The Sins of the Father: A Romance of the South. Thomas Dixon

of the Poor. It was incredible!

      The watcher was roused from his painful reverie by a reporter's voice:

      "I think there's a man waiting in the hall to see you, sir."

      "Who is it?"

      The reporter smiled:

      "Mr. Bob Peeler."

      "What on earth can that old scoundrel want with me? All right – show him in."

      The editor was busy writing when Mr. Peeler entered the room furtively. He was coarse, heavy and fifty years old. His red hair hung in tangled locks below his ears and a bloated double chin lapped his collar. His legs were slightly bowed from his favorite mode of travel on horseback astride a huge stallion trapped with tin and brass bespangled saddle. His supposed business was farming and the raising of blooded horses. As a matter of fact, the farm was in the hands of tenants and gambling was his real work.

      Of late he had been displaying a hankering for negro politics. A few weeks before he had created a sensation by applying to the clerk of the court for a license to marry his mulatto housekeeper. It was common report that this woman was the mother of a beautiful octoroon daughter with hair exactly the color of old Peeler's. Few people had seen her. She had been away at school since her tenth year.

      The young editor suddenly wheeled in his chair and spoke with quick emphasis:

      "Mr. Peeler, I believe?"

      The visitor's face lighted with a maudlin attempt at politeness:

      "Yes, sir; yes, sir! – and I'm shore glad to meet you, Major Norton!"

      He came forward briskly, extending his fat mottled hand.

      Norton quietly ignored the offer by placing a chair beside his desk:

      "Have a seat, Mr. Peeler."

      The heavy figure flopped into the chair:

      "I want to ask your advice, major, about a little secret matter" – he glanced toward the door leading into the reporters' room.

      The editor rose, closed the door and resumed his seat:

      "Well, sir; how can I serve you?"

      The visitor fumbled in his coat pocket and drew out a crumpled piece of paper which he fingered gingerly:

      "I've been readin' your editorials agin' secret societies, major, and I like 'em – that's why I made up my mind to put my trust in you – "

      "Why, I thought you were a member of the Loyal Black League, Mr. Peeler?"

      "No, sir – it's a mistake, sir," was the smooth lying answer. "I hain't got nothin' to do with no secret society. I hate 'em all – just run your eye over that, major."

      He extended the crumpled piece of paper on which was scrawled in boyish writing:

      "We hear you want to marry a nigger. Our advice is to leave this country for the more congenial climate of Africa.

      "By order of the Grand Cyclops, ku klux klan."

      The young editor studied the scrawl in surprise:

      "A silly prank of schoolboys!" he said at length.

      "You think that's all?" Peeler asked dubiously.

      "Certainly. The Ku Klux Klan have more important tasks on hand just now. No man in their authority sent that to you. Their orders are sealed in red ink with a crossbones and skull. I've seen several of them. Pay no attention to this – it's a fake."

      "I don't think so, major – just wait a minute, I'll show you something worse than a red-ink crossbones and skull."

      Old Peeler tipped to the door leading into the hallway, opened it, peered out and waved his fat hand, beckoning someone to enter.

      The voice of a woman was heard outside protesting:

      "No – no – I'll stay here – "

      Peeler caught her by the arm and drew her within:

      "This is Lucy, my housekeeper, major."

      The editor looked in surprise at the slender, graceful figure of the mulatto. He had pictured her coarse and heavy. He saw instead a face of the clean-cut Aryan type with scarcely a trace of negroid character. Only the thick curling hair, shining black eyes and deep yellow skin betrayed the African mother.

      Peeler's eyes were fixed in a tense stare on a small bundle she carried. His voice was a queer muffled tremor as he slowly said:

      "Unwrap the thing and show it to him."

      The woman looked at the editor and smiled contemptuously, showing two rows of perfect teeth, as she slowly drew the brown wrapper from a strange object which she placed on the desk.

      The editor picked the thing up, looked at it and laughed.

      It was a tiny pine coffin about six inches long and two inches wide. A piece of glass was fitted into the upper half of the lid and beneath the glass was placed a single tube rose whose peculiar penetrating odor already filled the room.

      Peeler mopped the perspiration from his brow.

      "Now, what do you think of that?" he asked in an awed whisper.

      In spite of an effort at self-control, Norton broke into a peal of laughter:

      "It does look serious, doesn't it?"

      "Serious ain't no word for it, sir! It not only looks like death, but I'm damned if it don't smell like it – smell it!"

      "So it does," the editor agreed, lifting the box and breathing the perfume of the pale little flower.

      "And that ain't all," Peeler whispered, "look inside of it."

      He opened the lid and drew out a tightly folded scrap of paper on which was written in pencil the words:

      "You lying, hypocritical, blaspheming old scoundrel – unless you leave the country within forty-eight hours, this coffin will be large enough to hold all we'll leave of you.

K. K. K."

      The editor frowned and then smiled.

      "All a joke, Peeler," he said reassuringly.

      But Peeler was not convinced. He leaned close and his whiskey-laden breath seemed to fill the room as his fat finger rested on the word "blaspheming:"

      "I don't like that word, major; it sounds like a preacher had something to do with the writin' of it. You know I've been a tough customer in my day and I used to cuss the preachers in this county somethin' frightful. Now, ye see, if they should be in this Ku Klux Klan – I ain't er skeered er their hell hereafter, but they sho' might give me a taste in this world of what they think's comin' to me in the next. I tell you that thing makes the cold chills run down my back. Now, major, I reckon you're about the level-headest and the most influential man in the county – the question is, what shall I do to be saved?"

      Again Norton laughed:

      "Nothing. It's a joke, I tell you – "

      "But the Ku Klux Klan ain't no joke!" persisted Peeler. "More than a thousand of 'em – some say five thousand – paraded the county two weeks ago. A hundred of 'em passed my house. I saw their white shrouds glisten in the moonlight. I said my prayers that night! I says to myself, if it don't do no good, at least it can't do no harm. I tell you, the Klan's no joke. If you think so, take a walk through that crowd in the Square to-day and see how quiet they are. Last court day every nigger that could holler was makin' a speech yellin' that old Thad Stevens was goin' to hang Andy Johnson, the President, from the White House porch, take every foot of land from the rebels and give it to the Loyal Black League. Now, by gum, there's a strange peace in Israel! I felt it this mornin' as I walked through them crowds – and comin' back to this coffin, major, the question is – what shall I do to be saved?"

      "Go home and forget about it," was the smiling answer. "The Klan didn't send that thing to you or write that message."

      "You think not?"

      "I know they didn't. It's a forgery. A trick of some devilish boys."

      Peeler scratched his red head:

      "I'm