingham.'"

"Well," said Beasely, "I'm going to the game myself to have a hand in the affair, if he starts anything. Wanta go 'long?"

Since he had nothing to do, he decided that it would be a good outing and some diversion, so, rising, he followed. As they started, a ragged, dirty Negro rushed up. He wanted Beasely, being unable to locate Smith, to let him have ten dollars to get his brother out of jail, who had gotten into a squabble down in a saloon and got run in.

"Let him stay there until tomorrow, and we won't have to get him out but once. If he is gotten out today, he's liable to be in again before the day is spent," replied Beasely carelessly. The other went his way with mutterings.

They had not gone far before they came upon another. He had a load, a heavy load. So heavy that he could scarcely make it. However, with a superior effort, he managed to drag his feet along, and join them.

"Abe Thomas," remonstrated Beasely. "You are a disgrace to yourself and the human race." The other accepted the rebuke in good nature. He declared, that since it was the fourth, he was entitled by the law of the land to get drunk, and convince the public to that effect.

"The fourth do'n' come but once a yeah," he said. "But I'm a good guy all the time 'n' all the time. Fifty years I've been in this world and don't look forty." He didn't, which was an odd thing, thought Wyeth.

"Say, Beasely, lend me a dollar!" he exclaimed. Wyeth was again surprised; for Beasely, without a word, but a laugh full of humor, drew forth a silver dollar, and handed it over.

As they walked along leisurely, Wyeth remarked about the crops, which did not appear to be doing much good in the highlands.

"You know why that is?" said their companion, winking wisely. "That's because all this land about here is undermined, and the water goes on through."

Wyeth looked at him. He looked back at Wyeth and winked. "You are philosophical indeed," said he. "How far is it to the mines below?"

"Three hundred feet," Beasely replied.

"And between that is all kinds of rock, hard pan and shale?"

"Oh, sure," replied the other; "but what has that to do with it?"

Wyeth looked at him, but the other didn't gather what the expression meant, so he said: "Jok, you are full." They were passing into a cut, and he saw at a glance the reason for the plant suffering. About two to six inches from the surface was a thick layer of jip, which, as he knew, prevented the water from going into the subsoil, to come up when the sun had dried the surface, and furnish nourishment to the roots. Further argument was not necessary, for, as they came out of the cut, a saloon smiled before them, and into this their companion disappeared.

When they arrived at the grounds, thousands had preceded them, and the same was black with people, enjoying a holiday. The diamond had been cleared, and preparations were in order for opening of the game. The contestants were a set of school boys and girls, and women, in fact, any girl or woman that could be prevailed upon for the occasion. The sun, now in the west, could be seen only at intervals, as it hung suspended above the heavy treetops. The air was unusually still and humid. The heat was intense; but, notwithstanding the fact, the future American Negro seemed to be getting all that a holiday afforded.

Popcorn and cracker-jack, lemonade and coca-cola, barbecue and fried fish, were being consumed by the crowd in every direction in large quantities, and all seemed to be happy.

At last the preliminaries were over. The game was called. On every base, in the pitcher's box, the catchers, and in the field, stood black girls. Gayly they flitted about, and caught the ball cleverly, as it was thrown from one to the other.

"Play ball!" called the umpire.

Everyone had his eye upon the game. A strapping woman, wound up like a professional, and let drive a swift ball that went far to the right of a left hand batter.

"Ba-l-l one!" cried the umpire.

"Frow lak a ole maid," cackled a big-mouthed Negro, who was immediately hooted down.

"St-r-i-k-e one!" cried the umpire, slapping his thigh, giving vent to a big laugh, as the batter swung wildly at the ball just missed.

"Dat gal's got some speed, b'lieve muh!" cried another Negro, who was a good support.

"Who dat gal?" inquired another, at this point.

"Do'n you know 'er?" someone else replied. "Dat's Bobb Lee's wife. Dey is pa'ted, y' know."

Wyeth started. Bobb Lee's wife! Bobb Lee was the Negro Beasely had told him about.... And he had threatened to kill her if she played ball this day. She was playing. He felt a strange pulling at his nerves as he watched her, and his imagination began to play. He was afraid of these Negroes. Even if they did nothing, they could, so far as he had learned, be depended upon to commit murder. No one, perhaps, paid much attention to a Negro's threat; but he didn't feel just right in the stomach. A chilly feeling was creeping upward and held him. He looked about him. For a moment he had forgotten the game. The men were now on the bases, while the girls were swinging in many ways at the ball. The wife of Bobb Lee was there at the bat. Around him the crowd watched her closely, expectantly. He did likewise.

"B-a-l-l one!" cried the umpire. The woman was a stout Negress, with square, broad hips, and was conspicuous in the green uniform. Two balls and one strike were against her, when the fourth came whizzing across the plate. She struck it with terrific force, that sent it just over the heads of all and beyond the fielders, making a clean home run, as well as bringing in two girls that were on bases. The cheering that followed was deafening. For a time Sidney forgot the threats of the bad Negro.

Again the wife of Bobb Lee was pitching. More speed had developed since last she held the ball, and she was apparently more clever. She hurled the ball across the plate so swiftly, that the crowd could hardly see it, nor could the batters, whom, one by one she fanned. Two balls and two strikes she had on the last one. Wyeth's gaze, wandering across the diamond, observed John Smith standing to the other side, and again the words of Beasely came to his memory. He wished the thought and the threat would not so persist. He tried to concentrate his mind on the game, but the words lingered. During his whole life, Sidney now recalled, he was peculiarly given to predestination. If he had not seen anyone he had known for some time, and happened to meet him, he could always recall that he had just thought of him a few days before, or it might have been only a few hours before. Strangely, as he watched the game, there came to him a premonition that something was going to happen. He felt it so strongly that he stood waiting for it. It was only a question of a little while.

The wife of Bobb Lee had raised her arm and was winding up for the last throw, when suddenly, from across the field in the crowd, came a cry as of some one mad, enraged. In the still, humid air, the cry of a woman resounded, and fell upon the ears of the crowd like a cry of death. There was a shot, and so quiet did every one appear at the moment, that the noise it made sounded like a cannon. A woman rushed upon the diamond, and fell prone on her face, with a last scream that disturbed the quiet.

Clouds had been gathering overhead for some time, and now they overcast the skies. The sunlight, with all its brightness of a few minutes ago, had faded; it became so dark that the people could scarcely see across the diamond. Heavy peals of thunder added now to the darkness, while flashes of lightning struck electrically all about. The crowd stood awestruck. The woman in the box had lowered her arm, and was looking wild-eyed at the woman who had fallen prostrate at her feet. And then, through the still air came again the cry of the beast.

"Ah tole yu' 'f yu' played ball ag'in ah'd kill yu'. Ah've killed yu' doity sista, in the' stands you, 'n' the' is John Smith who run away frum Palmetto, Geo'gi', 'n' whose real name's Tom Rollins!" And with that, the woman gave a long lingering cry that frightened all those about. They turned in one great mass, the revolver sounded another shot, and with scarcely a groan, the woman staggered for a moment, and fell to the ground dead. For just a second it seemed, the crowd, tearing wildly about, halted and turned their eyes upon the two dead women. And as they did so, the murderer turned wildly in the direction of where Smith had stood, but he was gone. In a blind fury, the drunken brute whirled around dazed, yelling: "Wha' is he! Damn him! Wha' is he!"

"I'm heah, you beast!" roared Smith, in a terrible voice. The other had just time to see him, but too late to do further murder. John Smith was on him in an instant, and all the strength of his powerful frame seemed to come to him in that moment. He snatched the smoking weapon from the hand of the brute, and, raising it to the length of his large arm, while the other, at last sensitive to the moment, saw it as it lingered one brief instant, with eyes, the sight of which Sidney Wyeth did not soon forget, it fell, crushing the skull. A mad herd now, the crowd rushed upon the fallen creature and did the rest.

Just then the heavens opened up with a mighty crash of thunder, and there came a flash of lightning that made trees tremble, while the rain came down in torrents.

Sidney returned to the city by the first car. The incident rose before him again and again, as the car crept along in the downpour. He had seen the first murder of his life, which, however, was an almost daily occurrence in Effingham. When he reached his room and related the incident, it caused less excitement than when he once witnessed a gambling raid and related it. No one took murder seriously in Effingham.

"They kill a nigga every day on an average in this town," grinned Moore. When he read the papers the following morning, he had about given up finding it at all, when his eyes came across a small paragraph in the corner, reporting that a drunken Negro had killed his wife and sister-in-law, which added to the list of casualties, making eleven for the day in Effingham. All were homicides. No deaths from other sources were reported.

As Sidney Wyeth now saw it, the people might have prosperity, and they might have happiness; likewise, they might suffer reverses and be in hard straights for a time; but of one thing there seemed a certainty, that as long as whiskey was available, crime would be prevalent in Effingham.

Sidney Wyeth had never voted for prohibition. As he saw it now in Attalia, where it was not sold legally, and in Effingham, where it had this permit, there seemed but one conclusion. Only when they stopped making it, would these ignorant, semi-barbarous creatures quit drinking it.

And thus we find conditions in one of our great American cities, where there is forty per cent of illiteracy among two-fifths of the populace.

Having sent for a considerable consignment of books, and, due to the inability to collect from a number who spent their money on the fourth, Sidney found his finances depleted. Room rent, by paying in advance was due the following Monday, so, taking himself to one of his subscribers among the servants, he was able to collect only a dollar that day. Half of this he divided with his landlady, promising to pay her the remainder on the morrow. He did so, but John Moore desired to question in regard to the same. The truth of it was that John Moore wanted the dollar, and had figured on it, in order to shoot craps on Saturday night, as was his usual custom. So John came into the room where Sidney sat reading. It happened that Wyeth was in no pleasant frame of mind, and, calling was thus not in order that evening. Perhaps John Moore did not know this, but he did a few minutes later. He wished to know what Wyeth was going to do about the rent.

Wyeth looked at him. It wasn't a very pleasant look, to say the least. And Wyeth was one of these creatures who could not stand to be dunned. Since he had already made arrangement with the real person, he regarded Moore out of eyes now that narrowed with anger. He said something, sharp and quick, and stinging. Thereupon, a storm ensued.

"I aised you a civil question," complained Moore.

"And I tell you that I have already arranged with the landlady regarding the rent, and don't want any argument with you!"

"Then I ais you to git yo' things and get out!" cried Moore, with an air of finality.

"And I tell you that I will do no such thing; moreover, you, insofar as I'm concerned," cried Wyeth heatedly, "can go to Hell!"

"Look out, look out!" cried Moore. "I'm a-comin', I'm a-comin'."

"Not very fast as I can see, standing there in the doorway," said Wyeth, now composed, and reseating himself from where he had risen. And yet he felt, as he had never felt before, like fighting—with his fists.

"Hole me Mary, hole me!" cried Moore, moving many ways—in the doorway. The other waited—in vain.

"Come ova' he' from Attalia, a bad nigga, 'n' tellin' me what I ain' go'n do 'n' mah house!" he cried, now derisively. "Stay! Yes, stay, 'n' be killed, 'cause 'f you sleep in this house t'night, you go'n sleep ova' mah dead body."

"Oh, but you're an awful liar," smiled Sidney grimly. He arose from his chair and moved in the direction of Moore, whereupon that worthy moved in the opposite direction. "A Negro like you ain't going to fight anyone, and talk about your dead body! Hump! If you had any idea I was going to kill you, you'd be a mile away by this time and still running. As it is, I am going to stay in this house until I get ready to leave, or at least until I am ordered out by the landlady." With this, he jumped forward quickly and caught Moore by the nose, which was, to say the least, a difficult task. He pinched it hard, and then, with well directed licks, he slapped his face with his open palm. Then, giving his nose another pinch that made the creature scream with pain, he pushed him with such force that he fell backward into the other room. A moment later, Sidney slammed the door, and, resuming his seat, picked up the book and began reading.

They were good friends ever after.

CHAPTER TEN

It is said that curiosity is the inspiration of invention, and that women, although with no great record as inventors, cannot stand to be held in doubt. Sidney Wyeth had aroused Miss Palmer. It was whispered that other men had done so before, but no one spoke ill of Miss Palmer. It was so told here and there that she desired to marry. Miss Palmer found it difficult to keep Sidney out of her thoughts; daily, hourly and, sometimes she sighed, it seemed minutely. So, when he had suggested an outing, she had accepted with all the grace of which she was capable. It had been arranged for this day. She had worked hard every day preceding it, and had sold a number of books. As we now know, Miss Palmer was the mother of a very young son, and she had always had to work to care for him, herself, and her mother, who was somewhat of an invalid. Perhaps this was the best excuse Miss Palmer had for not having remarried. It was a plausible one, no one could deny. It sufficed to arouse sympathy for her, and she had many friends who unhesitatingly spoke of her in such terms.

"Miss Palmer has a hard time," said one.

"What kind of a deal—that is, what kind of a husband was the man she married?"

"A half white nigga from Ohio, whose parents made him mistreat her, because she was not brighter in color. They never forgave him for marrying anything but a 'high yellow.' So they, through their treatment of her, snubbing her whenever they could, simply broke them up. She was a good girl," so everybody said about Miss Palmer, "and she worked night and day to help him, but he drank. His parents kept up the game of spoiling him, even after he was the father of her child. So, in the end, when there was nothing else for her to do, she had asked for, and was duly granted a divorce. That ended it. The school board, although they were overrun with applications from multitudes of colored girls, to teach in the city schools (because teaching is about the only thing they can get to do to make some money and a living for themselves), had reinstated her, and she went back to teaching, after four years of unhappy married life."

It was thus Sidney Wyeth had found her. Miss Palmer was a human being with a heart that cried silently for the love of a man, as all other women's hearts do, who happen not to be so fortunate as to have one. She had been to school, and graduated from a normal academy, that taught English as far as it goes, and, likewise, compelled the girls to learn how to cook, sew and save. Miss Palmer was mistress in all these arts, and some more. It was her delight to show them by a demonstration, whenever she could. She had proven all this to Sidney Wyeth, and he had thought it practical in her. He had said as much, but he would have said as much to any other, no doubt. And of the many good things we now know of Miss Palmer, let us not forget that she was selfish to a degree.

Unfortunately, many of us are. But when Miss Palmer became the recipient of such kind words from the lips of this man of mystery, for as such she regarded him, and believed it, she was subtly delighted. So she had done all she could as a saleswoman of the book she was positive he had written, to prove further her ability to help him. (?) Today they would be all alone, together. She had looked forward to the same with all the anxiety of the anxious, and the day had come at last. And such a day!

She dressed in her best for the occasion. We shall not attempt to describe her; but when she appeared at the end of an hour, she was a delight to observe. "Indeed!" exclaimed Wyeth frankly, "I didn't know you could look so well!"

"Why are you flat?" she complained, with a frown; and then she added softly: "You could be otherwise."

"We will catch the Tidewater and get off at Jewell Junction, and take the Relay. That will take us to the summit of Baldin Knob. From there you can see everything this state possesses for fifteen miles," she said, as they walked cheerfully in the direction of the car line.

Never had either experienced such a delightful ride, as the heavy tidewater cars gave them that morning. The Relay unloaded them forty minutes later at the highest peak of which the Red Mountains boast. Below lay Effingham, the iron city, a medley of smoke and many little points. Only the blast of the furnaces, and the heavy smoke they belched forth, met their gaze, as they saw it now. It seemed hardly possible that it was a city of so many thousands, it seemed so small at this distance. A mass of uneven timber appeared all about and below them, and far away were a thousand peaks. Broken by hundreds of ravines and draws, that split and tore the mighty range, they saw the city beyond. A dull haze as of Indian summer hung in the distance, as their gaze sought the horizon.

Then they walked down a slope to a spot they had seen. She stepped on a rock that lay buried beneath many leaves, and turned her ankle so severely, that he feared it had been sprained. It hadn't; but, as a precaution, he took her arm, and that, perforce, brought them closer together. Thus they walked, until, at the foot of a pine, lay a fallen tree conveniently. They sat themselves thereon, and, leaning their backs against the tree, for a minute, possibly more, they heard their own breathing.

After saying many things that meant nothing, she said:

"Now, you are going to tell me all about yourself today, aren't you?" She ended this beautifully, and waited likewise. His reply was not gallant, if such it could be; but he merely added:

"There is little to tell, Miss Palmer—so little, I'm sure telling it would be dull for you to listen to."

"You have beautiful ways of saying anything," she said, and gave him her best smile. He looked at her now, but without any apparent enthusiasm. His smile was a little tired and weary and sad. Very often he was this way.

"Do you know," Miss Palmer now said, "you have impressed me wonderfully."

"I didn't, I'm sure; but you are complimentary." He was now a mite more cheerful. "In what way, I beg, have I impressed you? In that I can sell books?"

"I don't mean that, and you know I do not," she pouted. "And you can be so innocent, when you want to be. Oh, you are artful. But I mean, if I must say it and then explain why, there is something about you that is unusual. You are in disguise, going through the country studying people, yes, people and what they are, have been and are likely to be." She was thoughtful now, as she sat in serious mood for some time. Presently, she said:

"I've been reading that book, and, of course, I understand you better. Is all that you say in it true?" She was serious now, and anxious too. She waited eagerly for him to speak.

He laughed. Then he said nothing in the affirmative, but indulged in words concerning other topics.

"You are more than a book agent. You have, at least, been a man of means. Really, I would be pleased to know from your own lips," she now sighed.

"I wish we could talk of something else, that would be more interesting. Cannot you suggest something?" he turned to her now appealingly.

"I cannot. Yourself is the most interesting thing I care to talk about. I have been thinking of the terrible secret you disclose in the book. Won't you please tell me if it is all true?"

"I suppose if the book is published as a true story, then it must be so," he said evasively.

"And she was a weak woman. No strength and conviction; nothing to protect a home. You and she will not remain as you are, will you?" Silence. "There is nothing the matter with you—and her. I sympathize with this fellow." Miss Palmer was more serious now. "Because, apparently, he wanted, tried to do the right thing, and was not allowed.... I know somebody else that wished to do likewise, and was not allowed.... Life is a strange thing, isn't it?"

"Indeed so," he agreed.

"And on this pilgrimage you study the lives of others, many others, and it reveals so much to you that would, could not be possible, otherwise?"

He agreed with her again.

"And on this pilgrimage you have met women, and you have studied them and their way of seeing things?"

"Possibly. They are all in the same category."

"Yes; but somebody said: 'I bet that fellow has so many girls!' I didn't agree with them. I don't think you have any; you are too preoccupied to give them serious thought. Perhaps that is why the girl allowed herself to be taken away...."

He now looked at her. His lips, for one moment, had started to speak, and then he seemed to think better of it, and said nothing.

"Everyone I sell the book to cries when they have read it: 'If I had been that fellow, I'd have kicked that old preacher into Hades.' It's what you tell in the last part of the book that arouses the people. But they all think he acted with poor judgment in the end; but if he hadn't allowed that to come to pass, I would never have known you." Miss Palmer was tantalizing.

"Out in this Rosebud Country, of which the story is told, are there no colored people?"

"None."

"I should think it would be dreadfully lonesome."

"Why so? The white people are kind and sociable."

"Yes, but I would prefer my kind. Still, I suppose if one lived there and had their all there, it would be different."

"Yes," he agreed, "it would be different."

"You will, no doubt, marry one of the many girls you meet before you return, and then live happily ever afterwards."

"That is nice to listen to. Nice girls, that is, girls who are willing to sacrifice to an end that would help both, are, to say the least, hard to find."

"Yes, in a sense; but there are plenty. And all want husbands. Of course, when you have been widowed, grass-widowed, it's different...."

"Well, yes; but I see no reason, if she is the right kind of girl, why she cannot re-marry and be happy in the end."

"Oh, you don't," she essayed. "Well, there is. A woman is never regarded as the same. The looks she gets are not like the ones bestowed upon her when she, or before she married. They are looks—looks that are not honest," she sighed. He was silent.

"And the men are the cause of it. All of it. Sometimes I hate men."

He saw her now, calmly. She was uneasy under the look he gave her. And then he was silent again. She went on:

"Of course, there are some that are different. Yourself, for instance."

"In what way?"

"So many I hardly like to say. So unassuming, for one. And then you—oh I won't say it."

"Please do."

"Not until you have told me more about yourself. Has it occurred to you that you have told me nothing, absolutely nothing about yourself?" She was looking at him now. He winced.

"Of course, if a woman is—is—well, easy enough to go into the mountains and on an outing with the man—a man who has told her nothing of himself, then, it—he cannot be censured." She watched a pine squirrel now that played near, and who regarded them out of eyes that made Miss Palmer feel guilty.

"You are like a stone wall when it comes to secrets. Did you ever really love anyone?"

"Yes."

"Oh, you don't mean it!" she cried in feigned surprise. "Who was it?"

"You would be no wiser if I told you."

At this moment, a blast in a mine near, which they did not see, went off. It broke the silence so sharply, that both sat quickly upright. In doing so, their hands met. His clasped hers. In a moment the tension was released, but the hands were not. Slowly their hands clasped each others tighter. He was in some way conscious of the fact, while she was dreamy. He looked by chance into her eyes, and they were more dreamy still. Their shoulders touched. She sat at his left, and it happened singularly to be his right hand that held hers. In that moment they seemed to feel lonely, very lonely. Both had suffered—and, to a degree, their suffering had been similar. To give up and to be human, unconventionally so for just a little while, seemed a mad desire. She swayed perceptibly. Suddenly his left arm stole about her waist and encircled her body. Mechanically he looked down, and into her eyes, that were upturned. They seemed to tell the secret behind. To be loved for one minute was what they asked. He lingered a moment, and then his head went down. When it had retained its former position and was erect, he had kissed Miss Palmer.

He was standing now, and was looking down upon Effingham. It lay silent and gray from where he saw it. In that moment he wanted to be back there. He felt guilty. He turned and beheld Miss Palmer. He felt more guilty than before. She lay against the tree with her face turned the other way. He felt very sorry for her then. Yes, Miss Palmer would, he believed, do the right thing. She would be glad to do the right thing. Oh, she had had her troubles. And Sidney Wyeth knew that when people had suffered, especially when it had been their great ambition to do the right thing and be happy, they would go through eternity to make happiness possible. He spoke now.

"Don't you think we had better be going, Miss Palmer?" She heard him, and his voice was kind, she thought. She rose, and together they went back over the hill and caught the Relay.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

By day, Mildred, when she was canvassing, hourly expected to meet again the man whose recognition had frightened her. But the days went by without further encounter, and when she failed to meet him, she began to relax. She was worried constantly, but she was relieved after two weeks. The fright had passed, and she was cheerful again, much to the relief of her two friends. It had pained her to see that both were obviously worried on her account. And she respected them, because they were considerate enough not to ask her questions that would have annoyed her.

"You sang that beautifully, Miss Latham," said Wilson, one afternoon, when she left the piano, after singing a song that had been introduced lately into church services; and which, while sentimental, nevertheless possessed more thrill than the average.

"Do you think I can satisfy the congregation now?" she asked sweetly. She had been practicing it for several afternoons.

"I should say you could," he cried, enthusiastically. "You could satisfy any congregation, much less our little crowd." He looked sorrowful, as he said this. She understood. The great majority did not attend his services. They went to the big Baptist church two blocks away. Many of them even smiled, when they passed his little church and observed the few people sitting therein. Mildred sympathised with him, because she realized that he was a courageous young man, willing to go to any extent, so far as effort was concerned, in order to help those about him. They needed it too, these black people.

"Oh," she cried, so kind that he choked, "you will have a larger church some day. I am confident you will—I know you will." And she meant all she said. "In time the people will come to appreciate your efforts. As it is now, they don't think deep enough to do so. They want sermons, as yet, that make them feel by merely listening; whereas, it is necessary to study what you say.... That makes it difficult now. When the people become more intelligent, more practical, and more thoughtful, they will appreciate religion in a practical sense." He was overwhelmed with gratitude, as he heard these words. For a moment he couldn't speak. He felt the tears come.

"You are so kind, Miss Latham. You seem to understand, and see below the surface. And what you have said is timely. I am one, you may be sure, who appreciates it." He stopped here.

A choking, which he didn't wish her to notice, made it necessary. She was aware of the gratitude, the sincere gratitude in his tone, and her sympathy went out to him more than ever. As she saw him sitting there, with head bowed and face hid, he seemed his mother's boy. She felt strangely that other part. Impulsively, she advanced to where he sat by the window, with the sunlight streaming in upon him. In the bright, soft light, his curly hair shone, and seemed more beautiful than she had noticed it before. She laid her hand upon it. An hour ago, she would not, could not have dreamed she would do this. And then she spoke in words, the kindest, he felt, he had ever heard.

"There, now. It will be all right. Just give yourself time. Oh, it's a great struggle, this human problem. All these black ones of ours. But you are pursuing the right course, and some day they will see it. Then will come your success. It's going to come. It will come. It must come. These people can't keep on going along as they are; this crime—murder. It's terrible. Someone will help to stem the tide of it, someone will lead them. They need leaders. They are not bad people, with all we see and now know of them. They simply need some one to lead them into the light. I feel you will be that person. Yes. I am sure you are the person." She paused a moment, and it was only then, she became aware that her hand still rested upon his head. She removed it now, and silently left the room.

"I love her! I love her!" cried Wilson Jacobs. "Oh, God lead me, for I know not whither I go!"

It was the first time in his thirty-one years that Wilson Jacobs had felt so. But he was a man. And the fact made him respect Mildred Latham the more. Not for anything would he have her know his secret after this. She had thought of him in no other way but to help him. That was all. He would have to go forth now with a secret from Constance even.

He studied his text for the coming Sunday, and prepared himself to preach as he had never preached before.

"Here is an example of how much our people down here desire a Y.M.C.A., Miss Latham," said Reverend Jacobs later. "You may recall that, last spring the colored people of Grantville (which had a population, in the last census, of one hundred ten thousand people, almost forty thousand being colored), made a great campaign to secure a Y.M.C.A." He laid before her a Negro journal, published weekly at Grantville. She picked it up and read the whole article.

It went into detail concerning the campaign that was made to secure a Y.M.C.A. for the colored youth of Grantville. She had been interested in the campaign and knew that in a few days, thirty-three thousand dollars and more had been subscribed. The publishing house that printed this paper, had issued a daily of sixteen pages during the campaign, and had heralded the spirit of the colored people in their liberality. They had been liberal indeed, but it was only in subscribing. The paying was different, quite different.

After six months, only something over four thousand dollars of that amount had been paid in. The building, equipped, would cost one hundred thousand dollars. A millionaire Jew, the head of one of the greatest mail order houses in the country, would give twenty-five thousand dollars. The white Y.M.C.A. gave an equal amount. From other sources, seventeen thousand dollars were forthcoming. The colored people were expected to raise the remainder. It had been oversubscribed, but only four thousand had been paid in. Six months had passed, and she knew (although the paper was optimistic and had no other thought, apparently, than that the colored people would raise the amount) subscriptions would be paid slower now than before. She did not know what to say when she had read the article.

"Do you realize what they are up against?"

"Yes," she said resignedly.

"And they do not seem to know it."

"No."

"It's discouraging."

She nodded.

"It would be no trick at all for any of a dozen churches in the town to raise four thousand dollars in sixty days in a rally." She remained silent but listened, and knew that he spoke the truth.

"They have hundreds of churches all over the south, that have cost, in actual money, one hundred thousand dollars, and they have paid the amount without assistance from other sources; whereas, the white people are offering sixty thousand dollars of this amount."

"And, I gather," said she, in a voice that was listless, "that Grantville, with its many schools and much more intelligent colored people, is far more likely to succeed in such an effort than this town."

He nodded.

"But this place needs it, it needs it badly. It needs a Y.M.C.A. worse than any town in the south—"

"In the world," he insisted.

"And you do not think it would be worth while to inaugurate a campaign for that purpose here, before long?"

He sighed sadly, and then grew thoughtful.

"Last week, the number of murders exceeded any previous week for two years...."

"And over one hundred Negro churches have preaching in them every Sunday."

"And from what I can learn, these murders are rarely mentioned, in any."

"I have been thinking for a long time—before you came—of a Y.M.C.A. for our people in this town, but I have never spoken of it. But since I have known and talked with you, Miss Latham, and have seen the way our people are conducting themselves, I have been constrained to take up the effort of securing one." He said this very calmly, with no undue excitement.

"Have you, Mr. Jacobs?" She made no attempt to use the clerical term. Her tone was eager, anxious.

"Yes," he repeated. "I have decided to begin at once, regardless of the discouraging spectacle of Grantville."

"Oh, I'm so glad," she sighed, relieved.

He looked at her, but said nothing. He knew that she would be glad to hear it. He was glad, though, that she had spoken.

"Yes," he resumed. "I have discussed the matter with the heads of three of the big trunk lines operating in and out of this town, and all of whom have shops here that hire black men, and, as you might, of course, expect, they are all in favor of it. They have, moreover, advised me that they will bring such a movement to the attention of the board of directors. They have further advised me, however, that I must not expect to exceed five thousand dollars from either, and not to be disappointed if the board failed to give anything at all. That, they explained, and I understood without explanation, was due to the financial conditions of the railroads. I have met the same response from other local interests. But by them all, I have been encouraged. Of course, the white Y.M.C.A. are agreeable to giving assistance as in other towns, and have given me to understand that they will put in twenty-five thousand dollars. And then the Chicago philanthropist, of course, has a like amount awaiting. But the time limit expires in six months."

"From these, I have gone to our people."

"You went?" She held her breath now.

"To those others, the preachers."

"And they were——"

"Against it, almost to a man."

"God be merciful!"

"Of course, all of them did not say so in so many words—in fact, as you might expect, 'Yes, brother, this town sure needs a Y.M.C.A,' But when cooperation was suggested to that end, quibbling began. Most of them, not a bit original, put forward the same excuse, too busy. All were preachers, yet too busy to save souls. Then, of course, the next excuse was their church was loaded up with debt; they were now preparing a rally to raise such and such an amount. And still others had just closed a rally, which meant their flock was strapped and would be until another rally. And there are three churches in this very town that cost equally as much as this thing, all told.

"Next, I tried the teachers. The professors, of course, were full of the idea. I found only two, however, who had paid enough attention to the effort in Grantville, to know that the people were likely not to succeed. These, I was glad to hear, spoke of this fact, and we then discussed the matter from a serious point of view."

"Have you not found ignorance a great stumbling block?" she inquired.

"The greatest, in a measure, I think. To be ignorant means, that they will be easily discouraged, when they discover the obstacles."

"When do you intend beginning the campaign?"

"Sunday. I have prepared a speech to that end for that day, but, of course, I would have to concentrate a greater effort before it can be started with any effect. I have, however, prepared an article, rather, several articles, and which the newspapers, the white dailies, have agreed to publish conspicuously. But before we can expect much from the white people, we will ourselves have to show greater activity. That is where the hard part comes. It is hard to arouse the local leaders to any appreciation of such a thing. There is so much surface interest, and so little heart enthusiasm. So many will say a lot of sweet things that mean nothing, not even an effort to be serious. But I shall open the campaign Sunday, and I was thinking of asking your assistance in singing and playing."

"Oh, I'd be only too glad to help in any way I know how, but that is so little," she said bashfully.

"We will start only in a small way. I have thought it best to begin with my congregation. I have been to them all, and have already secured liberal subscriptions, all of whom paid a part of it in cash. This I will employ as a means of stimulating others. So Sunday, at three P.M., I will lecture on it and ask subscriptions, detailing first those who have already subscribed."

"What is my balance, please," inquired Mildred the next afternoon, at the window of the paying teller.

"One hundred fifty," said the cashier, who looked surprised.

"I wish to withdraw it. And you may make it into a draft, payable to the colored Y.M.C.A."

His mouth opened slightly. He regarded her with a different look, and then did as she instructed.

A fairly good crowd greeted Wilson Jacobs, when he got up to speak on the proposed campaign for a colored Y.M.C.A. To cheer the listeners, he asked Miss Latham to play and sing the song she had practiced, and which was new to the congregation. She did so, with all the art of which she was capable, and was pleased, when she turned to face the audience, that she had given both pleasure and satisfaction. Her eyes wandered over them for a moment, and then rested upon someone she had seen before.

"Where was it," she mused, in a half whisper. Wilson Jacobs was speaking. For two hours he spoke in behalf of the Christian forward movement. He made plain in so many ways, the urgent need of such, and did this eloquently. He arraigned the high murder record, which made all of those before him feel alarmed. The time for some united effort was necessary. Eventually something had to be done. Plenty of churches, it was true, were open; but churches were arranged for worship, and not for clean sport, pool, billiard, gymnasiums and other amusements in which young men might indulge, would indulge, and did indulge; but in so many ways and places, that were not conducted in a Christian manner.

"And now," he said, at the close, "we have decided to start this movement today at home. We will be pleased to make an example we hope the other churches will follow." With that, he read the names of the donors and subscribers. Among them, one hundred fifty dollars by Mildred Latham, the organist, led in cash. They were surprised. Very few had even become acquainted with her. Now all desired to. When the meeting had closed, many gathered about her and were introduced. Then, as she was turning to go, the person she had observed when she finished playing, approached. His hand was extended, while his eyes looked into hers with something that frightened her when she saw him—and recognized him as the man she had seen back in Cincinnati, and who now recognized her.

When she went home that day, she had reached a decision.