“What are you going to do about it?” whispered Perigua.
Matthew hesitated. “Nothing—” he answered slowly.
Perigua approached Matthew, and there was danger in his eyes.
“You’ll peach?” he whispered.
“I’ll never betray you, Perigua.”
“Well, what will you do?”
Matthew was silent.
“Well, speak, man,” growled Perigua.
“I’ll keep still,” said Matthew.
“All right, keep still. But listen, man. It’s going to be done, and if you can’t be a man, don’t be a damned talebearing dog!”
He started away. Matthew’s thoughts raced. Here was the answer to that sneer of the Japanese. The world would awaken tomorrow to the revolt of black America. His head swam.
He ran after Perigua and gripped his arm. He was all a-tremble. He whispered in Perigua’s ear.
“I don’t believe what you have said. I don’t believe the porters will back down before the scabs, but if they do—”
“Well, if they do, what?” asked Perigua.
“Wait,” said Matthew. “How will the world know that this wasn’t an accident rather than—revenge?”
“I’ve got posters that I printed myself.”
“Give them to me.”
“What for?”
“If the porters strike, I’ll destroy them. But if they don’t strike, I’ll scab with them on the Klan Special—and I’ll go to hell with you.”
“By the living Christ,” said Perigua, “you’ve got guts!”
“No,” said Matthew, “I am a coward. I dare not live.”
Perigua gripped his hand.
“I’ve searched through ten millions,” he said, “and found only one who dared. Now I am going. Here! I’ll give you half the handbills.”
He thrust a bundle into Matthew’s hand.
“Placard the cars with these after midnight. And, say—oh, here it is—here’s a letter.”
XIV
The porters’ strike was over before it began. The officials had early wind of the plan, and by the time the Special reached Indianapolis, rumors of the host of strike breakers, ready and willing to work, reached the porters’ ears and were industriously circulated by the conductors and stool-pigeons. There was a moment of strained expectancy as the train drew into the depot. Reporters came rushing out, and numbers of colored people who had learned of something unusual stood about. In the waiting-room stood a crowd of porters in new uniforms, together with several Pullman officials, and an unusual number of policemen who bustled about and scattered the crowds.
“Come—clear the way—move on!”
“Where are you going?” one of them asked Matthew, suspiciously. Leaning by the grill and straining his eyes, Matthew had waited in vain for the porters to leave their cars and march out according to the plan agreed on. Not a porter stirred. He saw them standing in their places, some laughing and talking, but most of them silent and grim. Matthew went ashen with pain and anger. He beckoned to some of the men he knew and had talked to. They ignored him.
He leaned dizzily against the cold iron, then started for the gate. A policeman accosted him, roughly seizing his arm. “I’m joining this train as porter,” he explained. “I’ve been on sick leave.” A Pullman official stepped forward.
“I don’t know anything about this,” he began.
But Matthew spied his conductor.
“Reporting for duty, Cap,” he said.
The conductor grinned. “Thought you were leading a strike,” he sneered, and then turning to the official he said: “Good porter—came up with me. I was just coming to get an extra man for the smoker.”
“All right.”
And Matthew passed the gate. He spoke to not a single porter, and none spoke to him. All of them avoided each other. They had failed—they had been defeated without a fight.
“We’re damn cowards,” muttered Matthew as he climbed aboard.
“Any man’s a coward in midwinter when he’s got a wife, a mortgage, two children in school, and only one job in sight,” answered the old porter who followed him.
“Good,” growled Matthew. “Let’s all go to hell.”
An hour late the Klan Special crawled out of Cincinnati and headed South. The railroad and Pullman officials sighed in relief and laughed. The colored crowd faded away and laughed too, but with different tone.
Matthew donned his uniform slowly, as in a trance. He could not yet realize that his strike had utterly failed. He was numb with the day’s experience and still weak from illness. He shrank from work in the smoker with that uproarious, drunken crowd of gamblers. The conductor consented to put him on the last car instead, bringing the willing man from that car to the larger tips of the smoker.
“We’ve dropped the observation,” said the conductor, “and we’ve got a private car on the end with four compartments and a suite. They’re mostly foreign guests of the Klan, and they keep pretty quiet. They are going down to see the South. Afraid you won’t make much in tips—but then again you may.” And he went forward.
Matthew went back and walked again through the horror of Jimmie’s murder. He entered the private car. There was a reception room and a long corridor, but the passengers had apparently all retired. Matthew sat down in the lounge and took from his pocket the package which Perigua had given him; with it was the letter. He looked at it in surprise. He knew immediately whose it was; he saw the coronet; he saw the long slope of the beautiful handwriting; but he did not open it. Slowly he laid it aside with a bitter smile. It could have for him now neither good news nor bad, neither praise nor inquiry, neither disapproval nor cold criticism. No matter what it said, it had come too late. He was at the end of his career. He had started high and sunk to the depths, and now he would close the chapter.
In the first miles of the journey toward Winchester, Matthew was grim; cold and clear ran his thoughts.
“Selig der, den Er in Siegesglänze findet.”
He was going out in triumph. He was dying for Death. The world would know that black men dared to die. There came the flash of passing towns with stops here and there to discharge passengers; he helped the porter on the next car, which was overloaded; he was hurrying, helping,
