The Forged Note. Micheaux Oscar

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      When he had dined at one of the many little restaurants, he wandered back into the business section of the city. He failed to recognize any of the places he had once known, which proved conclusively that Attalia had progressed. He found himself on Plum street again, through which he walked and reentered Walthill, and, after seeing many of the sights, entered a large book store, where he inquired for a volume he had long desired to read—rather, he inquired of a large, fat man, whether he had it. The other looked around a spell, then replied:

      "We sho God has," and stood waiting undecidedly. Presently he held it toward Wyeth, who, somewhat hesitatingly, looked irrelevantly through the pages. He was not sure, whether it was customary to take it in his hands.

      "All right," he said, and reached in his pocket for the money.

      "Do you-ah—wish it?" the other inquired, still hesitating.

      "Sure," Sidney replied. "That's why I called for it." He was obviously surprised, and expressed the fact in his eyes. The other observed this, and made haste to apologize:

      "Ce'tainly, ce'tainly. Beg yo' pa'don. Not many cullud people buy works of fiction, or anything besides an occasional Bible, school books and stationery. That is why I was undecided whether you wanted to buy it or not."

      "Indeed!" echoed Sidney, taken suddenly aback. Then said: "I read a great deal myself."

      The clerk observed him closely for a moment, and then said: "You don't live in these parts?"

      "No."

      "And you read a great deal? Where are you from?"

      He was told.

      "That accounts for it," said the other, proceeding to wrap up the book.

      "Accounts for what?" curiously.

      "Your being a reader."

      "I don't understand. … Don't the colored people down here read a great deal also?"

      "No," said the other simply.

      "Well, I declare!" said Sidney in surprise. "I have only two hours or less ago, been told by a book-seller that they do."

      "Lordy me! Who told you that?"

      "Tompkins. The—"

      "Tompkins is a booster. He's all right, though," said the other, with a low, amused laugh. But Sidney's curiosity was aroused, and he continued:

      "There's a multitude of teachers and preachers, and I should think they would buy lots of current literature to keep themselves informed for their work; but perhaps they are not so well paid, and get it from the library." The other appeared perplexed for a moment, but said presently, without looking up:

      "They have no library of their own, and the city library is not open to colored people, but they do not seem to be very anxious for books. The teachers, and the preachers—" He threw up his hands in a gesture of despair. "You'll find out for yourself. You are, I see, a keen observer, and you'll find out."

      Sidney left the store in a reflective frame of mind. "I didn't believe Tompkins," he muttered, as he walked back in the direction of Audubon Avenue. Just then he glanced to his left, into the largest barber shop he had ever seen. It was for white people, but conducted by a colored man. It was not only the largest he had ever seen, but the finest, the most artistic. He forgot, for the time, what he had just been told, and which was causing him some concern, and again he felt his breast swell.

      There was much to be learned about his people that he now realized he did not know; and yet, surrounding it all was a peculiar mystery that he decided to solve for himself. He did so, but that remains to be told.

CHAPTER THREE

       Table of Contents

      Next Day—Discoveries

      At eight-thirty the following morning, Sidney set forth, carrying a small case containing a half dozen books. His purpose was to feel out the city from a practical point of view. He had been told that the better class of Negroes could be found by walking down Audubon Avenue, as far as the residence section. So he followed it until the business had been left blocks to the rear. At the end of the paved street he turned into a house. It was a very sumptuous affair, with an attractive lawn before it. He was told by a passerby that it was the home of a club waiter. He ventured up to the front door, and, upon its being opened by a mulatto woman, apparently the waiter's wife, he turned on his spiel. She listened to it patiently, even speaking some words in praise, as he explained the narrative in brief, but he failed to make a sale. He tried more subtle arts, but in vain. And then she told him frankly that their finances would not permit her to purchase the volume. This excuse always made Wyeth desist from further effort.

      He turned into the next house, and the next, and the next, until a half dozen had been made, but with the same result. Since he had invariably sold to three-fourths of the people whom he approached, he was not nearly so 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, СКАЧАТЬ