The Fire in the Flint

comprehend the delicate position a Negro always occupies in places like Central City⁠—in fact, throughout the South. So little had he come into contact with the perplexities of the race question before he went away to school, he had seen little of the windings and turnings, the tortuous paths the Negro must follow to avoid giving offence to the dominant white sentiment. As he saw each day more and more of the evasions, the repressions, the choking back of natural impulses the Negro practised to avoid trouble, Kenneth often thought of the coloured man as a chip of wood floating on the surface of a choppy sea, tossed this way and that by every wind that blew upon the waters. He must of necessity be constantly on his guard when talking with his white neighbours, or with any white men in the South, to keep from uttering some word, some phrase which, like a seed dropped and forgotten, lies fallow for a time in the brain of the one to whom he talks, but later blossoms forth into that noxious death-dealing plant which is the mob. Innocent enough of guile or malice that word may be, yet he must be careful lest it be distorted and magnified until it can be the cause of violence to himself and his people. Often⁠—very often⁠—it is true that no evil follows. Yet the possibility that it may come must always be considered. But one factor is fixed and immutable the more intelligent and prosperous the Negro and the more ignorant and poor the white man, the graver the danger, for in the mind of the latter are jealousy and ignorance and stupidity and abject fear of the educated and successful Negro.

His talk with Ewing had crystallized the thoughts, half developed, which his observations since his return had planted in his mind. Kenneth began to see how involved the whole question really was, he was seeing dim paths of expediency and opportunism he would be forced to tread if he expected to reach the goal he had set for himself. Already he found one of his pet ideas to be of doubtful value the theory he had had that success would give a Negro immunity from persecution. Like a scroll slowly unwinding before his eyes, Kenneth saw, as yet only partially, that instead of freeing him from danger of the mob, too great prosperity would make him and every other Negro outstanding targets of the wrath and envy of the poorer whites⁠—that jealousy which “is cruel as the grave.” Oh, well, he reflected, others had avoided trouble and so could he. He would have to be exceedingly careful to avoid too great display, and at the same time cultivate the goodwill of those men like Roy Ewing and Judge Stevenson who would stand by him if there was need.

V

Kenneth was roused by a light tap upon the door. Opening it, Mamie stood on the threshold. Inquiring whether Kenneth had finished his work, and on being told he had, she entered. “Kenneth, why do you spend all your time here in the office? Don’t you think mamma and I want to talk with you occasionally?”

Mamie seated herself on the arm of Kenneth’s chair.

“Seems like you’re becoming a regular hermit since you’ve been back. Come on in the parlour⁠—Jane Phillips is in there and she wants to see you. Remember her?”

Kenneth smiled. “Remember Jane Phillips? Of course I do. Scrawny little thing⁠—running all to legs and arms. She was a homely little brat, wasn’t she?”

It was now Mamie’s turn to smile.

“I’m going to tell her what you said,” she threatened. “She’s lots different from the girl you remember.”

They went into the parlour.

Jane Phillips stood by the piano. She turned as Kenneth and Mamie entered the room, and came towards them, a smile on her face. Kenneth, as he advanced towards her, was frankly amazed at the transformation in the girl whom he had not seen for nine years. Jane laughed.

“Don’t you know me, Kenneth? Or must I call you Dr. Harper now?”

“No, my name is still Kenneth⁠—” he answered.

“Tell Jane what you called her a few minutes ago, or I will,” interrupted Mamie. Kenneth looked embarrassed. Jane insisted on being told, whereupon Mamie repeated Kenneth’s description of Jane as a child.

Caught between the upper and nether millstones of the raillery of the two girls, Kenneth tried to explain away his embarrassment, but they gave him no peace.

“Let me explain,” he begged. “When I went away you were a scrawny little thing, a regular tomboy and as mischievous as they make them. And now you’re a⁠—you’re⁠—you’re” Jane laughed at his attempt, somewhat lacking in fullness, to say what she had become with the passage of the years.

“Whatever it is you are trying to say, I hope it’s something all right you are calling me⁠—though from your tone I’m not at all sure,” she ended, letting a note of mock concern creep in her voice.

By this time Kenneth had somewhat recovered his composure. He entered into the spirit of play himself by telling her his surprise had been due to his finding her unchanged from the little girl he had once known, but Jane laughed at his ineffectual efforts to answer Mamie’s and her teasing. To change the conversation, he demanded that she tell him all that she had been doing since he saw her last.

“There isn’t much to tell,” she declared. “I went away soon after you did, going to Fisk University, graduated last June, got a position teaching in North Carolina, and am home for the holidays. Next year I want to have enough money to go to Oberlin and finish my music. That’s all there is to my little story. You are the one who has been having all sorts of experiences. I want to hear your story.”

“Mine isn’t much longer,” answered Kenneth. “Four years of medical school. A year’s interneship in New York at Bellevue. Three