He started, roused from one of his usual reveries, when Kenneth knocked on the open door. The gentle breezes of late spring stirred the mane of white hair as he brought his chair to the floor with a thump.
“Come in, Ken, come right in.” He welcomed Kenneth heartily, though in accordance with the Southern custom he did not offer to shake hands with his visitor. “How’s your maw? Heard you’re doing right well since you been back. Mighty glad to hear it, because yo’ daddy set a heap by you.”
Kenneth assured him he was progressing fairly well, told him his mother was well, and answered the innumerable questions the judge asked him. He knew that these were inevitable and must be answered before the judge would talk on any matter of business. After a few minutes of the desultory and perfunctory questions and answers, Kenneth told, when asked, the purpose of his visit. Chair tilted back again, elbows resting on the arms of the chair, fingers placed end to end, and his chin resting on the natural bridge thus formed, the judge listened to Kenneth’s recital of his plan without comment other than an occasional noncommittal grunt.
“… And what I would like from you, Judge Stevenson, is, first, do you think the plan will work, and, second, will you draw up the articles of incorporation and whatever other legal papers we need?” Kenneth ended. As an afterthought he added:
“You see, we want to do the job legally and above board, so there won’t be any misunderstanding of our motives.”
For a long time Judge Stevenson said nothing, nor did he give any indication that he was aware Kenneth had stopped speaking. In fact he seemed oblivious even of Kenneth’s presence. Knowing better than to interrupt him, Kenneth awaited somewhat anxiously the judge’s opinion. When the silence had lasted nearly five minutes, a vague alarm began to creep over Kenneth. Suppose the judge wasn’t as friendly towards coloured people as he had supposed? A word from him could start serious trouble before they got started. He wondered if he had acted wisely in revealing so much of their plans. He felt sure he had done wrong when he saw a look of what appeared to be anger pass over the judge’s face.
At last the old lawyer cleared his throat, his usual preliminary to speech. But when he did talk he began on another subject.
“What’re the folks out your way saying about these Kluxers? Any of you getting worried about these fools parading ’round like a bunch of damn fools?”
“To tell you the truth, Judge, I don’t really know yet what the coloured people are thinking.” He felt that on this subject he could speak frankly to the judge, as he was too sensible a man to take much stock in the antics of the Klan. Yet, he was not too sure—coloured people must always keep a careful watch on their tongues when talking to white people in the South.
“You ain’t getting scared out there, are you?” the judge pressed the point.
“No, I wouldn’t call it scared. Most of those with whom I’ve talked don’t want any trouble with anybody—they want to attend to their own business and be let alone. But if they are attacked, I’m afraid there will be considerable trouble and somebody will get hurt.” He paused, then went on: “And that somebody won’t be entirely composed of Negroes, either.”
“I reckon you’re right, Ken. These fools don’t know they’re playing with dynamite.” His voice took on a querulous tone. “We’ve been getting along all right here, ’cept when some of these po’ whites out of the mill or from the tu’pentine camps or some bad nigras tank up on bad liquor or moonshine.” He did not say “Negro” nor yet the opprobrious “nigger,” but struck somewhere between the two—“nigra.” “And now these fools are just stirring up trouble Lord knows where it’ll end.”
He ran his hand through his hair—a favourite trick of his when excited, and paced up and down the room.
“I’ve been telling some of the boys they’d better stay away from that fool business of gallivanting around with a pillow-slip over their heads. They talk about being against bootleggers and men runing around with loose women—humph!—every blamed bootlegger and blind tiger and whoremaster in town rushed into the Klan ’cause they know’d that was the only way they could keep from getting called up on the carpet! A fine bunch they are!”
The judge spat disgustedly.
“Now about this plan you got—have you thought about the chances of your being misunderstood? Suppose some of these ornery whites get it into their heads you’re trying to start trouble between the races. What’re you going to do then?” he asked.
“That’s just why we want to do the job right,” answered Kenneth. “We want to do everything legally so there can’t be any wrong ideas about the society. I know every time coloured people start forming any kind of an organization besides a church or a burial society, there are white people who begin to get suspicious and think that Negroes are organizing to start some mischief. That’s why we want you and the other good white people to know all about our plans from the start.”
“I ain’t trying to discourage you none,” replied Judge Stevenson doubtfully, “but do you think you are wise in starting coloured folks to thinking about organizing when this Klan’s raising hell all over the South?”
“How else are we going to do anything?” asked Kenneth. “Farmers have been robbed so long they are getting tired of it. If something isn’t done, there’s going to be lots more trouble than a society like ours can possibly cause. This share-cropping business causes more trouble than any other thing that’s done to Negroes. Lynching is mighty bad, but after all only a few Negroes are lynched a year, while thousands are robbed
