CHAPTER FIVE

"_Hello, Brown Skin!_"

He came abreast of a depot; it was new, with an imposing front, over which was inscribed TERMINAL STATION in arched letters. It seemed quite a long way back to the colored waiting room, and the station was very narrow. It ran back several hundred feet, where four or five tracks received the incoming and outgoing human traffic. The station, like the one he had come into a short while ago, was filled with men and women, obviously idlers. He lingered only a few minutes, when curiosity led him further. He left the station from the side entrance, and found himself upon a very narrow street. He paused, and as he did so, strains of ragtime music came to his ears. He was curious to see where it came from, and to hear it closer. He crossed the street, and found that it came from a place--a cabaret--but for white people only. He turned away and went down the street, where something odd caught his attention.

He stood where the walks intersected, and gazed to his left. Yes, it was a _feature_. On either side of the street stood a row of one-story houses. Lights were bright, as bright as day, on either side, which fact filled the narrow street with light also. He passed down one side; and there were multitudes of men sauntering, as he was--but there were no women, excepting in the one-story houses. They stood behind open doors, some of them, while others sat in chairs before a grate fire; but one and all, he noted, were thinly dressed and smiled on everybody--but himself (for, you see, they were white women)--with amorous eyes.

"Come here dearie," said one--and many others said the same. "I have something to tell you." "Indeed," he conjectured, "but secrets appear to be the fashion here."

He walked to the end of that block, and where that street intersected with another. And before him, on eight different sides, was a myriad of the same. Women, thinly clad--and it, you understand, was the month of January....

It was a sight to be indulged; a pastime that was diverting, to say the least. And, since so very many others--men--were seeing it, why then not he?

He saw it--at least a large part of it.

He strolled another block, and the same sight met his eye; but, as he got further away from the station, the lights grew dimmer; the women fewer, but plenty, at any rate.

Now he had reached a place where the crowds had not penetrated--only stragglers lingered like himself--and where the women were of another race, for now they were colored.

"Hello, Brown Skin," they greeted him, and he smiled back, but didn't stop--not even to hear the secret that almost everyone had to tell him.

"You are sure some brown, kid. Just come here a moment. Don't be afraid, I won't eat you."

"Indeed," he said to one who was very small, and could smile with more effect than the others. "But I'm afraid." And he laughed aloud as he went upon his way.

He had stopped now. He had to; for, before him was a brick wall--no, a brick fence. It was painted white and was about eight or ten feet high; while inside raised something sinister. "Gee!" he exclaimed. "But that is a sight one does not appreciate."

He turned now, and passed down a side street, which was occupied by the same. But he couldn't forget what stood grim and determined on the other side. It had been there a long time too--before, oh, long before these women had. Yes, and it would be there long after they had passed away, and others, not yet born, had come to take their places. And as he passed down the street, under the subtlety of those night smiles, that place seemed to say--kept on saying:

"Play on she cats! Oh, play on! Hell's got your soul; but I'll have the rest by and by." He turned the next corner and walked another block, and lo! There stood another! "Kick high little girl; sin as you please; Hell's got your hearts, but I'll have what's left--I won't say how soon...."

"The devil!" he exclaimed. "This is the worst place for cemeteries I ever knew. I'm going away from here, to my room." And he went.

* * * * *

"Where do the wealthiest of the wealthy white people live?" he inquired the next morning, when he had arisen, and dined at one of the Chinese cafes.

The others regarded him now with a question in their eyes. "Yes," he repeated, "where do they live, for it is to their servants I prefer to try to sell the book, for which I am agent."

They caught his logic then, and replied:

"Take a car at the next corner, ride until you come to a park that is called d'Ubberville. There you unload, and find yourself in the midst of the wealthiest of the wealthy."

He went down to that street, which was the aforementioned wide street. All that money could buy, was on sale along its broad highway. He sought a bookstore, where he wished to make inquiries, and, of course, found a number. He strolled about, making inquiries, until his watch said it was time to return, and go forth in quest of that part of town, where he wished to begin his work.

It was certainly a long way to his destination. Indeed, he made inquiries of the conductor, until that one told him he would tell him when they arrived at the place where he wanted to stop. So, he sat in patience after that. He allowed his eyes to feast upon the splendor and magnificence of the beautiful buildings. Yes, they were elegant homes; they were the finest homes; and they were beautifully arranged, not to say artistically, on either side of the street, which, while not the same, was another one just as wide. So wide, indeed, that the middle was converted into a lawn, on which many palms reared their graceful foliage.

"The creole city," he murmured. "For a long time I have wished to see it as it really is; to know the people and to learn of the many things and wonders it is said to contain."

"Here you are," said the conductor at last, and Sidney Wyeth alighted at once.

"Whew!" he exclaimed, standing entranced, as he looked all about him. "_Such_ homes; _such_ trees--such _everything_." And then he walked in the direction his face happened to be turned. He was slightly nervous for a time, but presently, with a bold front, he turned into the most insignificant of the many houses, and rapped quietly at the back door.

"Come in," someone called, and he knew the voice belonged to one of his race. He had many times thought it strange, but it was always easy to determine the Negro by his voice alone.

He entered, and looked at the owner of that same voice. She was a stout, brown-skinned woman; and there was another also, but she was black. One, the large woman, was the cook, for she worked over the stove, while the other was obviously the washer-woman, for she was ironing.

In his talk, he told the story of the book, and filled them with enthusiasm, to a point that both subscribed. He said he was just commencing, and was glad they had favored him with an order. He thanked them again, and, turning, he left and betook himself across the street, where he encountered another brown-skinned woman, but she failed to buy. And the excuse she gave for not doing so, was one he always regarded. She was not able--having other irons in the fire. He left her, went across the street on another corner, and entered the rear of the smallest house he saw on the street. He was turning to go, when another brown-skinned woman put in her appearance. She was beautiful, he thought. And she could smile until he--well, she smiled. She said she'd take one, to be sure, so he wrote down her name, and asked her about herself. She was married, and laughed tantalizingly, though he had not asked her that. He left presently, by the way he had entered, and went to another house, and still to another, until the watch said five; then he betook himself to a car line. It was not the one he had come out on, and soon he saw other homes, which showed the creole element.

That night he went rambling; he couldn't seem to be still. There was so much to be seen, and it had a peculiar fascination for him. He went in the direction he had gone the night before, and met crowds of people. He strolled until gay music arrested his attention. About an electric entrance, from which the music came, stood colored men. He got a peep inside, as some one entered, and saw that the occupants were Negroes, so he entered.

A waiter showed him a seat by a table. Around the room were plenty of others; there were women and men, and others came and went all the time. The music had ceased when he entered; but, 'ere long, it struck up, and the room was filled with the strains. Couples arose and stood face to face, and did what he had never seen, as he recalled. The music played was a two-step; but they did not two-step--at least not the way he had done it years before. They made only one step where he had made two. Across the table from where he sat, a girl smiled upon him invitingly, as much as to say: "Let's dance!" He was tempted, and then he recalled that they had begun this dance since he had quit some years before. So he kept his seat, and she smiled upon another. He escorted her, and they joined the dancers. A hesitation, they called it, and he was positive he would--could never learn it.

Presently the music stopped, and the couple returned to their seat.

"I know you are going to buy me a little drink," she said, whereupon the man said "nix" and left. She glared after him, and called him "cheap."

Wyeth was glad now he had kept his seat. He didn't like bold women, even in a cabaret, and this was the first one he had ever entered.

It was a place for amusements, he soon saw, for, between dances came songs by many girls and a man or two, while clever dancing and "ballin' the jack" was a feature; and it attracted to the performers many nickels, that they did not hesitate to pick up 'ere they had fallen, and "balled" again and again, until it seemed their legs must sure be tired; but you see, they were accustomed to that.

"Some town," he said to himself, when he took his leave. "A good place to forget, to live?" Well, it seemed that way.