"I'll Brand You as a Faker"

"Eh, there! Get that car on switch A! Now, let her come back to the left. All forward no-ow! Engineer, what's the matter with you today? Are you drunk? Pull that train forward and back it up as I tell you, or I shall report you to the superintendent! You're devilishly contrary today."

"Oh, Sam," called some one.

"Aw, don't bother me today. I'm in a hurry. I am called by the board of directors to talk over the purchase of the A.G.S. I am chairman of the committee, and have no time to talk with you."

"Hello, Sam," greeted Wyeth, as this worthy came hurriedly by. Sam halted a moment and gazed at him, then walked forward and extended his hand, crying:

"Mr. Morgan. I'm glad to see you. I am called by the directors of the Southern Railway, with regard to purchasing that line and merging it with the L. & N."

"I see. Who owns the L. & N. now," he inquired, casually.

"Me."

"And the A.G.S.?"

"I only have a half interest in that now."

"I understand that you refused to buy out the controlling interest in the Tennessee Coal and Iron Company."

"Yes, I refused. I don't like the line-up in the directorship. And, besides, I cannot see my way clear to act as chairman of the board of control, therefore, I considered it unwise to invest any millions in the thing."

"Well, I won't detain you, since I know you are so busy. Good day."

"Good day, Mr. Morgan. Try to call at my office in the Empire building before you leave town.

"Engineer, if you don't switch better, call at the office this evening and get your time. I will fire you," and Sam hurried to his office, just as John Moore came from another direction, sleepy-eyed, and looking like the "last rose of summer". The Mis' was waiting for him, and as soon as he was inside, she inquired with concealed suspicion:

"Well, where were you last night?"

"In jail."

"You seem fond of that place of late."

He shrugged his shoulders sleepily.

"Where did they get you this time?"

"Rosie's."

"You've been quite a frequenter about there of late...."

"That's mah business. Don't try t' hand me no argerment this morning. Fix me something to eat. I'm hongry."

"Didn't you have breakfast up there; but then it seems you left before breakfast? How came you back so early? I didn't look for you so soon."

"How did you know that I had been got? You are too smart nowaday's anyhow."

"Who went your bond?"

He regarded her out of impatient eyes now. He glared at her, but said: "I was eight dollars winner, and had two dollars besides."

"Um-m. So you give that to a professional bondsman."

"Hello," came a call from the outside.

"Hello," called back the Mis'. "Come in."

"Is John Moore here?" said a bad looking Negro, with a head like a monkey and no chin at all. Moore looked uneasy.

"Oh, here you are," said the other, as he spied Moore. His tone was full of contempt, and a touch of anger was mingled. "Where is my part for the stuff you disposed of?"

"Ssh! Not so loud."

"Not so the devil! You can't shoo me away any longer. You ain't paid me for the last bunch a chicken I brung heah; and now you want t' shoo me away on this last stuff we done stole togedder."

"Will you hush. We'll talk this matter over outside."

"We's go'n talk it over heah, 'n' you go'n hand me ove fo' dollah's, ah I'm go'in' t' take it outta yo' stinkin' hide!" He looked at Moore now with an evil eye, and that worthy backed up and picked up a pair of scissors, that he had brought in late one night from one of the mysterious directions.

"Oh, you go'n push them things through me, eh! All right, ole nigga. This is wha you 'n' me mixes it. I gi'n fix you ah you gi'n fix me," and with that he started in the other's direction.

"Now, Sha'p Head. Ain' I done always treated you right?" Moore whimpered.

"Naw, naw! 'n that's what I'm gi'n land on you cause!"

"Now just name a time when I ain'," Moore temporized, nervously.

"Naw, I say. Git out that winda 'f you don't wanta be killed. Git out wi' out awgument, cause I g'in to make you run some. Don't you b'lieve I'm go'n run yu?"

"'C'ose I b'lieve you. I b'lieve you go'n come in heah 'n' run me outta ma house, outta ma house," cried Moore, piteously.

"Come pickin' up a pair a-scissors two feet long to push in me," roared the other. "I got a notion t' run yu ontell yo' ankles gits hot. I'll run yu six blocks, you lop eared bull dog!"

"You outta be 'shamed t' treat me that way, Sha'p head, 'n' you know you outta!" went on Moore, soothingly.

"Come outside, John Moore, 'n' leave yo' coat inside. I'm go'n' run y' six blocks, so help me Gawd!"

"All right, Sha'p Head. 'F you jes' gotta run me outta ma house, then go on outside. I'm a-comin."

The other came through the room where Wyeth and Legs were trying to play a game of checkers. He was puffing so hard, that he appeared to be afraid of himself. "That low down skunk! I'm go'n run that nigga ontell 'is ankle's done be so hot that the streets go'n melt behind him! Doggone 'im!"

"Are you outside, Sha'p Head?" called Moore, nervously.

"I'm out heah, you liver eater. Come out wi' yo ankle's greased, 'cause you go'n run six blocks faster yu ebber did in yo' life; 'n' when you gits to d' end of it, I' gi'n kill yu!"

"Bang!" went the door, and the key turned. To describe the indignation of Moore for the next few minutes; what he would do; what he ought to have done, would be beyond the possibilities of our pen. He was positively so bad that he had much effort to keep from doing injury to himself. Legs winked at Wyeth, and then, rising, unlocked the door and slipped out quietly. A moment later, a terrible banging was instituted upon the door. Wyeth held it closed, with a great feigned effort.

"Let me at him! Let me at him!" cried Legs from the outside, but John Moore didn't wait to hear any more. A crash and a rattle as of falling glass scattered about, showed that an exit was unconventionally made in the rear. Wyeth and Legs came around in time to see him going over the back fence. The next time they saw him, he was leading the other by about two rods, as they went up the street.

"Jumped right into his jaws," laughed Glenview, as they watched the chase from the porch.

Ten minutes later, some one tore into the house, and turned the key of the door so quickly, that it seemed like an automatic spring lock.

It was John Moore.

"Let's go down to the drug store," suggested Wyeth. Legs didn't hang out in that direction, so Glenview was the recipient of the suggestion. He couldn't, so, presently, Wyeth went alone.

"They are going to fall down in both those towns, on the securing of a Y.M.C.A. for Negroes, and I knew they would when they started," the druggist was saying, when Wyeth entered.

"Negroes can secure nothing but churches down south," commented another.

"They have only a few weeks left, before the time limit on the appropriations from the Jew expires. He offered twenty-five thousand to any association where the people secured an additional seventy-five thousand. Now six months after the campaign for the association in Grantville," so said a mail clerk who ran to that city, "less than five thousand in cash, out of a total of more than thirty-three thousand dollars subscribed, has been collected to date. How can this—what is the name of the secretary of the proposed association—yes, I have it, Jacobs—Rev. Wilson Jacobs, figure they will be able to secure one in that town?"

"It's all stuff. Nigga's down here would do nothing with an association no way," said the druggist.

"I stopped at the Y.M.C.A. when I was in Chicago this summer," said the bookkeeper in the Dime Savings Bank. "It appears to be conducted with great success, and is surely a fine, clean, up-to-date place to stop, regardless of the fact that almost everything is open to Negroes in that city."

"Yes, but the Negroes in Chicago are civilized," said another. "These Negroes down here would have to have a half dozen police standing around to keep order, if they had one."

"But don't you feel such a thing in this town would act as a great moral benefit?" suggested Wyeth, at this juncture.

"We now hear from Tempest," smiled the druggist. He had not been able, as yet, to reconcile himself to the bet he lost some months before, and had since a grudge against Wyeth.

"I see by today's paper, that Wilson Jacobs will address the people of the city in regard to the Christian forward movement, and will be assisted by several white men of high standing in the city."

"Well, speeches will be all right; but I'd bet a dollar to a dime that they will never secure a Y.M.C.A. in the town he represents. As for Effingham, no chance."

"You seem to be successful in getting the biggest kind of churches here," said Wyeth.

"Yes," returned the druggist, "and they will be paying for them, as they have been for the last—since I ever knew anything."

"But they have the churches, nevertheless."

"Oh, so far as that goes, yes."

"They must have had to pay as much as forty per cent of the cost, to secure a loan for the remainder?"

"Yes, Tempest; but what has that to do with it?"

"Well, if the big church on the corner up the street could be secured at a cost of seventy-five thousand dollars, half or more of which I understand has been paid, then, a like amount should be available in a town of this size, and which has an equal number of colored people, shouldn't it?"

"Tempest is out for argument," said the druggist.

"No argument, when almost every large city in the north—and some not as large as this town—have a Y.M.C.A. for its black population. And more than half that have such, have not nearly the colored population that this town has, and positively have not nearly the need."

"Tempest has been worrying about a library, a park, and everything else for this town, in the months he has been here," the druggist said, looking almost amused. Wyeth took exception.

"I am interested in this town, and in another, where I see and read of more crime and murder, than I ever dreamed was possible."

"Then, Tempest," said the druggist, naively, "you ought to get one. Or, at least, you ought to awaken, by some initiative on your part, some enthusiasm to that end. You see all we need, you do, a globe trotter, and you have certainly criticised to that end, and now," his voice took on a cold, hard tone, "I say: Do something to prove this criticism worth the while, or I'll brand you as a faker—a frost, with all your premeditated ideas!"

Every one about was silent, while their eyes turned and regarded Sidney Wyeth. About the corners of their mouths a smile that spelled of a sneer, played subtly. If Sidney Wyeth didn't see it, he at least felt it. And in that moment, he realized that he would not dare show his face about this place, lest he be scorned henceforth, if he didn't take the stand the druggist had taken.

"Very well, Dr. Randall," he said, rising. "I shall do so." He regarded them all for a moment, with a firm sweep of his eyes, and, next, he turned and left the store.