CHAPTER SIX

_"Who're You!" She Repeated_

And now we arrive at the end of the pilgrimage of Sidney Wyeth. He had ceased his critical observations, and had secured a room on the fifth floor of an office building, that was owned and controlled by a Negro lodge. He began an effort toward the distribution of his work, that he believed would be successful now, since he had learned, by contact, the art of reaching his people.

He placed a large desk in the office, and put a carpet on the floor; a large table for wrapping purposes to one side, while upon the door and the windows he had an artist painter inscribe the letters:

CRESENT DISTRIBUTORS COMPANY

"Now, then," he said, "if I can induce someone, here and there, to go to the people and follow the instructions I will cheerfully give, I think _The Tempest_ will be placed into the hands of many people. And to that end, I shall bend all my energy."

And thus he began work permanently. He decided to canvass every afternoon, and to attend to the office and correspondence in the mornings, until such a time, when it would not be necessary to do so.

He filled the country again with circular letters; but before he had completed this task, he felt an illness pervading his usual healthy physique. "Biliousness," he said. "It'll be over in a few days," and he went to work much harder, in an effort to forget it.

For days he held it in check by the effort he put forth. But, as the days came and went, it became harder. He didn't go to a physician, but waited. But before many days had passed, however, he became conscious that it was more serious. So there came a day when he felt strangely sick; when he laid down, everything about him swam; he felt dizzy, but withal, he kept up the fight.

"I won't give up to it, I won't!" he declared. And he earnestly tried to overcome it.

He arose from his desk, and, despite the fact that his knees trembled and his whole frame quivered, he went into the street. He felt a mad desire to see this city, although he had been seeing it every day. So, to the wide street he went, and boarded a car that took him around a belt. It brought him back to where he had entered, and the route was twelve miles long. It led him through the district where he canvassed, and which was occupied by the richest. He saw their magnificent homes this time, strangely. At times his eyes would close, despite his effort to keep them open. And then, when he awoke, it was with a nervous start, and he was surprised each time, to find himself aboard the large cars that thundered along between rows of the finest houses in the city.

He could not interest himself in them now; they appeared dull and without life. The car came down, and went through the business district before it came back again into the wide street. He got off, and almost fell in doing so. He stood for a time, at a loss to control himself. He wouldn't go to bed, that was sure; but where to go, he could not think for a time. Then it occurred to him to see that place--that place where a thousand and more women, vandals, were hurrying life to its end.

So he walked in that direction, reeling at times, until some regarded him as if he were drunk. He passed down a street that was called Bienville. In that neighborhood it was the broad highway. And it was crowded. It was then about nine o'clock, and the sidewalks were filled. The girls were merry--they were always merry, apparently.... They called to him as before, that is, a part of them. The others--well, the color line was drawn here too, and white men came first.

"Hello, Brown Skin," smiled one he had not seen before, and winked. He regarded her for a moment strangely. She took it as an evidence of encouragement. She beckoned to him vigorously, and _promised_ so very much. He turned, and before him rose one of the ghostly, silent places--the cemetery. It aroused him, for a time, from his apparent lethargy. He looked at it, and thought how strange it was this city had so many. And they were always silent--waiting, waiting, waiting.

He shuddered and moved away from it, and in a direction that he had not been. On all sides the girls were gay that night. He went around a block, ignoring invitations. His brain was clear for awhile, and he thought: "Who located such a place?" A place where each day someone died and went to hell! But, as he thought the more, he concluded that dying was not necessary. It was a living death....

"Come in, Brown Skin, not a man has been here tonight." He looked up, and in the doorway stood a woman. She was tall and slender, and brown. She smiled with an effort, he could see, for, in truth, the woman was hungry.

"I'm hungry," she faltered, "and that's on the square. The landlord took every dime I made last night, for rent this morning. Not a bite have I eaten this day. Every day he calls early for his rent. Business is rotten--everybody's broke; but he must have his rent, or out into the street I go." She paused and looked tired, and then went on: "I'm so weak. I'd slip out of this hell hole, and try to make an honest living, but I have no clothes, and besides, I'm afraid that while I was gone, he might come along and turn the lock, and carry the key with him. And too, the bulls are filling the streets tonight, and fly cops are everywhere. So I might be arrested, and go t' jail. I don't like that place up there." And she sighed a long drawn, weary sigh.

"Why would you be arrested?" he inquired, speaking for the first time.

"Why would I be arrested?" she exclaimed. "You must not know the rules of this district," she cried. "Why, we are not allowed to leave it. When we enter this, we agree to stay!"

"To stay?" he echoed.

"Yes," she replied. "To stay...." He followed her gaze. She was not aware of what she saw, no doubt; but he was. Before her gaze rose gray, grim and sinister, one of those places--the abode of dead things. Yes, and it was waiting, silently waiting. He turned and regarded the woman. She was quiet. A man came by crying:

"Hot sandwiches--hot tamales--five cents apiece!"

He saw her gazing at them with eyes that were dry, but hungry.

"Here," he cried, "with your sandwiches." And then turned to her:

"Take as many as you want. All you can eat tonight, and some for tomorrow!"

Her eyes widened. She beheld him now with wonder. "Do you mean it?" she whispered, in a subdued voice.

He nodded, and handed the man a half dollar.

She ate ravenously, while he watched. Presently he started, while she watched him strangely, as if he were something unearthly. He turned suddenly, and came back to where she stood. He ran his hand into his pocket, and drew forth three silver dollars. "Here," he said, and a moment later he was gone.

She stood transformed, and then, dreamlike, she cried after him:

"God bless you!"

Back toward his room he now walked, and at times stumbled. But all the way the words of that woman rang in his ears: "God bless you!" "God," he murmured, "do You know these people? Are You acquainted with these women who are sinning? They don't know You! Their souls are burning now in hell!" He didn't know the direction he was going, nor did he hear the invitations; but soon he came to one of those walls, and looked up. Yes, they were inside.... Those who had known this life in the infinite long ago. And they were waiting for those others....

"Brown Skin," he now heard, and then much gayety followed; but he looked up and saw the others, who were likewise waiting. "Sin on little girl. Satan's got your soul, and you'll burn in hell some day."

He went a block where, on one side the gray silence greeted him, while on the other gay life was the order.

"Come in boy, I've something to tell you." But Sidney Wyeth made no answer; all the while he could feel that silent spectre, the grave. And it seemed to say: "We are waiting, waiting, waiting."

He went now in the direction of his room, and as he went along, the gray court kept telling him: "These are mine--all of them. And, do you know, they come to me each day. Oh, they are gay--now! The devil's got their souls, but I always get the rest. Meanwhile I am waiting, patiently waiting."

Gay music came from the doors of a cabaret, and he saw it was for colored people. White people were not allowed within. He entered. The accustomed crowd lined the walls. The same girls came each night--he now saw. They welcomed those who wished for drinks, which came at fifteen cents apiece; a half of which they received at the end of the night, and that was how they lived.

He avoided them. On the floor were the dancers. The music was inspiring, and "balling the jack" was the order. A rain of nickels came down upon them, and they quit only when they were exhausted.

He was awakened by a waiter, at the table where he had fallen asleep. So he ordered a drink, gulped it down with an effort, and took his leave. He emerged, and had walked a few steps, when someone touched him. He looked down into the face of the woman who had been hungry.

"Who're you?" she said. "_Who're you?_" she repeated, "to feed a starving wench and ask nothing. Don't look at me so strangely. I followed you. I saw you enter there. I would have followed you in; but they don't allow _us_ in there.... They don't allow us anywhere but--oh, well, I didn't come to tell you my troubles. And then," she added, "I wouldn't wish to disgrace you by having others see; but won't you come back?"

He gazed down into her eyes and saw the truth therein. "A lost soul.... Yes, a lost soul." And then something within him seemed to burst. The world about him became a maze of darkness, and he knew no more.