The Forged Note. Micheaux Oscar

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СКАЧАТЬ eighty day-es!"

      "Cain' make eight wid a one up!"

      "Do'n' try no kiddin'."

      "T-click-i-lick-ilick—ah—eighter from Decatur!"

      "Make music nigga, make music!"

      "Two bits I'n pass!"

      "Ah got yu'!"

      "T-click-i-lick-i-lick—ah—eighty day-es!"

      "Trowed seben!"

      "Gimme d' craps!"

      "Now, dice; ah-seben ah 'leben!"

      "Throwed craps!"

      "Hole on! Hole on! You caught dem dice, ole nigga!"

      "Caught Hell! You trowed craps, d'y 'e heah! Two big sixes!" A scrambling, mingled with much swearing, ensued.

      "Say, cut out dis awgun' 'n' squabblin'," interposed one.

      "'E cain' take mah money lak dat," protested the loser.

      "'F you don' git y' rough mit offa dat coin, yuh big lump a dough, I g'in' finish spreadin' dat nose ovah y' face!"

      "I'on lak dis-a-way a messin' wi' mah jingle!"

      "Youse a cheap nigga, Bad Eye, 'n' y' know it. You all time buttin' int' a game wid about a dime, den sta'tin' a big argerment."

      "Hush! Ain' dat Jackson a-comin'?"

      Silence for possibly a minute. A muttering began to go around as they schuffled about.

      "Ah done ca'ied out mah 'structions 'n' now ah wants muh dough-rine," some one spat out ominously.

      "Me, too," said another.

      "Aw, be patient. Jack's all right," argued one.

      "Sho", echoed another.

      "Yeh, dat' all right, 's fur it goes; but I'n handle mah money bet'n anybody else."

      A heavy step sounded in the hallway, and presently a door opened into the room, admitting Jackson.

      "All heah, boys, eh!" He said in a voice that revealed high spirits. "Good—what's this? Havin' a little game already? Say! Looks like y' might a-waited fo' old Jack, ha ha!"

      "Well," he resumed after a general laughing, "Did eve' body vote straight?"

      "Sho", they cried in chorus.

      "N' how 'bout you, little breeches."

      "Ke-heh! You say. 'Stamp ri' undah da' ole elephant's tail'; so when I got 'nside da' place wi one a dem ballets, 'n' all dem names ah did'n' know nothin' 'bout; but I 'memb'd what you say, so I jes' caught hole that li'l ole thing 'n' went, bim! ri' unda' da' ole elephant's tail, ya-ha!" The room, for a time, resounded with laughter.

      Just then, Wyeth heard someone rap at the street door, enter, and presently the counting and the clink of coins came to his ears. Then the door closed, and a moment later, retreating foot steps were heard in the hall-way. It was the lieutenant. And now the gurgle of throats could be heard plainly, and the game was resumed, with Jackson in charge.

      In the other room, Wyeth stripped himself and retired, and, ere sleep came to him that night, he again had a vision of that titanic struggle and its human slaughter—and it had all been to give those black men the right. (?) Far into the night he thought it over, and when sleep did come at last, he went into slumberland, at a loss to know whether to condemn or to pity those poor creatures, who, that day—and before—had sold their birthright for a mess of pottage.

      * * * * *

      Weeks had passed. Over all the north country, snowladen fields frowned. Zero weather was felt in many places. Sidney Wyeth was about to quit it for a place far to the south, and at that moment, sat in the union station at Columbus. A man marked with a chalk upon the bulletin board the following:

      TRAIN FOR CINCINNATI AND THE SOUTH, TWO HOURS LATE

      And it was only then it occurred to him that a letter might be at the postoffice for him. Forthwith he betook himself, returning shortly with a small envelope, with his name written daintily across it in a feminine hand It was from Mildred Latham, the girl he loved, and the heroine of our story.

      "Mildred, my Mildred!" he whispered softly, as he gazed fondly at the epistle, and then broke the seal and read it. "Tonight, my dear," he dreamily whispered, "I shall ask you to become my wife, for I love you, love you, love you!"

      As he sat waiting, his thoughts went back to the time he had met her, and the place.

      It was in Cincinnati, and before the election. He had, while canvassing, come upon her in the door-way of a house with two stories, and a door that opened upon the street. She stood in that door-way, and he had approached her with much courtesy, and after his usual explanation, had sold her The Tempest. He had been struck at once by her appearance, and something about her expression—her obvious intelligence. She seemed possibly twenty-one or two. "And such features," he breathed unheard. She also had, he quickly observed, a wonderful skin—a smooth, velvety olive, with round cheeks; where, notwithstanding the slight darkness, a faint flush came and went. As to size, she was not tall; and still not short; nor was she stout or slender; but of that indefinite type called medium. Serenely perched, her head leaned slightly back. She had a frank face and rounded forehead, from under which large, lustrous, soft dark eyes—somewhat sad—gazed out at him. And as he continued in his subtle observation, he was pleased to note that her nose was not large or flat, but stood up beautifully. Her lips were red as cherries. The chin was handsomely molded and firm, but slightly thin, and protruding. Her hair was the most captivating of all. Done in the fashion, it was coal black and wavy. It was of a fine, silken texture, and apparently long, from the size of the knot at the back of her head. All this he observed with favor. He had never seen a figure so clear cut. The girl was, furthermore, dressed in a plain, dark silk dress, with small feet, the toes of which, at that moment, peeped like mice from beneath the trimly hanging skirt. Now, before he had gotten far in his dynamic spiel, the sun, all red and glorious, as its rays slanted in the west, came suddenly from beneath a cloud, and played hide and seek upon her face. And, in that moment, he saw that she was exquisitely beautiful.

      After this, he had seen her when, and however it was convenient, and they had talked—they always talked—on so very many subjects. As time went by, he always felt good cheer, for at last, it seemed—and this meant much, for Sidney Wyeth had had much experience—he had met the One Woman.

      One day she said to him, and it was in a tone that was very careful: "You wrote The Tempest, didn't you?" She had guessed his secret, although the book had been published anonymously—and he had always been guarded as to its author, so he replied somewhat awkwardly that he had.

      "I felt it—was sure when I began reading," she said. "Because there is something in it about you that you never tell—in conversation, but you did in the book."

      He was silent, for he knew not what to say at that moment. She resumed:

      "Yes; and it is that which makes the book so interesting—and so sad." She fell silent then for a time, apparently engrossed in deep thought, but with worried СКАЧАТЬ