He strolled another block, and the same sight met his eye; but, as he got further away from the station, the lights grew dimmer; the women fewer, but plenty, at any rate.

Now he had reached a place where the crowds had not penetrated--only stragglers lingered like himself--and where the women were of another race, for now they were colored.

"h.e.l.lo, Brown Skin," they greeted him, and he smiled back, but didn't stop--not even to hear the secret that almost everyone had to tell him.

"You are sure some brown, kid. Just come here a moment. Don't be afraid, I won't eat you."

"Indeed," he said to one who was very small, and could smile with more effect than the others. "But I'm afraid." And he laughed aloud as he went upon his way.

He had stopped now. He had to; for, before him was a brick wall--no, a brick fence. It was painted white and was about eight or ten feet high; while inside raised something sinister. "Gee!" he exclaimed. "But that is a sight one does not appreciate."

He turned now, and pa.s.sed down a side street, which was occupied by the same. But he couldn't forget what stood grim and determined on the other side. It had been there a long time too--before, oh, long before these women had. Yes, and it would be there long after they had pa.s.sed away, and others, not yet born, had come to take their places. And as he pa.s.sed down the street, under the subtlety of those night smiles, that place seemed to say--kept on saying:

"Play on she cats! Oh, play on! h.e.l.l's got your soul; but I'll have the rest by and by." He turned the next corner and walked another block, and lo! There stood another! "Kick high little girl; sin as you please; h.e.l.l's got your hearts, but I'll have what's left--I won't say how soon...."

"The devil!" he exclaimed. "This is the worst place for cemeteries I ever knew. I'm going away from here, to my room." And he went.

"Where do the wealthiest of the wealthy white people live?" he inquired the next morning, when he had arisen, and dined at one of the Chinese cafes.

The others regarded him now with a question in their eyes. "Yes," he repeated, "where do they live, for it is to their servants I prefer to try to sell the book, for which I am agent."

They caught his logic then, and replied:

"Take a car at the next corner, ride until you come to a park that is called d'Ubberville. There you unload, and find yourself in the midst of the wealthiest of the wealthy."

He went down to that street, which was the aforementioned wide street.

All that money could buy, was on sale along its broad highway. He sought a bookstore, where he wished to make inquiries, and, of course, found a number. He strolled about, making inquiries, until his watch said it was time to return, and go forth in quest of that part of town, where he wished to begin his work.

It was certainly a long way to his destination. Indeed, he made inquiries of the conductor, until that one told him he would tell him when they arrived at the place where he wanted to stop. So, he sat in patience after that. He allowed his eyes to feast upon the splendor and magnificence of the beautiful buildings. Yes, they were elegant homes; they were the finest homes; and they were beautifully arranged, not to say artistically, on either side of the street, which, while not the same, was another one just as wide. So wide, indeed, that the middle was converted into a lawn, on which many palms reared their graceful foliage.

"The creole city," he murmured. "For a long time I have wished to see it as it really is; to know the people and to learn of the many things and wonders it is said to contain."

"Here you are," said the conductor at last, and Sidney Wyeth alighted at once.

"Whew!" he exclaimed, standing entranced, as he looked all about him.

"_Such_ homes; _such_ trees--such _everything_." And then he walked in the direction his face happened to be turned. He was slightly nervous for a time, but presently, with a bold front, he turned into the most insignificant of the many houses, and rapped quietly at the back door.

"Come in," someone called, and he knew the voice belonged to one of his race. He had many times thought it strange, but it was always easy to determine the Negro by his voice alone.

He entered, and looked at the owner of that same voice. She was a stout, brown-skinned woman; and there was another also, but she was black. One, the large woman, was the cook, for she worked over the stove, while the other was obviously the washer-woman, for she was ironing.

In his talk, he told the story of the book, and filled them with enthusiasm, to a point that both subscribed. He said he was just commencing, and was glad they had favored him with an order. He thanked them again, and, turning, he left and betook himself across the street, where he encountered another brown-skinned woman, but she failed to buy.

And the excuse she gave for not doing so, was one he always regarded.

She was not able--having other irons in the fire. He left her, went across the street on another corner, and entered the rear of the smallest house he saw on the street. He was turning to go, when another brown-skinned woman put in her appearance. She was beautiful, he thought. And she could smile until he--well, she smiled. She said she'd take one, to be sure, so he wrote down her name, and asked her about herself. She was married, and laughed tantalizingly, though he had not asked her that. He left presently, by the way he had entered, and went to another house, and still to another, until the watch said five; then he betook himself to a car line. It was not the one he had come out on, and soon he saw other homes, which showed the creole element.

That night he went rambling; he couldn't seem to be still. There was so much to be seen, and it had a peculiar fascination for him. He went in the direction he had gone the night before, and met crowds of people. He strolled until gay music arrested his attention. About an electric entrance, from which the music came, stood colored men. He got a peep inside, as some one entered, and saw that the occupants were Negroes, so he entered.

A waiter showed him a seat by a table. Around the room were plenty of others; there were women and men, and others came and went all the time.

The music had ceased when he entered; but, 'ere long, it struck up, and the room was filled with the strains. Couples arose and stood face to face, and did what he had never seen, as he recalled. The music played was a two-step; but they did not two-step--at least not the way he had done it years before. They made only one step where he had made two.

Across the table from where he sat, a girl smiled upon him invitingly, as much as to say: "Let's dance!" He was tempted, and then he recalled that they had begun this dance since he had quit some years before. So he kept his seat, and she smiled upon another. He escorted her, and they joined the dancers. A hesitation, they called it, and he was positive he would--could never learn it.

Presently the music stopped, and the couple returned to their seat.

"I know you are going to buy me a little drink," she said, whereupon the man said "nix" and left. She glared after him, and called him "cheap."

Wyeth was glad now he had kept his seat. He didn't like bold women, even in a cabaret, and this was the first one he had ever entered.

It was a place for amus.e.m.e.nts, he soon saw, for, between dances came songs by many girls and a man or two, while clever dancing and "ballin'

the jack" was a feature; and it attracted to the performers many nickels, that they did not hesitate to pick up 'ere they had fallen, and "balled" again and again, until it seemed their legs must sure be tired; but you see, they were accustomed to that.

"Some town," he said to himself, when he took his leave. "A good place to forget, to live?" Well, it seemed that way.

CHAPTER SIX

_"Who're You!" She Repeated_

And now we arrive at the end of the pilgrimage of Sidney Wyeth. He had ceased his critical observations, and had secured a room on the fifth floor of an office building, that was owned and controlled by a Negro lodge. He began an effort toward the distribution of his work, that he believed would be successful now, since he had learned, by contact, the art of reaching his people.

He placed a large desk in the office, and put a carpet on the floor; a large table for wrapping purposes to one side, while upon the door and the windows he had an artist painter inscribe the letters:

CRESENT DISTRIBUTORS COMPANY

"Now, then," he said, "if I can induce someone, here and there, to go to the people and follow the instructions I will cheerfully give, I think _The Tempest_ will be placed into the hands of many people. And to that end, I shall bend all my energy."

And thus he began work permanently. He decided to canva.s.s every afternoon, and to attend to the office and correspondence in the mornings, until such a time, when it would not be necessary to do so.

He filled the country again with circular letters; but before he had completed this task, he felt an illness pervading his usual healthy physique. "Biliousness," he said. "It'll be over in a few days," and he went to work much harder, in an effort to forget it.

For days he held it in check by the effort he put forth. But, as the days came and went, it became harder. He didn't go to a physician, but waited. But before many days had pa.s.sed, however, he became conscious that it was more serious. So there came a day when he felt strangely sick; when he laid down, everything about him swam; he felt dizzy, but withal, he kept up the fight.

"I won't give up to it, I won't!" he declared. And he earnestly tried to overcome it.

He arose from his desk, and, despite the fact that his knees trembled and his whole frame quivered, he went into the street. He felt a mad desire to see this city, although he had been seeing it every day. So, to the wide street he went, and boarded a car that took him around a belt. It brought him back to where he had entered, and the route was twelve miles long. It led him through the district where he canva.s.sed, and which was occupied by the richest. He saw their magnificent homes this time, strangely. At times his eyes would close, despite his effort to keep them open. And then, when he awoke, it was with a nervous start, and he was surprised each time, to find himself aboard the large cars that thundered along between rows of the finest houses in the city.

He could not interest himself in them now; they appeared dull and without life. The car came down, and went through the business district before it came back again into the wide street. He got off, and almost fell in doing so. He stood for a time, at a loss to control himself. He wouldn't go to bed, that was sure; but where to go, he could not think for a time. Then it occurred to him to see that place--that place where a thousand and more women, vandals, were hurrying life to its end.

So he walked in that direction, reeling at times, until some regarded him as if he were drunk. He pa.s.sed down a street that was called Bienville. In that neighborhood it was the broad highway. And it was crowded. It was then about nine o'clock, and the sidewalks were filled.

The girls were merry--they were always merry, apparently.... They called to him as before, that is, a part of them. The others--well, the color line was drawn here too, and white men came first.

"h.e.l.lo, Brown Skin," smiled one he had not seen before, and winked. He regarded her for a moment strangely. She took it as an evidence of encouragement. She beckoned to him vigorously, and _promised_ so very much. He turned, and before him rose one of the ghostly, silent places--the cemetery. It aroused him, for a time, from his apparent lethargy. He looked at it, and thought how strange it was this city had so many. And they were always silent--waiting, waiting, waiting.

He shuddered and moved away from it, and in a direction that he had not been. On all sides the girls were gay that night. He went around a block, ignoring invitations. His brain was clear for awhile, and he thought: "Who located such a place?" A place where each day someone died and went to h.e.l.l! But, as he thought the more, he concluded that dying was not necessary. It was a living death....