The Forged Note. Micheaux Oscar

confident by this time. These people lived in and owned homes that were a pride, and it was not that they did not wish to buy; people so easily approached can be expected, in a large part, to fall victim; but 'ere long it became more clear to him. They were not able. It was well that he perceived this; for hope of success was small, if it depended upon purchasers here. Most of the people he found in these homes were dependent upon a very small salary. The cost of living was as high here as in the north, in fact, the ordinary commodities were higher. The sums they were receiving would not be considered sufficient to care for the same people in the north, therefore, why should it here? This was contrary again to what Sidney had always been told.

      Presently, he happened upon a letter carrier. No time was lost here. This man was paid for his work, so he forthwith became a victim of the most artful spiel, and bought the book, cash. This served to spur Sidney to renew his efforts, and he attacked those he approached more vigorously. For a time he met with no more success.

      He had a lunch at a nearby restaurant, of pigs feet and sweet potato custard. After an hour, he resumed his efforts. And this began his discoveries.

      Entering a yard, he came up the steps of a house from the back way. He passed a refrigerator, and crossed the porch to knock at the door. But—a bottle of Kentucky's John Barleycorn calmly rested upon this same refrigerator.

      The door at which he knocked was opened presently, and he was invited to enter, which he did; but, when leaving by the same way, after selling another book for cash, "John" was gone.

      At the next house, his customer was a tall woman of middle age and dark skinned. She drew him adroitly into a prolonged conversation, and then bought the book.

      Now, Attalia is a prohibition town in a southern prohibition state. Yes, it is—and it isn't. When Sidney Wyeth left that house that afternoon, he had spent part of what he received for the book, for beer and whiskey. Moreover, he was told that more than seventy-five places on Audubon Avenue were engaged likewise, and in the city all—but that is a matter for conjecture!

      Obviously, prohibition did not prohibit—but more of this later in the story.

      That evening, while dining, he became acquainted with Ferguson and Thurman, who will, for a time, occupy a part in the development of this plot.

      Ferguson was a preacher, but at this time—and for some time—had not preached. He admitted painting to be more profitable from a financial point of view. He complained, however, that if the "New Freedom" continued in power much longer at Washington, and with the way things "was a-goin'," he would have to give that up and go back to pickin' cotton.

      "They ain' nothin' in preachin' no mo', that's a sho thing."

      "I do not agree with you on that score," said Sidney; "for, from what I have learned already in regard to these parts, there must apparently be more money in preaching than anything else, judging from the number of preachers. And how fat they all appear!" Ferguson looked up quickly at this remark, and as quickly down at himself.

      "I didn' get this flesh preachin', I assuah you," he retorted, with flushed face. And after a pause, he went on with some heat:

      "But that's what don' sp'iled preachin'; too many lazy nigga's a-graftin offa de people!" But Ferguson, as Wyeth learned later, was something of a pessimist, and predicted all kinds of deplorable things. And it was at this moment that a dejected creature made his appearance. He was bald headed, bowlegged, but, notwithstanding these possible deficiencies in his make-up, aggressive. His name was Thurman, and, said he, between bites of sweet potato pie:

      "Aw, nigga;—youah allus a-p'dictin'—som'thin' awful!—To—heah you tell it—since the democrats—has got int' powah—cawse a buncha crazy nigga's—didn' know how t' vote—at dat aih convention in Chicawgo—the world is—liable to end tomorra'!"

      "It mought!—It mought;—'n' 'f it did—you be one—a d' fust—t' bu'n in hell—too; but don't you 'dress me lak dat no mo'—in sech distressful terms! You autta be 'shamed a-yo' se'f."

      And he munched pie for a time, uninterrupted by speech.

      Thurman only grunted unconcernedly.

      "What are the prospects of the colored people down here at the present time?" inquired Sidney, hoping to relieve the tension; but he could have rested easily on this score, for, as he learned later, they carried on that way every night. That was their diversion; but Thurman was now heard from.

      "HELL!" he answered calmly.

      "Good Lawd man!" cried Ferguson shocked. "What's comin' ovah you!"

      "Lyin' 'n' stealin'; drinkin' cawn liquah 'n' gittin' drunk; bein' run in, locked up and sent to d' stock-ade 'n' chain-gang;" he resumed, ignoring Ferguson's shock entirely. Whereupon, Ferguson looked more distressed than ever; but only wrinkled his face in a helpless frown, and said nothing.

      "Gee!" cried Sidney; "but that's an awful prospect." All this time Thurman had not smiled, but accepted everything as a matter of course, from the way he partook of sweet potato pie.

      "You must not pay any attention to Mr. Thurman, Mister," said the proprietress, from across the room. She was a patient-faced, sleepy, short woman. And now, for the first time Thurman moved in his seat, and took exception to the words. Said he, somewhat loudly, and emphasizing his words with a raised hand:

      "Pay no 'tention! Pay no 'tention; wull I reckon yu'd bettah. Hump," he deliberated, pausing long enough to fill his mouth with more potato: "Pay no 'tention when yu' know yu'se'f that Jedge Ly'les 's a sentincin' mo' nigga's to the stock-ade 'n' chain-gang than he's eve' done befo'. 'N' a good reason he has fo' doin' so too! Lyin', doity, stinkin', stealin' nigga's," he ended disgustedly.

      Presently, before anyone had time to deny his sweeping assertion, he resumed:

      "Mis' M'coy, yu' know dem taters I got frum you tuther night?"

      "I rember them quite well, Mr. Thurman," she replied, resignedly.

      "I took them taters home 'n' put 'm in muh trunk, locked it 'n' put th' key in muh pocket 's I allus do. Now what yu' think happened?" he halted, and surveyed the atmosphere with serene contempt. "That low down li'l' nigga in th' room wi' me, sneaks int' that trunk wid a duplicate key, 'n' steal eve' last one'm! Jes' think of it!" he emphasized, with a terrible gesture. "Stole eve' las' one uv'm! Then talk about nigga's!"

      "We did'n' say nothin' 'bout nigga's would'n' steal, man!" complained Ferguson. "You jes' nache'lly went offa yo' noodle widout 'casion."

      During all this conversation, a girl sat opposite Sidney. She was a dark, sweet-faced maiden, with an expression that was inviting. Sidney, happening to glance for the first time into her face, smiled and nodded. She smiled back pleasantly. Ferguson and Thurman continued their harrangue.

      "They are a pair," ventured Sidney, to no one in particular, but the girl smiled and inquired:

      "Who are they?"

      "I never saw them before," he replied.

      She observed him closely, and said presently, in a very demure voice:

      "Indeed. Ah—then—you don't live here?"

      "No," he answered, and told her.

      "O-oh, my," she echoed tremulously. "It must be fine away up in the great northwest. And—do you expect to be here—er, some time?"

      "For a few months at least." Whereupon she inquired as to his business, and he likewise inquired of hers.

      "I am employed in service," she said.

      Now it happened that Sidney had, a few months before, met an agent in Dayton, who persisted in canvassing nowhere else but among this class. He thought of this, and made inquiry. He was told in reply, that practically all the domestics were colored.

      "I would like to see the book you sell," she said, presently. "If you could bring it to the number where I am employed, and if, after