CHAPTER TWO

"_These Negroes in Effingham Are Nigga's Proper_"

The next day dawned calm and beautiful, and Sidney made preparations to begin his canvassing. In one city in Ohio, and which was also a great industrial center, he had found much success in selling his book to the multitude of workers employed there. Therefore, with what Moore had already told him, he was anxious to get his work under way.

The first thing necessary, of course, would be to secure agents. School had closed recently, and he had intended coming to the city, to enlist some of the teachers for that work. Securing a number of names and addresses, he began calling on them, but without any immediate success. Late that afternoon, however, a teacher, a settled woman, gave him the name and address of one whom she felt, she assured him, would take up the work. "At least," she said, "she always does something during vacation. Her name is Miss Palmer," so thither he went.

She lived not far away, and near the center of a block in a small two story house, rusty and somewhat ramshackle. He mounted the steps, which were perhaps a half dozen, and asked for her. She was out, they informed him, but was expected to return shortly. Before they were through telling him, she came. She was a brown-skinned woman, although in the fading twilight, she struck him as being a mulatto. Of medium height and size, she gave a welcome that played about the corners of her small mouth. Her chin was long and tapered to a small point, which made her appearance unusual; her eyes were small, very small, and playful.

They were very soon in conversation, and he was pleased to learn, after he had talked with her a few minutes, that she was a woman with the strength of her convictions, although there was something about her he did not, and was not likely, he felt, to understand for some time to come, and he didn't.

Presently he stated the object of his visit, and suggested that she take up the work during her vacation. She shook her head dubiously, and said:

"I don't mind canvassing; but I don't want to sell books."

"Why not books?" he inquired, in a tone of surprise, and then added: "It would seem that, being a teacher, selling a nice book would be preferable to something else."

"Yes, that may be," said she, thoughtfully now, "but nigga's here don't read. At least they won't buy and pay for books. Sell them toilet articles or hair goods, something to straighten their kinks or rub on their faces, anything guaranteed to make their hair grow soft and curly, or their black faces brighter."

He laughed long. She now observed him with something akin to admiration. "Then the people of your community--the black people--don't consider feeding the mind an essential to moral welfare," he suggested mirthfully.

"Naw, Lord," she replied flatly. "These Negroes in Effingham are nigga's proper. They think nothing about reading and trying to learn something, they only care for dressing up and having a good time."

He was silent and resigned for a time. They now sat together in a swing that hung suspended from the porch. Directly, when he had said nothing for some time, she looked again at him, and with something in her demeanor that was anxious.

"What book is it?" she inquired.

He told her.

"That's a good title, and should take if anything will," she said, a little more serious now than before. She did not impress Wyeth as being much of a literary person, as he now observed her. For a moment, he felt the interest wane, that he had experienced the moment she came up. She was speaking.

"I sold books one summer, 'Up From Bondage,' by the greatest Negro the race has ever known, and I had a time! I never want such another experience! They told me a thousand lies, and had me trotting after them all summer," whereupon, she shrugged her shoulders disgustedly.

"Well," said he, "I'm confident there are people, and plenty, who _do_ care to read, and will likewise buy when the book is properly presented. So, of course, the duty of a distributer, will be to find these people, and it is for this purpose, I am here. I do not, of course, know what kind of a black population you have; but it is reasonable to suppose that, if I could and did, personally sell twelve hundred copies in Attalia in a matter of five months, I should be able to find a few readers here. Do you not agree with me?"

"Oh, of course," said she; "but you cannot as yet appreciate the fact that Effingham has the orneriest Negroes in the world. I am frank when I say that I do not have any confidence in them, but wait," she admonished, "you'll find out."

They sat together now, and conversed on topics otherwise than books and literature, which he observed, could be engaged in with more success. Moreover, as the minutes wore on, he also came to see that Miss Palmer was somewhat sentimental. She smiled freely, moved close at times, and then away, artfully; saw him at moments out of liquid eyes, and said her words with a coquetishness that came by careful practice.

And so, Sidney Wyeth, a man free to practice the arts of coquetry--if a man may do so--accepted Miss Palmer's attention, and to that end he soon became a friend.

When he departed that evening, she had taken the agency, and had agreed to go with him on the morrow.

That night it rained, a heavy rain, and when he went forth the following morning, the streets were heavy with mud wherever there was no paving--which was, in this part of town, almost everywhere. Moreover, it showed signs of raining more. It had been one of the dryest springs the south had ever seen, and it was now probable that the deficiency in rainfall would be eradicated by an excess in moisture.

Wyeth, however, was impatient to begin as soon as possible. He wished to ascertain to what extent intelligence and regard for higher morals was prevalent in this town.

Miss Palmer was not ready when he arrived, and it was two hours before she was. "Thought since it rained," she explained, "that you would not, perhaps, go out today."

"Won't know the difference this time next year," he jested, with a cheerful smile, nevertheless, surveying the threatening elements anxiously.

"If we go into the quarter districts," she advised, "we will most likely get our feet wet--muddy."

"Are there no sidewalks out there?" he inquired.

They had decided, the evening before, at her suggestion, to begin in one of the many little towns, inhabited by Negroes employed in the mines, mills and furnaces, that made Effingham what it was. These little towns encircle the city proper, laying, many of them, at a considerable distance, to be incorporated as part of the city.

Some years before--between one census and the next--this city is recorded to have trebled and over in population. It had, but in doing so, it gathered all these little burgs for miles around. Some of them were even beyond the car lines, which were built to them after the city had incorporated them, and counted the people as a part of the population of Effingham. Wyeth perhaps, as well as the world at large, had not known this. The population, at this time, was estimated to be one hundred sixty-six thousand. Of this amount, two-fifths were Negroes. Only a portion had been born in Effingham; the rest came in the last few years, in great, ignorant hordes from the rural parts of the state, and from the states adjoining. And as Wyeth soon came to know, they included some of the most depraved and vicious creatures humanity has known--but of this, our story will reveal in due time.

The most extraordinary part of Effingham, was its staggering number of churches. That is, among the Negroes. Notwithstanding the fact that the city was the resort of every escaped convict, and the city where every freed one headed for, which, of course, naturally made it the scene of excessive depravity, there was, apparently, a great amount of pious worship. Wyeth recalled, as he became better acquainted with the city and the people, that a year before, in a northern city, he had one day, gone to the library, where he found the directories of all cities of any significance. He was preparing a circular campaign, and, in going through the various directories, chanced to look through the part of those of the southern cities that had recorded the churches. Effingham had, according to an old one, almost a hundred Negro churches.

But, having digressed at some length, we will return now to Miss Palmer and Sidney Wyeth, preparing to spread intelligence among a people who greatly needed it.

"Sidewalks!" Miss Palmer exclaimed, in derision, "Lordy, they hardly have streets in some places!"

A few minutes later, they were sailing through the country--although it was counted as part of the city--to a town, a suburb, nine miles distant, a suburb of mills. "I used to sell toilet articles out there, on and right after pay days, and did quite well," said she, as the heavy car thundered along at a great rate of speed, for an inter-urban. "I am skeptical in regard to books, though, because these are 'bad' nigga's, with the exception of a precious few good ones."

They were just then passing through a district that was well kept, and apparently quiet. "We are now in a part of the town, where a large number of the better class of our people reside," she said, "and I am going to point out the homes of some of them."

"There is where Mr. Judson, paying teller at the Dime Savings Bank, lives." She pointed to a handsome bungalow, setting well back from the street, and surrounded by many young trees, with a well kept lawn upon three sides. "Now over there is where Paul Widner, contractor and builder, has his home." Following the direction of her finger, he was moved by the sumptuous and imposing structure that met his gaze. "That is the finest residence owned and occupied by one of our kind in the city," she said, with evident pride. "Still, though, here is Dr. Jackson's, which is almost as fine," and she pointed to another that was a credit. "He is the financial secretary of one of the church denominations of the south.

"See that long house over there?" she pointed to another. "That is Dr. Wayland's. He runs the drugstore."

"A preacher?"

"No; a pharmacist."

They were now in the wood, a deep forest with great trees all about, that darkened the inside of the car. The picked over and slim pines, mingled with large water oaks, rose gloomily against the heavy clouds that now rumbled ominously overhead. Before long, large drops of water began an intermittent patter on the car roof, while the windows were spat upon occasionally. And then, of a sudden, the very heavens seem to open, and the rain fell in torrents. Through it the heavy car pushed resolutely forward. The line was one recently completed, and facilitated travel between the city and the suburb wonderfully. Built of steel, the cars were long and heavy, with doors that opened near the center, allowing the colored passengers to enter on one side of the conductor, who operated the doors, from a convenient position near the furtherest side of the opening.

"We will surely get soaked today," grumbled Miss Palmer, but not lightly, for she trembled on observing the terrific downpour.

"How much further is it to this place we are going?" he inquired. To him, it seemed they had been riding an hour. "You do not mean to tell me, that all that stretch of forest and open country before we got to the forest, is a part of Effingham?"

"We will soon be there now," she evaded, and then added: "Effingham includes everything that electric cars operating in and out of the city reaches," and laughed. He believed her.

At last, the big car came to a stop. They alighted in the downpour, and rushed to shelter beneath the porch of a small grocery store, conducted by a kind-faced little colored woman.

"Oh, how-do, Mrs. Brown," cried Miss Palmer, when the latter, upon seeing them, opened the door and bade them enter. "I'm certainly glad to see you," whereupon they kissed, and Miss Palmer cheered the dark atmosphere with many cute words.

"Permit me, Mrs. Brown, to introduce Mr.----I forget your name?" "You see, Mr. Wyeth," said Miss Palmer, with a delightful smile, "I taught out here these past three years, and Mrs. Brown is one of my many friends. Yonder is the school," she pointed to an old frame building, that could barely be outlined through the storm. "They have transferred me back to the city again," she turned to Mrs. Brown. "So I regret to say that I shall not be with you next year."

Miss Palmer had a way of finishing her sentences with a show of her fine little teeth; and her chin, at such a time, reached to a fine point, which at first amused Sidney. She would bestow upon him a coquettish smile, when she found his eyes searching her mysteriously.

"Mr. Wyeth," said she, with her arm linked now within Mrs. Brown's, "is general agent for a new book by a Negro author, _The Tempest_, and for which I have accepted the local agency--why not," she broke off suddenly, "show Mrs. Brown the book?"

"She is clever and suggestive at the same time," thought Sidney, almost aloud; but he forthwith obeyed the suggestion with much pleasure, and took Mrs. Brown's order amid the rainfall, collecting twenty-five cents as a guarantee of good faith, in addition.

It had ceased raining as suddenly as it had commenced. They turned to leave the store, and, as he was passing Miss Palmer, he bumped against her roughly. She was looking at his picture on the frontispiece now, with apparent suspicion. He pretended not to see her or her suspicion, that had now grown to excitement. She was yet apparently in some doubt, as she tried to make connections.

"Look here! Look here!" she exclaimed at last, in subdued excitement. "This picture! This picture! It is you! You!" She held the book open, and looked at him in amazement. He waved her aside depreciatively, and passed outside, while she continued gazing at the picture in a state of excitement. She followed him, and they were alone.

"Why didn't you tell me this?" she cried, unable to stem her tide of excitement. She had lost interest, for the present, in all else, and pursued: "You, the author of this book!" She now saw him as another person entirely. Feeling much put out, he felt something should be resorted to, to dissipate the spell.

"I'm not the author," he said, with straight face. "Where shall we go now?" his demeanor was calm and imperious.

"Stop next door--no, that's Mrs. Brown's house," she said, as she followed him in a meditative mood. "The next house," he heard her say, as if speaking from far away. Miss Palmer was now serious, and very thoughtful.

Disturbed by her discovery, and, in a measure, disconcerted, Wyeth concentrated himself upon the demonstration of the book to a creditable degree that morning; and, one by one, with his voice and look charged with dynamite, he secured those black people's orders, and the deposit wherever they had the amount available. Miss Palmer merely followed him, insisting upon the point of authorship, until, with a touch of impatience, he admonished her that their purpose, on that occasion, was to sell the book, the author, therefore, insofar as they were concerned, was a matter of secondary consideration.

"Going to be angry with me so soon?" she pined, looking into his eyes with a feigned appeal. In spite of himself, he smiled back disconcertedly.

"You are the author, though, aren't you?" she asked softly.

He ignored the question.

"We have eleven orders, and have collected a dollar and seventy-five cents, in exactly an hour and a half," she informed him, at the end of that time. "Whether you _did_ or did _not_ write this book--say what you will, I'm convinced you did--you _do_ know how to sell it. I never heard a man talk so fast and so effectively in my life!"

"I must leave you now," he said. "I have agreed to be back in town for the afternoon, and help start my young friend."

"Please don't leave me," she whispered artfully, and smiled in her winning way, then suddenly hurried into the next house.

* * * * *

"Thought you had quit me for good, Books," complained young Hatfield, when he saw Wyeth, on his return to the city. "When we goin' out?"

"As soon as I have fed my face, and the car will take us to--where, or what is that place you spoke of? Where the girls work in service?"

"South Highlands," he replied.

They followed the street until they came to the main street, or rather, to one of the main streets, and caught a car from the front end, that took them to the North Highlands, and not to the South, as they were accustomed to go.

"You'll have to pay carfare back, Books," said Hatfield. "I have only fifteen cents left."

"Go right over to where you see that girl, that little colored girl standing on the steps that lead to the rear, and tell her the tale of _The Tempest_, and get her order," said Wyeth, when at last they had come to the right place.

"I thought I would go along with you this afternoon," he said with a frown, but obeyed the command, nevertheless.

Two hours later, Sidney found him where they had left each other. "What have you done?" he asked holding back a frown, because he felt the student had succumbed to a lack of confidence; but he was cheered in a degree, when the other replied:

"I got four, how many did you get?"

"Eight," and they went on their way rejoicing.