One morning a week or two after his wedding, Matthew was sitting in his private office, when his secretary announced a caller, one B. Brown. After the usual delay staged for the purpose of impressing all visitors, Matthew ordered him in. A short, plump, well-dressed, soft-spoken man entered and greeted him respectfully. The Grand Exalted Giraw waved to a chair and the stranger sat down. Suddenly, leaning over close to Matthew, he whispered, “Don’t recognize me, do you Max?”
The Grand Giraw paled and started. “Who are you?” he whispered hoarsely. How in the devil did this man know him? He peered at him sharply.
The newcomer grinned. “Why it’s me, Bunny Brown, you big sap!”
“Well, cut my throat!” Matthew exclaimed in amazement. “Boy, is it really you?” Bunny’s black face had miraculously bleached. He seemed now more chubby and cherubic than ever.
“It aint my brother,” said Bunny with his familiar beam.
“Bunny, where’ve you been all this time? Why didn’t you come on down here when I wrote you? You must’ve been in jail.”
“Mind reader! That’s just where I’ve been,” declared the former bank clerk.
“What for? Gambling?”
“No: Rambling.”
“What do you mean: Rambling?” asked the puzzled Matthew.
“Just what I said, Big Boy. Got to rambling around with a married woman. Old story: husband came in unexpectedly and I had to crown him. The fire escape was slippery and I slipped. Couldn’t run after I hit the ground and the flatfoot nabbed me. Got a lucky break in court or I wouldn’t be here.”
“Was it a white woman?” asked the Grand Exalted Giraw.
“She wasn’t black,” said Bunny.
“It’s a good thing you weren’t black, too!”
“Our minds always ran in the same channels,” Bunny commented.
“Got any jack?” asked Matthew.
“Is it likely?”
“Do you want a job?”
“No, I prefer a position.”
“Well, I think I can fix you up here for about five grand to begin with,” said Matthew.
“Santa Claus! What do I have to do: assassinate the President?”
“No, kidder; just be my right-hand man. You know, follow me through thick and thin.”
“All right, Max; but when things get too thick, I’m gonna thin out.”
“For Christ’s sake don’t call me Max,” cautioned Matthew.
“That’s your name, aint it?”
“No, simp. Them days has gone forever. It’s Matthew Fisher now. You go pulling that Max stuff and I’ll have to answer more questions than a traffic officer.”
“Just think,” mused Bunny. “I been reading about you right along in the papers but until I recognized your picture in last Sunday’s paper I didn’t know who you were. Just how long have you been in on this graft?”
“Ever since it started.”
“Say not so! You must have a wad of cash salted away by this time.”
“Well, I’m not appealing for charity,” Matthew smiled sardonically.
“How many squaws you got now?”
“Only one, Bunny—regular.”
“What’s matter, did you get too old?” chided his friend.
“No, I got married.”
“Well, that’s the same thing. Who’s the unfortunate woman?”
“Old man Givens’ girl.”
“Judas Priest! You got in on the ground floor didn’t you?”
“I didn’t miss. Bunny, old scout, she’s the same girl that turned me down that night in the Honky Tonk,” Matthew told him with satisfaction.
“Well, hush my mouth! This sounds like a novel,” Bunny chuckled.
“Believe it or not, papa, it’s what God loves,” Matthew grinned.
“Well, you lucky hound! Getting white didn’t hurt you none.”
“Now listen, Bunny,” said Matthew, dropping to a more serious tone, “from now on you’re private secretary to the Grand Exalted Giraw; that’s me.”
“What’s a Giraw?”
“I can’t tell you; I don’t know myself. Ask Givens sometime. He invented it but if he can explain it I’ll give you a grand.”
“When do I start to work? Or rather, when do I start drawing money?”
“Right now, Old Timer. Here’s a century to get you fixed up. You eat dinner with me tonight and report to me in the morning.”
“Fathers above!” said Bunny. “Dixie must be heaven.”
“It’ll be hell for you if these babies find you out; so keep your nose clean.”
“Watch me, Mr. Giraw.”
“Now listen, Bunny. You know Santop Licorice, don’t you?”
“Who doesn’t know that hippo?”
“Well, we’ve had him on our payroll since December. He’s fighting Beard, Whooper, Spelling and that crowd. He was on the bricks and we helped him out. Got his paper to appearing regularly, and all that sort of thing.”
“So the old crook sold out the race, did he?” cried the amazed Bunny.
“Hold that race stuff, you’re not a shine anymore. Are you surprised that he sold out? You’re actually becoming innocent,” said Matthew.
“Well, what about the African admiral?” Bunny asked.
“This: In a couple of days I want you to run up to New York and look around and see if his retention on the payroll is justified. I got a hunch that nobody is bothering about his paper or what he says, and if that’s true we might as well can him; I can use the jack to better advantage.”
“Listen here, Boy, this thing is running me nuts. Here you are fighting this Black-No-More, and so is Beard, Whooper, Gronne, Spelling and the rest of the Negro leaders, yet you have Licorice on the payroll to fight the same people that are fighting your enemy. This thing is more complicated than a flapper’s past.”
“Simple, Bunny, simple. Reason why you can’t understand it is because you don’t know anything about high strategy.”
“High what?” asked Bunny.
“Never mind, look it up at your leisure. Now you can savvy the fact that the sooner these spades are whitened the sooner this graft will fall through, can’t you?”
“Righto,” said his friend.
“Well, the longer we can make the process, the longer we continue to drag down the jack. Is that clear?”
“As a Spring day.”
“You’re getting brighter by the minute, old man,” jeered Matthew.
“Coming from you, that’s no compliment.”
“As I was saying, the longer it
