Part 17

He rose leisurely, ran his fingers through his hair and threw his cap on his head. “I say, young fellow,” he suddenly remarked. “Didn’t you say you were going to do something as soon as you got back home, some little thing, some trifle, like getting married?”

Robert acknowledged it.

“Broken romance? Or just plain broke?” asked McCall.

“Just plain broke,” laughed Robert. “I’ll tell you about it at lunch.”

They ate at the Press Club, a few blocks away from the hotel, a comfortable place on the top of an office building, across the street from the City Hall.

“Once in a while you see a newspaper man here,” said McCall gravely. “Usually you find them sleeping on the couches. But most of these men are professional men--lawyers, prominent officials, bankers, and so forth. That old gentleman with the long hair is a poet. Does cowboy verse. That thin, gray-haired fellow is a literary critic. Runs a little magazine. What do you want? The ham and eggs are very good.”

McCall described some of the parties that had been held at the Press Club in the old days and particularly of the night they had entertained the Milwaukee Press Club. The visitors had been met at the “L” station by a reception committee in weird costumes and paraded to the club in brewery trucks, headed by a band. The program had been drawn up with a view to shocking, if possible, the visitors, and beer, whiskey and sandwiches had circulated freely. At the conclusion women from--well, it didn’t matter where they were from--had danced the dance of the seven veils, without the veils. Some of the trustees had been shocked and the program committee had been reprimanded and suspended.

“And now what were you going to tell me?”

Robert explained in a general way how the Hamilton interests had met with reverses, and allowed McCall to infer that he had come to Chicago on business connected with the corporation. It saved explanations.

“Now, of course, I know that Margaret doesn’t want me because of my money, but I haven’t had the courage to tell her. Of course, she ought to know. What would you do?”

“I’d tell her, Ham. I’d tell her openly. Of course, you’re sure you love her. That’s the main thing.”

“I’m going to marry her,” replied Robert. In his own mind the answer suddenly flared like a light. “I am going to marry her.” It was loyalty to her, loyalty to his promise, loyalty to an idea, and perhaps to an old love. Was it anything else? He suddenly remembered something.

“I’ve got something of yours,” he said, reaching into his breast pocket. “I was going to send it to you, but I kept forgetting or putting it off.” He pulled out an envelope, on the back of which was scribbled a sonnet. McCall took it and examined it in surprise.

“Why, that’s your envelope. Your name on it. Oh, now I see. Where’d you get hold of that?”

He laughed.

“You didn’t need to bother about it. I copied it. Yes, I remember I borrowed the envelope from you one day at the hospital, when I was short of paper. ‘The aged pilgrim hastens on the road.’ That’s the sonnet. I read it to Meadows, she thought it was rather pretty and I gave it to her.”

Robert felt himself choking.

“You--you--didn’t write it _to_ her. It wasn’t anything more than, than--”

“What are you staring at me for? You mean was I in love with her?”

“Yes! Yes!”

McCall laughed.

“Why now, where’d you get that idea?”

“In New York, in that café, you recited it. You said something about a girl you had met in France and whom you’d never see again.”

“I was drinking, Ham, wasn’t I? And I’ve met several girls in France, have I not? And why should I say I’d never see Miss Meadows again? You know she lives in Chicago. Especially if I loved her. You act as though you were jealous. I simply said that because I was a trifle drunk and because I thought it would give the poem a better setting.”

Now it all seemed perfectly absurd. Of course, McCall would see Dorothy again. They both lived in Chicago. And--well, it was simply inexplainable. For the first time he realized how much he had been thinking of Dorothy. How often some incident associated with their brief acquaintance had flashed through his mind, only to be suppressed. On the way to Chicago, he had kept thinking of her, had seen her image in the clouds and in the trees. Everywhere Dorothy. Dorothy. Dorothy. But then--

“I suppose you don’t know--” McCall began when the clerk at the desk began calling his name. The colored waiter hurried up.

“I guess it’s de Times wants you,” he said.

McCall excused himself and hurried to the phone. Robert stared at the plate.

“Anything else, sir?” asked the waiter.

McCall rushed back.

“Off on a big story!” he cried. “May be gone a few days. I’ll call you when I come back. Take your time about finishing. It’s charged to my account.”

He signed his name to the slip.

“Well, so long, Ham. Sorry, but business is business.”

He shook hands and hurried out of the room.

XXXI

It was surprising how merely meeting McCall once more should so strongly revive old memories clustering about Dorothy. There was his first memory of her at the hospital--her cool hand on his forehead; her quick, skillful movements; her sympathetic smile. There was Dorothy at the Luxembourg Gardens, holding his hand and looking gently down at the ground. There was the kiss--like a scarlet memory. There were a hundred little gestures, glances of her eyes, movements of her hands, the way she patted back a stray wisp of hair--a hundred nothings. All these came back to him now.

After leaving the Press Club, he had been unable to reach Levin by phone--he was still busy on his case--and so he had walked eastward to Michigan Avenue and then along the row of shops, stopping to peer into windows, viewing the stream of fashionably attired men and women and the swiftly passing motor cars and taxis. A sooty, green park ran along the lake front and a gray stone building of classic design commanded it. Beyond the park Lake Michigan looked green and cool and clean. As he walked, Robert kept fancying that he saw Dorothy just ahead of him, but whenever he quicked his pace he would find it simply an illusion--a passing resemblance.

He turned west to La Salle Street--two rows of gigantic structures-- banks, trust companies, brokerages mainly--overshadowing a current of business men, their bankers, lawyers and clerks, and of hurrying vehicles. To the south, at the end of the street, he recognized the Board of Trade Building.

Clinton Freeman, the man in charge of the Dearborn Statistical Bureau, proved a hair taller than Robert, blond and built like a tackle--a chap one could easily like. He had come out of the war a first lieutenant, had been stationed with Southern troops for several months and had grown to admire Southerners in a general way, without analysing his reasons for it. He liked their soft accent and liked to mimic it, throwing in an inordinate number of “you-alls” and drawling out his words at exaggerated length. He liked their geniality and their easy air of self-confidence. He had found them generous, courteous--even chivalrous, when they referred to women--and light-hearted--the virtues of aristocracy. From these acquaintances Freeman had learned the Southerner’s viewpoint on lynching--the need of keeping the inferior black man in his place, the necessity of stamping out “the only crime for which a nigger is ever lynched.”

“I’m mighty glad to see you!” Freeman had an effusive manner and gripped hands like a wrestler. “They wrote you were coming and sent several wires. Come right in!”

Robert followed into a private office and, on a comfortable swivel chair, swapped war and football experiences. Yes, Freeman had played football, on a small mid-Western college team, and remembered reading of Hamilton’s exploits at Harvard.

“I’ll bet you could have raised hob with the Yale line,” Robert appraised him frankly. “I think your Western teams are on a par with the East’s best. Too bad they don’t meet oftener.”

Freeman agreed as to the strength of the Western teams.

“Now,” he asked, a bit flattered, “what’s your plan of work? Do you smoke?” He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a box of cigars.

“Thanks!” Robert selected one. “Well--my plan is a little vague.”

Freeman nodded sympathetically and offered him a light. Robert puffed meditatively for a moment.

“Of course, I’m supposed to map out a definite campaign. I understand you have been gathering data, getting up lists and so on, you know--” he waved his hand--“as a sort of basis for me to work on. Divide the city into districts, get Bogeys to work each one, then go to another city and so on. But--”

“Yes, we’ve got quite a lot of dope here! Pardon me, what were you going to say?”

“There are some things about the Tribe I wanted to ask you about. You know I’ve just been taken in.”

“Well, I’m pretty green myself. Only a month or so.”

Robert explained some of his perplexities, the questions over which he had puzzled on the train.

“Oh, I wouldn’t bother too much about that,” said Freeman. “The main object is to get members, find out what they’re interested in and sell them from that angle. That states’ rights stuff doesn’t mean anything. I wouldn’t mention it at all. It might go well in the South, but not here, except, perhaps, to some Democrats, only the trouble is that most of them are Catholics.”

“But why is it on our cards?”

Freeman grinned.

“Well, somebody thought it was a good thing. Personally, I don’t. But somebody had to decide. Of course, it depends on how far you carry states’ rights. Take federal meat inspection or the pure food act or the federal income tax--those were all opposed because they interfered with states’ rights. And I suppose the Southern mill owners naturally oppose a federal child-labor law. But that’s nothing to get memberships on. You’re probably right. I suppose it was simply taken over from the old Know Knothing party platform, when states’ rights meant no interference with slavery. So I’d just forget it. Nobody notices it on the card and thinks it means some sort of guarantee of personal liberty like freedom of speech and freedom of the press, which the Constitution guarantees us anyway.”

Robert almost admired, without in any way approving, Freeman’s easy manner of using or discarding an argument according to his belief in its power to convince. If an argument didn’t convince he simply dropped it, and he never apologized for having used a false or fallacious one. He had a bass voice, which he could let out on occasion, especially when he spoke on the Tribal ideal of patriotism.

“The Trick Track Tribe is not merely a political party to secure this or that law or set of laws, Hamilton. It is a militant group, formed to combat all the forces that are attacking Americanism.” He brought his fist down on the desk with a bang. “States’ rights may or may not be of particular importance. National prohibition may or may not meet favor with all true Americans, but there can be no question about the supremacy of the white race, the rights guaranteed us by the American Constitution, separation of church and state, the sanctity of the home.” The last phrase fairly rolled out of Freeman’s eloquent mouth. “It is our aim to guard the supremacy of the white race, protect our Constitution from the radicals who would attack it and keep the hand of the Pope from clutching at our state. In every way we shall work to conserve this country and to confound the enemies within its walls as well as without its gates, to support the government in enforcing its laws and to aid the government whenever and wherever it seems inadequate to cope with its foes. By God, we’ll have law and order if we have to terrorize every other man, woman and child in this country, and if we have to tar and feather every person who doesn’t toe the mark!”

Freeman was a man who might easily sway an audience. It was not so much what he said, but how he said it. Even Robert felt himself carried away. There was something about him when he became excited over his theme that reminded one of Griffith. Both, then, had a natural eloquence. And both, when they fell back into the discussion of more commonplace subjects, appeared to relax--Griffith into a bored carelessness, Freeman into a broad friendliness.

“Before you start working, you ought to look around the city a bit.” Freeman looked at his watch. “I’ll be busy for another hour or so, or perhaps we’d better start out some morning. I suppose you’re a stranger here.”

“Practically,” said Robert. “But I think I’d rather wait until some other time. It’s too late now.” He made some remark about having a lot of “things” to attend to--a nebulous idea thrown out so that he might be alone that evening.

A stenographer opened the door and tossed a publication on the desk. Freeman glanced at it.

“Before you go,” he said, “take this along. Never seen a colored paper before, have you?”

“No.”

“Well, just read it. Some colored fanatics want social equality with the whites, repeal of all laws prohibiting intermarriage of blacks and whites and junk like that.”

“Well, if we had them down in Corinth we’d know how to fix ’em.”

“I’ll say you would!”

They shook hands warmly.

“You probably want to be alone tonight, but any time you’re lonely--you know, just give me a ring.”

“All right.”

Robert stuck the paper in his pocket and left.

He got another cinder in his eye returning to the hotel, and found his room lonesome and noisy. Two blocks away a skyscraper was being erected and the continual rat-a-tat of the riveters, like the bullets of machine guns, mingled with the repeated blasts of patrolmen’s whistles, the noise of hundreds of vehicles and of thousands of human beings. His nostrils were filled with fine particles of coal and dust. Robert was lonesome and wondered why he had refused Freeman’s invitation. Of course, there were letters to write and booklets to read, but then it was only a little after four and he would have all evening for that.

Because it was the thing he least wished to do, he decided to write Margaret first of all. His fountain pen was dry and the ink well in the combination table and desk held only some black powder and a dead fly. He telephoned to the desk and while waiting for the ink idly looked through the telephone directory. The advertisements. The Hamiltons. The M’s. He was conscious that his heart was beating unusually fast. But there were so many Meadows that it was impossible even to guess which might be the right one. He telephoned to Levin’s home again, leaving his name and telephone number.

As he did so, he had a peculiar feeling of slipping back in time a half year--their last meeting in New York, the sense of their friendship. He wondered whether belonging to the Tribe would put an end to that.

A perspiring bell boy brought the ink, took the tip thankfully and made some remark about the weather. The door closed behind him and Robert began writing. It was dreadful business telling her about the family financial troubles. Why should he do it? Well, it had to be done somehow. He wondered why it should be Margaret--how they had really become engaged.

Levin surprised him by telephoning from the lobby, just as he was dashing off the last line. He hastily addressed the envelope, folded the letter, slipped it inside and grabbed his hat. He looked guiltily at a little pile of Tribal propaganda and placed it in the dresser drawer out of sight. The Tribe was, somehow, against the Jews. He hadn’t found out why yet, but it seemed more decent to have the booklets out of sight.

Levin was pacing the lobby, the same old Levin, only a bit overworked perhaps, nervous. But it was good to see him again. Levin’s face lit up.

“It’s like being in Paris again,” he remarked. “Welcome to Chicago!” He would have had Robert up to the house, but something made that impossible. His sister was having a little society meeting--or something like that.

“It’s great to see you again, Doc,” said Hamilton.

“You have come just in time. I needed someone to talk to.” Levin knew a restaurant, De Jonghe’s, and whisked him to it. It _was_ somewhat Gallic, not exactly a French restaurant, but as French as one might reasonably expect five thousand miles west of Paris. And the food was delicious. They lingered over it.

“You look--” Robert paused. “Have you just fallen into love or out?”

Levin laughed.

“Well, perhaps, _out_. Not exactly, though.” He changed the subject. “What’s that?” He had noticed the paper in Robert’s pocket.

“Oh, let me see. Oh, yes, some nigger paper.” He laid it on the table.

“Ah, The Torch.” Levin picked it up and began turning the pages. “It’s one of the leading colored papers in the country now. And--by George--guess who’s running it!”

“How the dickens should I know who’s running a nigger paper? Got a cigarette on you?”

“Never mind, I’ll order cigars. Sure, you know him. The fellow who saved your life in France.”

“The nigger! Williams?”

“Yes, Williams. He’s considered one of the highest literary authorities in the United States. You ought to see him while you’re here.”

“I would,” said Robert. “I would, if he weren’t a nigger.”

“Oh, rats, I thought you had gotten over that!”

A waiter appeared, set a bottle of wine and glasses on the table and offered a box of cigars. Robert took one, laid it on the table and sipped thoughtfully at his wine. Had he changed? And had he changed back again? A nigger was a nigger to him once more. But in Corinth, yes, even in Corinth, he had put in a word for the despised black. Once he had thought that the ideals born of the war, the spirit of democracy and justice and idealism, would last. Here it was--how many months? two months, not quite three, since his homecoming--and he was back again. Or was it simply the pressure of Corinth--Margaret, Pinkney, his father, his set. Catholic. Jew. The Trick Track Tribe. Well, one had to live in his own world. And anyway a nigger was black and ugly and overworked.

“But I really couldn’t go to him. Bah! Shake his hand? No thanks!”

“The reaction _has_ set in,” remarked Levin. “And you’re an example.” He lit a cigar and puffed for a moment. “Now it’s the nigger. Next it will be--why where you come from, Corinth, you’ve got your Trick Track Tribe--an organization with the identical aims of the secret societies of savages and based on nothing but prejudices.”

“But you must admit that the nigger is different,” protested Robert. “He has always been the accursed of races. He has always been a slave. He has never had a civilization, never had a government, never created anything. Africa! What would it be if it weren’t for the whites? Hell, these coons who wait on the tables and shine shoes would still be savages in the jungles, without education and without religion, if it weren’t for the white man.”

“I’ll admit nothing,” Levin retorted. “You speak from prejudice. Take Williams for instance. He’s educated, cultured, refined. He _does_ hold a high position in the literary world and among his own race. Don’t sneer! But you wouldn’t visit him simply because he’s black.”

“Well, I’ll admit that Williams is all that you say. He’s an exception. I’ll admit that there are a thousand such exceptions in the world. What of it? What has that to do with what I have said? I said that the nigger has always been a slave, that he has always--”

Levin interrupted.

“You have an idea that the Negro is somehow sub-human?”

“Well--yes, if you put it that way!”

“That’s a belief that is based neither on science nor on history. It is flatly contradicted by Egyptian, Greek, Roman, Byzantine and Arabian experience, and it is being contradicted in this country today. Whether Negroes are equal in capacity to white men--that is on the average--or even whether they have produced or will produce a single genius worthy to rank with the highest geniuses of the white race is an idle and unimportant question. They can at least gain their livelihood as laborers and artisans. They can operate their own farms. They can take their place in the mines and the forests. Let them have fair play and they will naturally find their right place, wherever that may be. The Tribe talks of Negro disloyalty, of seditious plots with the Bolsheviki. There is not a shred of evidence to back these extravagant charges against an entire race. But if the white men treated them with fairness and justice they would have no reason to fear even these mythical plots. Experience has shown that whenever aliens are treated as citizens, they become citizens, whatever may be their religion or race. Give the American Negro but half a chance and you will find that he loves and hates, not with an African, but with an American heart.

“You say that the Negro has never had a civilization. He has had one of the most ancient of civilizations, with centers of culture at Ghana, Melle and Timbuctoo. There were kingdoms and empires in Songhay and Zymbabwe. There were art and industry in Yuruba and Benien, Negroes worked in iron long before the European. They wove. They carved. They had their music. They had a well-organized tribal government, with town meetings and market places. Those are the elements of civilization--not our civilization--not the civilization of the cold North or East, of Europe or Asia--but a highly developed civilization adapted to Africa. Out of Africa came the ivory and gold of the remotest times. Africans--your niggers--welded iron, practiced agriculture and carried on trade when Europe was still a wilderness. Your niggers sat on the throne of the Pharaohs in Egypt.”

“Niggers the kings of Egypt! Why how--?”

“The next time you see a picture of the great sphinx of Ghizeh, study its features. Thick lips. Flat nose. High cheek bones. The features are those of a Negro. And the Pharaohs did not erect sphinxes in honor of their slaves! Yes, Negroes, during certain dynasties, ruled Egypt, the most ancient of civilizations, the birthplace of learning. And it was a black woman, Queen Nefertari, who is the most venerated figure in Egyptian history.”

“I never knew that.” Robert puffed thoughtfully.

“And what did the white man do for Africa? For four hundred years, white Europe traded in black human beings, robbed Africa of a hundred million human souls, transformed the face of her social life, overthrew her organized government, distorted her ancient industry and snuffed out her cultural development. Today, instead of taking slaves from Africa, white men are converting Africa into a huge plantation, where the natives toil and die under the lash for the profit of the white world. Yes, the white men brought religion--the Bible in one hand and the rifle in the other. And, oh, yes, they brought another thing--gin.