The Forged Note Part 40

"One hundred fifty," said the cashier, who looked surprised.

"I wish to withdraw it. And you may make it into a draft, payable to the colored Y.M.C.A."

His mouth opened slightly. He regarded her with a different look, and then did as she instructed.

A fairly good crowd greeted Wilson Jacobs, when he got up to speak on the proposed campaign for a colored Y.M.C.A. To cheer the listeners, he asked Miss Latham to play and sing the song she had practiced, and which was new to the congregation. She did so, with all the art of which she was capable, and was pleased, when she turned to face the audience, that she had given both pleasure and satisfaction. Her eyes wandered over them for a moment, and then rested upon someone she had seen before.

"Where was it," she mused, in a half whisper. Wilson Jacobs was speaking. For two hours he spoke in behalf of the Christian forward movement. He made plain in so many ways, the urgent need of such, and did this eloquently. He arraigned the high murder record, which made all of those before him feel alarmed. The time for some united effort was necessary. Eventually something had to be done. Plenty of churches, it was true, were open; but churches were arranged for worship, and not for clean sport, pool, billiard, gymnasiums and other amus.e.m.e.nts in which young men might indulge, would indulge, and did indulge; but in so many ways and places, that were not conducted in a Christian manner.

"And now," he said, at the close, "we have decided to start this movement today at home. We will be pleased to make an example we hope the other churches will follow." With that, he read the names of the donors and subscribers. Among them, one hundred fifty dollars by Mildred Latham, the organist, led in cash. They were surprised. Very few had even become acquainted with her. Now all desired to. When the meeting had closed, many gathered about her and were introduced. Then, as she was turning to go, the person she had observed when she finished playing, approached. His hand was extended, while his eyes looked into hers with something that frightened her when she saw him--and recognized him as the man she had seen back in Cincinnati, and who now recognized her.

When she went home that day, she had reached a decision.

CHAPTER TWELVE

_And Then She Began to Grow Otherwise_

The week following Miss Palmer's and Sidney's outing, was a week of conflictions for her. She was torn by them considerably. She hardly knew how to feel; whether to be happy or angry with herself for having acted as she did. He was kind to her, he was considerate; but that was all.

She had exercised all her wits to make him see her seriously, but beyond that incident, he had given her no encouragement whatever. She felt guilty at her conduct. She accused herself of having acted unbecoming in her att.i.tude toward him. Although he would not admit having written the book, which had aroused her curiosity, she, of course, knew that he had.

She had finished it now, and knew all he had suffered. And, as she thought it over, time and again, she almost concluded that his life, as he had suffered, made him hard and unsympathetic. And almost in the same thought, she rebuked herself for feeling that way; because, above all else, he was certainly not selfish.

He called almost every evening when he had finished his work, and they sat on the porch in the swing if there was no one, and when there happened to be, they sat in the parlor on the davenport. And when they did so, it so happened they began to flirt. And this continued to develop until it reached a point she declared to be outrageous. And yet it persisted. At such times, moreover, she became bold. There came a time when she was almost disgusted with herself for being so weak.

After a few weeks had pa.s.sed, she came to realize that her quest was in vain. Sidney Wyeth had no affection, beyond flirting, with her. And then she began to grow otherwise. He observed the change, and was sorry, perhaps. Still, Miss Palmer did not give up entirely. She was not that kind of person. After all, to kiss him and to be kissed in return, was some pastime. It was better than not being kissed or loved at all. So she flirted.

After this became the usual thing in their acquaintance, she began to a.s.sert other dispositions that had not before been evident. She inquired boldly where he went when he didn't call in the evening, as usual. She dictated where he should go as well. In desperation she continued her tactics--even to a point where our pen is constrained to relate.

"Do you know," said she one evening, when they had flirted shamefully.

"I'm beginning to care for you." She said this from his knee.

"I did not," he sighed. He was not the least excited by her acknowledgement.

"I am," she affirmed. "More and more as the days go by." She smiled into his face, while he looked tired. "Have you anyone back where you came from, who loves you and calls you her all?" she asked now, as though she could think of nothing else to say.

"No, no, no!" He looked distressed. "I wish I had," he added.

"I know you tell what is not true--feel you do," she corrected. After a pause she said: "Do you happen to have just a little, only a little regard for me?" He made light of it by blowing her a kiss, and tried to change the conversation, but she had more to say.

"Of course you wouldn't love an old gra.s.s-widow like me anyhow," she pouted. He was at a loss what to say, so said nothing.

"Why don't you say something?" she said, put out.

"You should not make such remarks," he said, with a frown.

"But it's true, it's true, and you can't deny it." She seemed angry now, and didn't appear to care what she said. She left his knee with a last retort. "And you men are the cause of it all."

He leaned his head against the back of the davenport and closed his eyes, which angered her, and she cried:

"Go to sleep, go to sleep. You are the worst person I ever knew," and forthwith she left the room.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

_Enter--Mr. Tom Toddy!_

When Legs had p.a.w.ned and lost about all he possessed, he happened upon a job at one of the hotels, and went to work. To do so, however, he had to secure a white jacket, and a pair of black trousers. This was somewhat difficult on account of his long legs, but he managed to secure an old pair, and, too glad of the chance to work where he could fill his stomach regularly, he gave good service, and was soon on the good side of the head waiter.

"Say, Books," he cried one day, soon after he had commenced work. "You should have seen me eat today. Nice hot bisquits with b.u.t.ter, and dripping out around the edges, um-um. Man, the way I did eat! I got all them n.i.g.g.a's t' laffin' over somethin' funny I said, and then I'd slip back into the kitchen, open the oven and get me a half dozen hot rolls and b.u.t.ter'm good, and eat, and eat, and eat!

"There is but one thing I can't seem to get over, and that is that dollar this n.i.g.g.a Moore got me out of bed to lose. Say, that hurt me worse than anything in this world. I've drawn the line on him now though. He ain't nothing but an old always broke c.o.o.n, a-moochin' around for somebody to stake him in a game. I could have made it all right when I came over here, if it hadn't been for him. And he never won anything, and kept me broke as long as I would speak to him."

In a very short time Legs was "on his feet," as the saying goes. He was making some money and spending it all. His good resolution with regard to gambling had been laid on the shelf until further declarations, and he shot c.r.a.ps whenever off duty, and when he could find a game. Moore he ignored; but that worthy was as fond of the game as a pig was of corn, so they occasionally ran into each other, nevertheless. In fact, as Sidney observed them, almost every Negro shot c.r.a.ps, with few exceptions. Whiskey and c.r.a.ps were so much in evidence everywhere he looked, that he drew this conclusion soon.

Now a man lived overhead, and rented from the landlady, whose name was Murphy. Wyeth called him "Smoked Irish." He was a creature with a dark record, so Wyeth was told, and he hailed from a little town in the state adjoining. Some years before, he had been a man of considerable importance, but with women and other pastimes, he had fallen into bad ways, was sent to the penitentiary for fraud, and had sought other parts after the expiration of his term.

As Wyeth knew him, he was a "bahba," and shaved chins and sheared wool in one of Effingham's fancy Negro shops.

Murphy had seen almost fifty summers, was about five feet eleven, and a mulatto with coa.r.s.e, stiff, black hair, tinged with gray. His features were set, like a man with experience, and he could tell some wonderful stories. The Mis' called them lies. They might have been, but it is to Murphy's credit that they were good ones, and interesting to listen to.

On Sunday, and week days also, when he was home from the shop, and in his loft, Murphy sold whiskey on the side--or as a side line, and operated a c.r.a.p game in addition. The law, of course, did not permit of this, as we shall see presently; but--well, it didn't matter--as long as the law didn't know it. And Murphy made money, Wyeth was told. It was up there Legs invested most of his earnings, winning once in a while, but losing more frequently. The fact that Murphy was so convenient with his diversion, was, in a sense, helpful to Legs, because he didn't have to journey far to his bed. And always as soon as he was "cleaned," he would retire and sleep as peacefully as a babe, until his work called him the following morning.

John Moore was a frequent visitor also. Legs put Wyeth wise, when he inquired why Moore was up there so often, since he appeared to have no money. "He's a piker, a cheap piker that touts for Murphy, for the privilege of gambling and gettin' a drink a liquah, that he loves so well."

Much to the surprise of them all, one Sat.u.r.day night about this time, Moore did make a winning. Legs informed Wyeth to this effect, when he retired from the battle "clean."

"Seven dollars and a half, the dirty devil. And he'll be as scarce as hen's teeth as long as he has a dime of it too." He was mistaken. That was on Sat.u.r.day night. Sunday morning after he had risen and had some good whiskey, Moore dressed himself like a gentleman, and made some of the losers envy him for a few hours. Then he went back upstairs to Murphy's. When Wyeth saw him again, he was sitting under a shade tree, reading the Bible. This was a self-evident fact that he had made an investment. As further evidence of the fact, that night at supper he offered a beautiful prayer. He had failed to do so that morning, which was further proof of Legs' contention.

Legs came up while Moore was reposing sanctimoniously, and said: "M-m!

Cleaned, eh! Glad of it, the cheap sucker. He's dead broke, too. Because if he had even a nickel, he'd be upstairs. You can bet a nickel up there. The only thing against it is Murphy's cut. He cuts a nickel a pa.s.s. And sometimes he cuts both ways, going and coming. So, with men betting a nickel against a nickel, Murphy is liable to take it all."

Moore retired early that evening, and slept peacefully. He had worked hard the night before, and that morning.

The following Sat.u.r.day night, Legs came to the room, caught Wyeth half asleep, and borrowed a dollar. With this, he went for a joy ride, and got drunk into the bargain. Wyeth didn't realize that he had loaned him a dollar, until the other was whizzing down the street in the car. And then he was angry with himself. This disturbed him until sleep was impossible, so, rising, he betook himself to the porch. As he thought it over, he became more angry with himself than ever, because he knew Legs had borrowed it for the sole purpose of getting drunk and joy riding.

While he was getting over it in the soft night air, the Mis' told him Legs had got paid that day, and, with the exception of what he paid her, he had lost the remainder of his two weeks' wage in a game. That made him more angry, and, in seeking a diversion, he rose, and out of curiosity, he decided to pay Murphy's den a visit.

Murphy had a good crowd that night--he usually did on Sat.u.r.day. In a room that was near the middle of the apartment, surrounded by a crowd of Negroes, stood a table over which was spread a green cloth. At one side of the table sat Moore, and he called the points and fished the cuts; while in another room to the rear of this, with doors open, stood a large refrigerator. This, Wyeth surmised, was where the liquor was kept.

It was, for, as he was looking, Murphy approached it, opened it, took therefrom several bottles of beer, and served it to the many gamesters who were working hard, and perspiring freely.

The green cloth, which at one time had decorated a pool table, was, as he now observed, employed to deaden the sound of the rolling dice, that slid over it from some perspiring palm. Not any large amount was upon the table; but many one dollar bills could be seen in the palms of the gamesters. Another roomer downstairs, and who read a great deal, was on hand and shot c.r.a.ps too. This was something of a surprise, since he was apparently very intelligent; but, as Wyeth learned later, literary training did not make them ignore the game by any means. As he stood watching, the dice pa.s.sed to Glenview, the intelligent roomer. He made a point, and then threw seven before he came back to it. The winners picked up the money. Wyeth was relieved to see the dice pa.s.s to another Negro, who had been fidgeting about impatiently. He caught them up, and blew his breath on them, as they were held in his palm, before throwing them before him across the table. Wyeth advanced closer as the game became more excited. Glenview had thrown the dice, much as Wyeth had observed the white people did back in the _Rosebud Country_--for they shot c.r.a.ps there as well. But now, with a "clea' dy way, I'm a comin',"

he let them roll.