CHAPTER NINE

"_But Smith Is Not His Real Name_"

Owen Beasely. That was his name, and Sidney met him while waiting for a subscriber, who failed to show up. He was a relative of Smith's, whom he had met the day before. It was two P.M., the fourth day of July, and the colored people, as well as the white, had retired to a day of delight. It was hot, and clouds rolled up, white-capped from the west. "It would rain before night," the weather man said, and it did.

"And so you came from the west," said Beasely, who had been reading _The Tempest_. Wyeth had seen him working behind the counter, and they put aside all formality of introduction. Wyeth was glad to meet someone to talk to that day. He had come out to this suburb, under promise of subscribers to take the book. And, since every one of them had retracted, he was discouraged, which is a disagreeable feeling.

"Yes," he replied gloomily, "and the day I return will be one of great happiness. I am not particularly in love with being down here anyhow; and the sooner I see the plains again, that much sooner will I be happy and contented."

"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.