“How is our treasury?” he yelled back through the dingy suite of offices to his bookkeeper, a pretty mulatto.
“What treasury?” she asked in mock surprise.
“Why, I thought we had seventy-five dollars,” he blurted.
“We did, but the Sheriff got most of it yesterday or we wouldn’t be in here today.”
“Huumn! Well, that’s bad. And tomorrow’s pay day, isn’t it?”
“Why bring that up?” she sneered. “I’d forgotten all about it.”
“Haven’t we got enough for me to get to Atlanta?” Licorice inquired, anxiously.
“There is if you’re gonna hitchhike.”
“Well, of course, I couldn’t do that,” he smiled deprecatingly.
“I should say not,” she retorted surveying his 250-pound, five-feet-six-inches of black blubber.
“Call Western Union,” he commanded.
“What with?”
“Over the telephone, of course, Miss Hall,” he explained.
“If you can get anything over that telephone you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.”
“Has the service been discontinued, young lady?”
“Try and get a number,” she chirped. He gazed ruefully at the telephone.
“Is there anything we can sell?” asked the bewildered Licorice.
“Yeah, if you can get the Sheriff to take off his attachments.”
“That’s right, I had forgotten.”
“You would.”
“Please be more respectful, Miss Hall,” he snapped. “Somebody might overhear you and tell my wife.”
“Which one?” she mocked.
“Shut up,” he blurted, touched in a tender spot, “and try to figure out some way for us to get hold of some money.”
“You must think I’m Einstein,” she said, coming up and perching herself on the edge of his desk.
“Well, if we don’t get some operating expenses I won’t be able to obtain money to pay your salary,” he warned.
“The old songs are the best songs,” she wisecracked.
“Oh, come now, Violet,” he remonstrated, pawing her buttock, “let’s be serious.”
“After all these years!” she declared, switching away.
In desperation, he eased his bulk out of the creaking swivel chair, reached for his hat and overcoat and shuffled out of the office. He walked to the curb to hail a taxicab but reconsidered when he recalled that a worn half-dollar was the extent of his funds. Sighing heavily, he trudged the two blocks to the telegraph office and sent a long day letter to Henry Givens, Imperial Grand Wizard of the Knights of Nordica—collect.
“Well, have you figured it out?” asked Violet when he barged into his office again.
“Yes, I just sent a wire to Givens,” he replied.
“But he’s a nigger-hater, isn’t he?” was her surprised comment.
“You want your salary, don’t you?” he inquired archly.
“I have for the past month.”
“Well, then, don’t ask foolish questions,” he snapped.
VI
Two important events took place on Easter Sunday, 1934. The first was a huge mass meeting in the brand new reinforced concrete auditorium of the Knights of Nordica for the double purpose of celebrating the first anniversary of the militant secret society and the winning of the millionth member. The second event was the wedding of Helen Givens and Matthew Fisher, Grand Exalted Giraw of the Knights of Nordica.
Rev. Givens, the Imperial Grand Wizard of the order, had never regretted that he had taken Fisher into the order and made him his right-hand man. The membership had grown by leaps and bounds, the treasury was bursting with money in spite of the Wizard’s constant misappropriation of funds, the regalia factory was running night and day and the influence of the order was becoming so great that Rev. Givens was beginning to dream of a berth in the White House or near by.
For over six months the order had been publishing The Warning, an eight-page newspaper carrying lurid red headlines and poorly-drawn quarter-page cartoons, and edited by Matthew. The noble Southern working people purchased it eagerly, devouring and believing every word in it. Matthew, in 14-point, one-syllable word editorials painted terrifying pictures of the menace confronting white supremacy and the utter necessity of crushing it. Very cleverly he linked up the Pope, the Yellow Peril, the Alien Invasion and Foreign Entanglements with Black-No-More as devices of the Devil. He wrote with such blunt sincerity that sometimes he almost persuaded himself that it was all true.
As the money flowed in, Matthew’s fame as a great organizer spread throughout the Southland, and he suddenly became the most desirable catch in the section. Beautiful women literally threw themselves at his feet, and, as a former Negro and thus well versed in the technique of amour, he availed himself of all offerings that caught his fancy.
At the same time he was a frequent visitor to the Givens home, especially when Mrs. Givens, whom he heartily detested, was away. From the very first Helen had been impressed by Matthew. She had always longed for the companionship of an educated man, a scientist, a man of literary ability. Matthew to her mind embodied all of these. She only hesitated to accept his first offer of marriage two days after they met because she saw no indication that he had much, if any, money. She softened toward him as the Knights of Nordica treasury grew; and when he was able to boast of a million-dollar bank account, she agreed to marriage and accepted his ardent embraces in the meantime.
And so, before the yelling multitude of night-gowned Knights, they were united in holy wedlock on the stage of the new auditorium. Both, being newlyweds, were happy. Helen had secured the kind of husband she wanted, except that she regretted his association with what she called lowbrows; while Matthew had won the girl of
