“Been married a year,” he said. “Married before I knew you, but the wife was working in Chicago and wouldn’t come until I could set up a regular home. But the baby brought her, and I got the home.”
She was a little black, sweet-faced girl with lovely skin, crisp hair, and great black eyes—very practical and very loving, and her earth was quite evidently bounded by Jimmie and the baby. Matthew had never seen so small a baby. It was amorphous and dark red-brown and singularly cunning. They had a hilarious dinner, and Jimmie was at the best of his high humor.
He whispered all his romance to Matthew, while his wife washed the dishes.
“Never thought of marrying a black girl,” he explained. “I was spending all I could make on a ‘high yaller’ in Harlem; when she heard I wasn’t a banker, merchant, or doctor, she cut me so clean, I fell in two pieces and one landed in Chicago. I met Dolly, and gosh! I couldn’t leave her; innocent, sweet, and with sense. O boy, but I got some wife! And that kid!”
Matthew was troubled. Suppose something happened in Chicago or to this train; to this boy with his soul full of joy, and to this sweet-faced little black wife?
The next few days the Klan delegates gathered in Atlanta on special trains from New Orleans and other cities. Jimmie, looking the crowd over with practised eye, prophesied a “hot time,” plenty of gambling and liquor and good tips. Matthew was still disturbed, but Jimmie pooh-poohed.
“They’re all right. Just don’t Jet yourself get mad. Remember that, for the trip, you are just a machine, a plow or a mule, and I—I’m a savings bank for the kid.”
“Jimmie,” said Matthew suddenly, “suppose somebody tried to get back at these Klansmen somehow in Chicago.”
“Nonsense,” said Jimmie carelessly, “niggers dassn’t, Catholics and Jews are too long-headed, and the Klan is too well guarded. Just heard them talking about extra police protection.” He was off before Matthew could say more.
Then the rush began. The train was to leave on the twentieth but at three-forty, over the Louisville and Nashville, and for the last half hour before, Matthew had hardly time to think. His and Jimmie’s cars were at the end of the train; other Pullmans followed. In the middle of the train was the diner, and the club car and smoker was far forward.
It was nearly ten o’clock at night before Matthew got his berths made down and came into Jimmie’s car. They started for the diner. Just as they were passing out of the car, a bell rang, but Jimmie paid no attention.
“Come on,” he said, “there’s a flash dame in D who wants too much attention; I don’t trust her. Her husband, or the man she’s with, is up ahead, drunk and gambling. Let her wait.”
In the diner with the other porters, they had a gay time. Jimmie winked at the steward and soon produced a mysterious flask; immediately they were all drinking to “The Baby” and listening to some of the choicest of Jimmie’s stories.
“Let’s go up and see the bunch in the smoker,” said Jimmie when dinner was over. “I hear there’s a big game on.”
Matthew and Jimmie went forward. They were surely having a wild time in the smoker. The drinking and gambling were open, and one could see the character of the crowd—business men, Rotarians, traveling salesmen, clerks—a cross section of American middle-class life.
“I am going back,” said Matthew at last, for he was tired and not particularly interested.
“Be with you in just a minute,” said Jimmie. “I must see this poker hand through. My God, do you see this flush? Glance at my car as you go through and see if it is all right; I’ll be back in a jiffy. That fly dame will be yelling for something. Her daddy’s in here linin’ his grave with greenbacks.”
Matthew walked back thinking of Jimmie. That baby! That mother’s face! There were, after all, some strangely beautiful things in life. He walked through Jimmie’s compartment car and saw that all was quiet. Just as he was leaving, however, he heard the bell and saw that, sure enough, Compartment D had rung again. He walked back and knocked lightly.
“Porter!”
Matthew entered.
“It is stifling in here,” came a voice from the berth. “Please open the window.”
It was warm in Georgia, but the train would soon be in the cooler mountains; nevertheless, Matthew without argument started to open the window at her feet.
“No, this one at my head,” insisted the woman, “and for mercy’s sake, close the door behind you.”
He closed the door softly and then bent over her to raise the window. There came over him at the moment a subtle flash of fear. She was a large woman—opulent and highly colored, and she lay there on her back looking straight up into his eyes. Her breasts were half-covered—one scarcely at all. He could not raise the sash with his hands unaided. He braced his knee on the berth and, using the metal handle for unlocking the upper berth, he bent down hard. The window flew up, but his hand came down lightly on the woman’s bosom. Again came that gust of fear. He glanced down. She did not stir, but looked up at him with slightly closed eyes. For a moment, he caught his breath and his heart hammered. Then suddenly the door behind was flung violently open. The woman’s face changed in a flash. She screamed shrilly as Matthew started back and drew the sheet close about her:
“Get out of here, you black nigger! How dare you touch me! I asked you to raise the window!”
Matthew, terrified, turned, and with one sweep of his arm fiercely pushed aside the man who was entering. The man went down in a heap,
