The Forged Note. Micheaux Oscar

play it."

      "What piece is that? Please tell me," Mildred inquired.

      "Sweet Genevieve."

      "Oh, yes. … "

      "Why, what is the matter, dearest?" cried Constance, hurrying toward her.

      "Nothing, nothing!" said the other, hastily mopping her nose and eyes.

      "Well, I'm relieved, but I thought I heard you sob, but of course you didn't. Of course not. Really, I begin to feel that if I don't get married soon, I'll become a nervous, cranky old maid."

      "Please don't say such things about yourself," entreated Mildred. "You were not mistaken. I did—ah—I sobbed—I mean I coughed. I had something in my throat," she concluded nervously.

      "I'm relieved," smiled the other, and, going to the piano, she struck the keys, and sang in a high contralto voice:

      "O, Genevieve, I'd give the world

       To live again the lovely past!

       The rose of youth was dew-impearled;

       But now it withers in the blast.

       I see thy face in every dream,

       My waking thoughts are full of thee;

       Thy glance is in the starry beam

       That falls along the summer sea."

      It was in the small hours of the morning when Mildred Latham's eyes closed in sleep. All the night through, the strains of Sweet Genevieve and what it recalled, tortured her memory, until it was from sheer fatigue that she did at last fall asleep.

      She hoped Constance would play Sweet Genevieve no more.

CHAPTER TEN

       Table of Contents

      "Do Something and You'll Find Out"

      In Attalia, there is a street which includes all that goes with Ethiopian. It is called Dalton street, and along its narrow way—for it is narrow, and one of the oldest streets in the city—occurs much that is deplorable.

      On this selfsame street, an incident took place, in which Sidney Wyeth happened to figure as more than the casual observer.

      It was in late afternoon of a cold wet day. He had been delivering books, and had a considerable amount of the proceeds of the delivery in his pockets, when, while on the way to the office, he chanced to be passing down this street. He looked up, and found himself before a large, odd appearing structure. A uniformed man stood at the front, and, in passing, Wyeth paused a moment, took in the proportions of the building with a critical gaze, and inquired of the man what it was.

      The other looked at him with an expression which seemed to say: "You ought to know!" But grinning, he replied:

      "Do something and you'll damn quick find out! It's the police station."

      "M-m-m-m! You wouldn't be likely to find out if you didn't, I suppose," he laughed, as he continued on his way.

      During Sidney Wyeth's bachelor life on the Rosebud, he had been a victim of the habit of going to town, and loafing the night through, occasionally. There had, in the beginning, been a great deal of gambling there, and to watch this was an absorbing pastime. It served, also, as he then felt, as a diversion to break the monotony of his lonesome life.

      Now there were places—if not gambling dens—in Attalia also, where one could loaf at night. When his correspondence was completed that evening, he felt a "Call of the Wild" in his blood, and went forth on a pilgrimage of this kind. In company with a chauffeur, he left for his room about one thirty A.M. the following morning. They had not, however, gone far before the clouds had gathered. They didn't see the clouds—at first—but the clouds saw them. They happened to be a pair of meddlesome bull-cops. It has been stated that the hour was about one thirty, but the cops said two. Moreover, they wished to know what business occasioned two young men to be out at such an hour.

      Sidney felt slightly insulted, and stepped aside to let them by, thereby wishing to avoid any argument. The cops stepped aside also, but to see that they did not get too far out of the way. Said one—and he was the burliest—"Well, boys, where have you been?" "Where have we been?" said Wyeth, to himself. "Now wouldn't that frost you!" What business of these men was it? They had positively not been acting suspicious, nor were they seen fighting, and neither were they drunk. So, then, what right had two burley cops to get in the way, and ask such impertinent questions. Sidney felt like making an indignant reply, he felt like fighting; then he did some quick thinking, and decided to be patient, answering the questions in an offhand way, and so be on his way, for he felt sleepy. And then, again, he observed that they wore great big sticks, with which they toyed idly, as they waited for reply.

      "Aw, knocking around." It was Wyeth who made this reply.

      "Aw, knockin' 'roun'," said the big cop, who had now grown ugly in the sight of Wyeth, and he repeated this mockingly. And now spoke the chauffeur, who had grown up in those parts. He was diplomatic. Said he:

      "I'm jes' gettin' off frum we'k, cap'n," and despite his look of truth and sincerity, he trembled perceptibly.

      Sidney observed him with a touch of disgust.

      "Is that so-o?" said the cop, more sneeringly now than ever. Sidney had enough, and started to go by, but the blue-coat blocked his way roughly, and cried out, with club grasped: "Where yu' been, nigger?"

      Wyeth was shocked beyond speech. Evidently, he had not as yet come to appreciate that he was otherwise than on the Rosebud. "Where you been, nigger?" came the terrible voice once more.

      Wyeth woke up. Moreover, he became obviously frightened. He replied—and lo! He was trembling also, as he cried:

      "What do you mean, Mr. Policeman!" He was now wild-eyed. "I'm not breaking the law; I have done nothing; I am on the way to my room and to bed. Why do you hold me up this way. I don't think I am obliged to answer such questions as you ask; but I have been calling, I cannot see that it matters where, since—"

      "Aw don't talk to the man lak dat," whimpered the chauffeur.

      "I'll knock your damned head off, nigger! What'n Hell's got int' you to talk to a white man like that!" He turned his face to the other who had not, up to then, said anything, and said: "Let's arrest them!" The other acquiesced. "Come on!" he roared, grabbing the chauffeur by the belt of his trousers, and whirling him about. The other caught Sidney likewise, but was more civil in the act.

      "Good Lord, Mister," said he to his cop, "why are you arresting us? We have done nothing!"

      "Got orders to pick up everybody after one o'clock who looks suspicious, and cannot give good accounts of themselves," he replied soberly.

      "I wish I had known it," Wyeth sighed wearily; "but I'm at least glad that I didn't have him lead me," he said, pointing to the cop who had the chauffeur.

      "You made him mad," grinned the patrolman. "You must not live here?"

      "No, Lord, and I wish at this moment I had never come."

      "When a white man speaks to you down here, always answer him 'sir!'" he advised.

      "I most assuredly will, if I meet any more like him," said Sidney meekly. After a moment of silence as they stumbled along, he said thoughtfully: "I hate this. I've never been arrested before in my life. Will they lock us up?"

      "Oh, sure!" the other laughed.

      "M-m-m-m—m!"

      "Jes' lemme go this time, Mister," whined the chauffeur ahead, "'n' I won' neve' be out late no mo'."

      "I'm sorry, son," said the bull-cop a little kindly, "but it's impossible. I o'n' think you are bad 'tall, but that other nigger's crooked, 'n' I know he is," he said, pointing back at Wyeth.