The Forged Note. Micheaux Oscar

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СКАЧАТЬ time, like a sinister ghost, suddenly came into its own, and a moment later, with a convulsive gasp, he fell forward across the desk, deathly sick.

      * * * * *

      It had begun in Cincinnati more than a year before. Wyeth, accompanied by an assistant, had come down from Dayton for the purpose of advertising his book, The Tempest in that city. It was just preceding an election, that resulted in a change in the city government. And it was then he became acquainted with Jackson.

      Now, being of an observant turn of mind, Wyeth took an interest in the state of affairs. He found the city very much worked up on his arrival. He had not yet secured accommodation, but, while standing on a corner after checking his luggage in a nearby drug-store, he was gazing up and down the street taking in the sights.

      "Gentlemen," said someone, and turning, Wyeth and his companion looked upon a man. He was a large mulatto with curly hair, small eyes, a sharp nose, a firm chin, and an unusually small mouth for a Negro. He was dressed in a dark suit, the worse for wear, while his shoes appeared never to have been shined—in fact, his appearance was not altogether inviting. And yet, there was something about the man that drew Wyeth's attention, and he listened carefully to what he said. "You seem to be strangers in the city, and of co'se will requiah lodgin'. He'ah is my ca'd," he said, extending the bit of paste board upon which Sidney read at a glance

      THE JACKSON HOUSE

      FIRST CLASS ROOMS, TRANSIENT OR REGULAR

      OPEN DAY AND NIGHT

      "I'm the proprietor and the place is at yo' disposal. Supposin' you stop with me while youah in the city. I'll sho treat y' right."

      Sidney believed him, but his appearance made him hesitant. He looked questioningly at his companion. The other's expression was unfavorable to Jackson. So, after a pause and a perfunctory nod, they dismissed him and proceeded to look further in quest of accommodation.

      An hour or more was thus lost, and, being unable to find a room that satisfied them, they at last, with some reluctance, found their way to The Jackson House.

      Inspection still left them dissatisfied, but it was getting late, so they decided to spend the night. Jackson showed them to what he termed his "best room." Wyeth looked with evident disfavor about the walls that were heavy with cob webs, while the windowsill was as heavy with dust. Jackson, following his gaze, hastily offered apology and excuse.

      "Eve'thing needs a little dusting up, and the reason you happen to find things as you do, is because I've been so busy with politics of late, that I have jes' nach'elly neglected my business".

      Ah! That was it, thought Sidney. He had felt this man was in some way out of the ordinary. "So you're a politician?" he queried, observing him carefully now.

      "You hit it, son," he chuckled. "Yeh; that's my line, sho." Turning now, with his face wreathed in smiles, he continued: "Big 'lection on in a few days, too."

      "So I understand," said Sidney. "I shall be glad to talk with you regarding the same at your convenience later," and, paying him for the room, they betook themselves to the street.

      Election day was on, and Jackson was the busiest man in town. He was what may be called a "good mixer," to say the least, and Sidney and he had become good friends. So said Jackson that morning.

      "Got a big job on t'day, kid; yeh, a big job."

      "So...."

      "Yeh; gotta vote thirty-five ah fo'ty nigga's, 'n', 'f youah 'quainted wi' ouh fo'kes, you c'n 'preciate what I'm up ag'inst."

      "Indeed...."

      "Yeh; nigga's o'nry y' know; and lie lak dogs; but I'm 'n' ole han' at the bus'ness, cause that's my line. Yeh. Been votin' nigga's in this precinct now fo' mor'n thi'ty yeahs, so you'n see I autta know what I'm 'bout."

      "I'd bet on that."

      Jackson chuckled again. "The fust and wo'st difficulty is the dinge's ig'nance". Drawing a sample ballot from somewhere, he displayed and explained it at some length. "Now we gotta pu'ty faih line up on this ticket this trip—'co'se the's a lotta suckers on it that I'd lak t' see scratched; but we cain' affo'd to take the risk, 'cause it's lak this. Nigga's so ig'nant 'n' pig headed they'd sho spile it all 'f we tried to have them do any scratching. So the only sho thing is to instruct them t' vote straight. Get me, Steve?"

      Wyeth, listening carefully, nodded, and for a moment, a picture of the titanic struggle of a half century before, rose before him; its cause, its moral and more; it's sacrifice. Jackson was speaking again.

      "Now we sho gotta win out this time; this 'lection has got to put in ouh candidates; 'cause 'f we don't—and this is between me 'n' you 'n' that can a beah—things sho go'n break bad wi' me! But 'f things slide through O.K.—'n my candidates walk in, it means a cole hund'd fo' muh; think of it," he repeated, "a cole hund'd, Ah!" And, smacking his lips after a long draught of beer, he emitted an exclamation to emphasize what it would mean to him, that wouldn't look very nice in print.

      "What do these others get if your candidates are elected?" asked Wyeth, when Jackson paused.

      "Aw, them suckers gets theahs wether my men's 'lected a' not. That's always my goal. 'f I could get them t' vote so much ah' nothin' I could make a who' lot mo'; but we gotta fo'k out two dollahs a piece, win or lose—and, a co'se, plenty of liquah; but we don' give a damn 'bout that, as the saloon men furnish that, gratis."

      "And you can depend upon them to vote as you wish—rather, instruct?" ventured Wyeth. At this Jackson gave a low, short laugh as he replied:

      "That's whe' I plays the high ca'd 'n' gets a hund'd," and, laughing again in that peculiar fashion, he would say no more.

      * * * * *

      The polls had closed. Darkness had settled over the city. The saloons had opened their doors. From the streets came forth hilarious sounds, where the many hundreds, now steeped in liquor, reeled about. This confusion, mingled with the crash of heavy wagons, and horse hoofs hurrying over the cobblestones, filled the damp air with an almost deafening noise.

      Sidney Wyeth lay stretched across the bed in his room, listening idly to the sounds that echoed and re-echoed through the frame building. Presently, his attention was attracted by another noise, familiar, but more noticeable on this day.

      "T-click-i-lick-ilick—ah—ha dice! T-click-ilick-i-lick—ah—ha dice!"

      "Aw, shake'm ole nigga, shake'm!"

      "Yeh. Roll 'm out. Don' let 'm spin 'roun' on d' en' lak dat! Shake'm up. Make music!"

      "T-click-i-lick-i-lick—ah—ha dice!"

      "Trowed eight!"

      "Dime he'n make it!"

      "Make it a nickel!"

      "Ah fate yu'".

      "Hu'ry up, ole shine! Git yu' bet down."

      "Shoot um!"

      "T-click-i-lick-i-lick—ah, ha dice!"

      "Two bits 'ell seben!"

      "Ah got yu'!"

      "T-click-i-lick-i-lick-ah, СКАЧАТЬ