The Fire in the Flint

had had together? It had run like this: Any Negro can get along without trouble in the South if he only attends to his own business. It was unfortunate, mighty unpleasant and uncomfortable at times, that coloured people, no matter what their standing, had to ride in Jim Crow cars, couldn’t vote, couldn’t use the public libraries and all those other things. Lynching, too, was bad. But only bad Negroes ever got lynched. And, after all, those things weren’t all of life. Booker Washington was right. And the others who were always howling about rights were wrong. Get a trade or a profession. Get a home. Get some property. Get a bank account. Do something! Be somebody! And then, when enough Negroes had reached that stage, the ballot and all the other things now denied them would come. White folks then would see that the Negro was deserving of those rights and privileges and would freely, gladly give them to him without his asking for them. That was the way he felt. When Bill Van Vleet had urged him to go with him to dinners or the theatre, he had had always some excuse that Bill had to accept whether he had believed it or not. Good Old Bill! They never knew during those more or less happy days what was in store for them both.

Neither of them had known that the German Army was going to sweep down through Belgium. Nor did they know that Bill was fated to end his short but brilliant career as an aviator in a blazing, spectacular descent behind the German lines, the lucky shot of a German antiaircraft gun.

Graduation. The diploma which gave him the right to call himself “Dr. Kenneth B. Harper.” And then that stormy, yet advantageous year in New York at Bellevue. Hadn’t they raised sand at his, a Negro’s presumption in seeking that interneship at Bellevue! He’d almost lost out. No Negro interne had ever been there before. If it hadn’t been for Dr. Cox, to whom he had had a letter of introduction from his old professor of pathology at school, he never would have got the chance. But it had been worth it.

Kenneth lighted another cigarette and draped his legs over the arm of the chair. It wasn’t bad at all to think of the things he had gone through⁠—now that they were over. Especially the army. Out of Bellevue one week when the chance came to go to the Negro officers’ training-camp at Des Moines. First lieutenant’s bars in the medical corps. Then the long months of training and hard work at Camp Upton, relieved by occasional pleasant trips to New York. Lucky he’d been assigned to the 367th of the 92nd Division. Good to be near a real town like New York.

That had been some exciting ride across. And then the Meuse, the Argonne, then Metz. God, but that was a terrible nightmare! Right back of the lines had he been assigned. Men with arms and legs shot off. Some torn to pieces by shrapnel. Some burned horribly by mustard gas. The worse night had been when the Germans made that sudden attack at the Meuse. For five days they had been fighting and working. That night he had almost broken down. How he had cursed war! And those who made war. And the civilization that permitted war⁠—even made it necessary. Never again for him! Seemed like a horrible dream⁠—a nightmare worse than any he had ever known as a boy when he’d eaten green apples or too much mince pie.

That awful experience he had soon relegated to the background of his mind. Especially when he was spending those blessed six months at the Sorbonne. That had been another hard job to put over. They didn’t want any Negroes staying in France. They’d howled and they’d brought up miles of red tape. But he had ignored the howls and unwound the red tape.

And now, Central City again. It was good to get back. Four⁠—eight⁠—sixteen years had he spent in preparation. Now he was all ready to get to work at his profession. For a time he’d have to do general practising. Had to make money. Then he’d specialize in surgery⁠—major surgery. Soon’s he got enough money ahead, he’d build a sanitarium. Make of it as modern a hospital as he could afford. He’d draw on all of South Georgia for his patients. Nearest one now is Atlanta. All South Georgia⁠—most of Florida⁠—even from Alabama. Ten years from now he’d have a place known and patronized by all the coloured people in the South. Something like the Mayo Brothers up in Rochester, Minnesota!

“Pretty nifty, eh, Ken?”

Kenneth, aroused suddenly from his retrospection and daydreams, jumped at the unexpected voice behind him. It was his younger brother, Bob. He laughed a little shamefacedly at his having been startled. Without waiting for a reply, Bob entered the room and sat on the edge of the table facing Kenneth.

“Yep! Things are shaping up rather nicely. Everything’s here now but the patients. And those’ll be coming along pretty soon, I believe,” replied Kenneth confidently. He went on talking enthusiastically of the castles in the air he had been building when Bob entered the room⁠—of the hospital he was going to erect⁠—how he planned attending the State Medical Convention every year to form contracts with other coloured doctors of Georgia⁠—how he was intending to visit during the coming year all the coloured physicians within a radius of a hundred miles of Central City to enlist their support. He discussed the question of a name for the hospital. How would Harper’s Sanitarium sound? Or would the Central City Infirmary be better? Or the Hospital of South Georgia?

On and on Kenneth rambled, talking half to Bob, half in audible continuation of his reverie before Bob had entered. But Bob wasn’t listening to him. On his face was the usual half-moody, half-discontented expression which Kenneth knew so well. Bob was looking down the dusty