The Fire in the Flint

thoughts. A noisy and malodorous Negro sat next to him who seemed to know some person at every one of the thousand and one stations at which they stopped. Kenneth sat next to the window. His companion leaned over him to stick his head out of the window to shout loud-mouthed and good-natured greetings to his friends on the ground. At those few stations where he knew no one, he would ask foolish, sometimes humorous questions of those he did not know. Kenneth stood it as long as he could and then requested the troublesome fellow to be less annoying. Kenneth, though vexed, was amused at the man’s complaint to another of his kind behind him. “Humph!” he grunted. “Tha’s whut I say ’bout a dressed-up nigger⁠—thinks he owns the train. I paid jes’ as much,” he declared more aggressively, “as he did, an’ ef he don’t like it, he can git off and walk.” At this, a long laugh at his own witty remark, but Kenneth looked out of the window and paid no attention to him. His thoughts were busy with other things.

Every few minutes he would feel the lump in the lower right-hand vest-pocket with a touch that was almost loving in its tenderness. He hoped Jane would like the ring⁠—it had cost a little more than he had expected to pay or could afford, but the best was none too good for a girl like her. He could see Jane’s eyes now when he opened the little box and she for the first time saw the glittering facets of the beautiful stone. He smiled in anticipation of her joy. And then he’d put it on her finger and she’d put her arms around his neck and he’d feel again her warm, soft, passionate, clinging lips. Lucky he didn’t get too deeply tied up with that girl years ago in New York. She had kissed as though she’d had long practice at it. Too sophisticated⁠—nothing like Jane. Jane wasn’t experienced in kissing⁠—but the thrill it gave him! It was funny about girls. Most of them didn’ think a kiss meant very much. He had kissed one⁠—two⁠—three⁠—four⁠—oh, lots of them! But all of them put together couldn’t begin to equal in warmth, the vividness of one kiss from Jane.

And just think of it⁠—six weeks from now, and Jane would be Mrs. Kenneth B. Harper! My, but that sounded good! Reverend Wilson would marry them. Then they’d go to Atlantic City for their honeymoon.

Hoped the cotton crop would turn out well. Then he’d be able to collect some of those long-outstanding accounts from the farmers. That money would come in mighty handy right now. That’s the devil of being a country doctor. You had to wait until the cotton crop was gathered and sold before you could collect the bulk of what’s due you. And if the cotton failed or the market was so flooded the price was down, you’d have to wait on the most of them until the next year. Sometimes two or three years. Dr. Johnson over at Vidalia had some accounts that’re six years old. Oh, well, they’re good anyway. Couldn’t expect to practise in the country districts unless you were willing to wait for your money.

Wonder why this darned train doesn’t make better time. Slow as all outdoors. Like molasses in wintertime. If it only gets in on time, I’ll surprise Jane by running in on her on the way home. Due in at five-fifty. Let’s see, it’s four-thirty now. Where are we now? Hoopersville. Nearly ninety miles yet to go. Good Lord, won’t get in until nearly eight o’clock! Hope we won’t lose any more time. Don’t see why so darned many people are travelling today anyhow. Just slows up the train, getting on and off with their ten bundles and suitcases each.

Wonder how Bob feels about going to school.

Hope he’ll like the shirts I bought him. Ought to. Cost four dollars apiece. Prices are certainly high. Few years ago you could get the best shirts on the market for a dollar and a half apiece⁠—not more than two dollars.

I can see Jane now. Let’s see, it’s five o’clock. Probably getting supper. Glad she can cook so well. Most girls nowadays can’t boil water without burning it.

He reflected on the unusual conversation he had had the night before with Dr. Scott, John Anthony, and Gordon. It was good to know there were some white men who were thinking seriously on the race problem. And trying to be fair. Most white Southerners were modern Pontius Pilates. Figuratively and literally, mentally and morally, they washed their hands of all personal responsibility for the increasing complexities of the race question. He wondered how many more men there were in the South like those three. Broadminded but afraid to speak out. Ewing, Judge Stevenson, Scott, Anthony, Gordon⁠—all by word or action seemed mortally afraid lest the public know they were even thinking of justice. How soon, he wondered, would they gain sufficient courage to take a manly stand? Would that time come before the inevitable clash that continued oppression would cause?

Coloured folks weren’t going to stand it much longer. They were organizing up North and even in the South to use legal means to better their lot. But some of them were getting desperate. Armed resistance would be foolish. Would be certain death. At any rate, even that would be better than what has been going on.

Good Lord, he reflected, let’s forget the race problem awhile! A Negro never gets away from it. He has it night and day. Like the sword of Damocles over his head. Like a cork in a whirling vortex, it tosses him this way and that, never ceasing. Have to think about something else or it’ll run him crazy. Guess Mary Ewing’s about out of danger now.

Glad when she’s all right again. Don’t like to be going over there to those white folks’ house. Neighbours might begin to talk. How much