The Forged Note Part 8

CHAPTER SIX

"_Oh, You Sell Books_"

One beautiful day, the _Palm Leaf Limited_ carried another pa.s.senger southward, aboard the Jim Crow car. It was Mildred Latham, and her destination required a change at Chattanooga. Turning her course, however, she went west and alighted at a town, happily located upon the banks of the Mississippi. It was a large metropolis, a fac-simile of a sister city, Attalia.

Miss Latham left the depot at once, and proceeded to Beal Street, which was entirely occupied by Negroes. She entered a restaurant, but soon came out, and started in search of a room. However, the land-ladies all told her they preferred men, so she decided to look elsewhere.

A car put her off at a corner far removed from Beal Street. She pa.s.sed down a clean, quiet street, lined on either side by comfortable homes occupied by colored people. She paused before a small but handsome stone church. It was the First Presbyterian, so the cornerstone read. To the side, and back from the sidewalk, completely surrounded by vines, was the parsonage, at least she took it for such. And so it proved to be.

She hesitated a moment, then, with an air of finality, she opened the gate, entered the yard, and mounted the steps.

The door was opened by a kindly lady, whom she judged to be the pastor's wife.

"Pardon me, please," began Miss Latham demurely, "but I am a stranger, recently arrived in the city, and have been unable to secure lodging. I noted the church next door, and surmised that, if this is the parsonage, and if the pastor is in, he might a.s.sist me." She hesitated, and for a time seemed at a loss how to proceed. In the meantime, the other surveyed her critically. Strange women were always regarded with suspicion. Finally she replied kindly, swinging the door wide:

"Come in, my dear child. You look tired and surely need rest. You must have come a long way. The pastor of the church you refer to is not in for the present, and, I regret to say, is out of the city, and is not expected back for several days. I am his sister, however, and will help you all I can." She paused as she placed a rocker at the disposal of the stranger, and relieved her of coat and hat.

"You are very kind," said Mildred gratefully. "I hardly know how to thank you."

"Please do not speak of it, my dear. As I am alone, you may stay with me until you have found the kind of place you desire." She was silent and thoughtful for a moment, and then asked softly, "where are you from?"

"Cincinnati."

"I do declare!" exclaimed the other in mild surprise. "I have relatives there; but I have never seen the city myself."

The stranger appeared relieved.

"And do you expect to be in the city long?"

"I cannot say. I am here to sell a book, _The Tempest_, a western story, by a Negro author. And, of course, it depends upon that, as to how long I shall stay."

"Oh, you sell books." Mildred did not correct her. "I used to sell books, and, indeed I liked it. I am fond of reading. I am anxious to see the book you speak of when it is convenient, since I have observed advertis.e.m.e.nts of it."

"It is a nice book," Mildred commented. "And as soon as I can have access to my trunk at the depot, I shall be delighted to let you see and read it."

"I shall indeed be pleased, I a.s.sure you," the other smiled back sweetly. "I am always so interested when it comes to books, that I wish, when you have had something to eat, you would tell me the story of _The Tempest_."

"It will be a pleasure; but you need not fix me lunch, for I just ate a short time ago, as I came from the station. So, if you now wish, I will tell, in as few words as possible, and as best I can, the story of this book.

"The story opens up on the banks of the river, near this city.... It concerns a young man, restless and discontented, who regarded the world as a great opportunity. So he set forth to seek his fortune.... Thus it began, but shortly, it led through a maze of adventures, to a land in the west. It is, perhaps, the land of the future; a land in which opportunity awaits for courageous youths, strong men, and good women....

This land is called _The Rosebud Indian Reservation_. It lays in southern South Dakota, and slopes back from the banks of the 'Big Muddy', stretching for many miles into the interior beyond. It is a prairie country. No trees, stumps, rocks or stones mar the progress of civilization. So the white men and only a few blacks unloaded at a town on or near the frontier. I think it is called Bonesteel. And then the mighty herd of human beings flocked and settled over all that broad expanse, claiming it by the right of conquest.

"Among these many, conspicuous at the front, was the hero of this narrative. He came into a share, a creditable share, and, although far removed from the haunts of his own, and surrounded on all sides by a white race, he was duly inoculated with that spirit which makes men successful.

"Time went on, and in a few years there was no more reservation, but it became _The Rosebud Country_, the land of the optimist.

"Then, of course, came to him that longing, that dream, the greatest of all desires, the love of a woman. But of his own race there were none, and he did not feel it right to wed a white wife. But at last, he found one of his own blood. She was kind, good and refined, but in conviction she was weak, without strength of her own. She loved him--as such women love, but to her father, a preacher, she was obedient,--subservient.

They lived for some months in happiness, until that other--her father--came to visit them. These two, her father and her husband, differed, both in thought and action, and, naturally out of sympathy. In short, they disagreed upon all points, including the daughter, the wife, and at last the mother, for in time such she became. And that, strange to say, instead of being the birth of a new freedom, was the end of all things.

"So o'er this land of the free there came a change, a sad change, that led to the end, the end of _The Tempest_." She paused, and allowed her eyes to remain upon the rug before her, while the other listened for more. Presently she said:

"And was it her father--who stooped to _this_?"

The other nodded and remained silent, with downcast eyes.

Mildred Latham could not have said more had she wished--just then. A peculiar feeling came over her, and her mind went back to a night not long before.

CHAPTER SEVEN

_The Office of the Grand Secretary_

When Sidney Wyeth walked into the office of B.J. d.i.c.kson that Sunday morning, he found him alone, engaged in reading. When a step sounded at the door, he laid the paper aside and glanced searchingly at the intruder. Wyeth saw before him, the man of determination: the square jaw, the determined set of the neck; otherwise he would not attract any particular attention in a crowd. But this was B.J. d.i.c.kson, of whom he had heard much since coming to Attalia, and even before.

"Mr. d.i.c.kson?" he inquired, respectfully. The other nodded, and pointed to a chair.

"You have charge of the renting here, so I understand?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to get desk s.p.a.ce for the present, and later on perhaps I might require an office."

"I see," mused the other, surveying him meditatively. "Well, we have nothing left in this building; but I think there are two or three rooms not yet rented in the building you have observed in course of construction. What kind of business are you engaged in?"

"Books," replied Sidney, simply.

"M-m. Well, I can't give you any information as to desk s.p.a.ce. You can, however, see Morton tomorrow. His office is on the second floor, the board of trade. He can enlighten you on that score."

"What do you receive for the rooms?"

"$12.50 a month."

"That is quite reasonable," said Wyeth. The other looked up with a pleased expression.

"You're one of the few who have made such a remark," he commented.

"Indeed! That would be considered cheap in my section of the country,"

said Wyeth.

"Where is that?"

Wyeth told him.

"Oh well, you come from a place where the people are accustomed to something. These down here have been used to nothing but an attic or an old frame shack, a fireplace with wind blowing in at the cracks, and, of course, cannot appreciate steam heat, electric lights, first cla.s.s janitor service, and other modern conveniences that go with such a building."