The inevitable woman with the baby was furious, for in his search he had forgotten to get the hot milk from the diner, and the cook had used it. A man passed his station because the train conductor had not been notified of the extra stop. The Pullman conductor placed the blame on the porter.
“Damn niggers are good for nothing,” said the angry man.
Of course Matthew was supposed to be a walking encyclopedia of the country they were traversing:
“What town is this?”
“Greensboro, madam.”
“What mountains are those?”
“The Blue Ridge, sir.”
“What creek are we crossing?”
“I don’t know, madam.”
“Well, don’t you know anything?”
Matthew silently continued his dusting.
“Is that the James River?”
“It’s a portion of it, madam.”
“Is that darky trying to be smart?”
The bell rang furiously. To Matthew’s splitting head it seemed always angry. He brought cup after cup of ice water to people too lazy to take a dozen steps.
“Why the hell don’t you answer the bells when they ring?” growled the poker gambler who had the drawing-room. “Bring us some C. & C. ginger ale and be quick about it.”
“Sorry, but the—”
“Don’t answer me back, nigger.”
Matthew went and brought Clicquot Club, the only kind they carried. Apparently the passenger did not know the difference.
It was dinner time and he got a moment to sit down in the end section and dozed off.
“Do you hear?” an elderly man was yelling at him. “Which way is the diner?”
“Straight ahead, sir, second car.”
The man looked at him, “Asleep at your post is not the way to get on in this world,” he said.
Matthew looked at him. His patience was about at an end, and the man saw something in his eye; he added as he turned away: “Young man, my father fought and died to set you free.”
“Well, he did a damned poor job,” said Matthew, and he went into the smoking-room and into the toilet and shut and locked the door.
It was nearly ten at night when dinner for the porters was ready, for the passengers had stuffed themselves at lunch and were not hungry until late; the food left was cold and scarce, and the cooks too tired to bother. He was greeted by a chorus when he returned to the car. It began as he passed the drawing-room:
“Where’s that porter—George!”—“Can you get me some liquor—any fly girls on the train—how about that one in Lower 5?” Then outside: “Porter, will you please make this berth—you’ve passed it repeatedly. These colored men are too presuming.”—“Water!”—“When do we get to ⸻?”—“What station was that?”—“Please hand me my bag.”—“How can I get into that upper? Haven’t you a lower?”—‘Where’s the conductor?”—‘ “What connections can I make?”—“How late are we?”—“When do we change time?”—“When is breakfast?”—“That milk for ba-aby, and right off!”—“Ice water.”—“Shoes!”
Matthew left the train with a gasp and took the subway to Harlem. It was after midnight and clear and cold. He wanted warmth and company, and he went straight to the cabaret. He knew he was going, and all day long the yearning for some touch of sympathy and understanding had been overpowering. He wanted to forget everything. He was going to get drunk. He walked by Perigua’s place from habit. It was closed and vacant. No one whom he saw could tell him where Perigua was. Matthew turned and walked straight to the cabaret.
“Hello, Big Boy.”
He gripped the girl’s hand. It was the only handclasp that seemed even friendly that he had had for a long time. She curled her arm about his neck. “What do you say to a drink?” she asked. He drank the stuff that burned and rankled. He danced with the girl, and all the time his head ached and whirled. What could he do? What should he do?
He went out with her at four o’clock in the morning; he scarcely knew when or why. He wanted to forget the world. They whirled away in a taxi, and stumbled up long stairs, and then with a sigh he slipped his clothes off, and clasping his arms around her curving form, fell into dreamless sleep.
X
At the head of the stairs next morning Matthew met Perigua. The girl had looked at his haggard face with something like forgotten shame.
“Goodbye, Big Boy,” she said, “you ain’t built for the sporting game. I wish”—she looked at him uncertainly, her face drawn and coarse in the morning light, her body drooping—“I wish I could help some way. Well, if you ever want a friend, come to me.”
“Thank you,” he said simply, and kissing her forehead, went. For a long time she stood with that kiss upon her brow.
Then he met Perigua coming out of the door opposite. Was he in Perigua’s building? He had been too drunk the night before to notice. No, this was too narrow for 135th Street. He met Perigua, and Perigua blazed at him:
“You’re having a hell of a time, ain’t you! Prostitutes instead of patriotism.” Then he snarled, “Wake up! The time is come! Have you seen this?”
It was an elaborate account of the coming meeting of the Klan in Chicago. Perigua was trembling with excitement. Matthew looked at him sharply. Something else was wrong; he looked hungry and wrought up with drink or excess. Matthew glanced at the paper. The great Klan Special was leaving Atlanta for Chicago three days later at 3:40 in the afternoon. Special cars with certain high guests would join them at variouspoints and from various cities.
“I’m going to Chicago,” said Perigua.
Matthew seized him by the shoulders.
“All right,” he said, “but first come and have breakfast.”
Perigua hesitated and then morosely yielded. They ate silently and
