“Let ’em ‘kick.’ Turn ’em out and get others; the civil service lists are always full.” John faced the angry man with grim determination on every feature. He thought to himself: “The Colonel wants something done, and he might as well know that it’s going to take a good thing to get me on his side.”
“All right! I see what’s the matter with you; you want to fight!” exclaimed the angry Colonel. “All right! be pigheaded; don’t listen to reason; plunge the country into a race war in spite of all we’ve done for you, especially for your leaders; and when your race is exterminated, put the blame where it belongs. I wash my hands of the whole business!”
“Oh,” replied John, with a conciliatory air, “I don’t want to see bloodshed any more than you do, and I am just as ready to accept amicable terms for my race as you are to offer them. I only want to convince you that we can do something if conditions are right.”
“You’re all right, John, my boy,” returned Clapp, as he slapped Langley on the back, apparently very ready to grasp the olive-branch of peace; “you stick to the party and the party’ll stick to you. We don’t want to quarrel, do we?”
“No, that won’t pay,” said John.
Each man now resumed the seat which he had vacated under the excitement of the moment, helped himself to another cigar, and again contemplated the ceiling through rings of smoke. John noticed that the fly had made the circuit of the ceiling, and was moving toward him from the opposite side of the room. After a moment’s silence the Colonel said:
“Your folks are going to have a meeting about this last atrocious affair, aren’t they?”
“Yes; I was just looking over the list of speakers as you came in.”
“I suppose they’re pretty mad?”
“Yes; pretty hot.”
“By the way, Langley, your name is up for the place of City Solicitor, to fill the vacancy made by the death of Calvin. I suppose you’ll accept it if you pull it off?”
This was the first that John had heard about any such place being offered to him, but he took it as a matter of course, and his eyes sparkled as he replied: “That would suit me to a T.”
“That settles it, then; it’s a go. Now I tell you what you do,” he continued between the puffs of fragrant smoke; “you hold that meeting down among your people to a calm level. Don’t let your fire-eaters like Judge Watson raise the devil of a row, and throw dirt on the party. You keep that end down and I’ll work the papers.”
“Just so,” replied John.
“How’s the city election going down your way, anyhow?” asked the Colonel, after a few more explicit directions to Langley concerning the work he would have him do.
“Pretty fair. Some of the voters want to take their own heads, but they can be managed.”
“Well, here’s an order on the committee for money waiting to be used in your district in an emergency. Draw when you need it.” Then he arose from his chair to take his leave. “Mighty good cigars you keep, John.”
“Help yourself, Colonel, help yourself.”
The Hon. Herbert Clapp graciously took a half-dozen and stored them away in a capacious coat pocket. After a few more commonplace remarks Langley accompanied his visitor to the door, they shook hands, and the interview was ended.
XIII
The American Colored League
Shall tongues be mute when deeds are wrought
Which well might shame extremest hell?
Shall Pity’s bosom cease to swell?
Shall Honor bleed?—shall Truth succumb?
Shall pen and press and soul be dumb?No;—by each spot of haunted ground
Where Freedom weeps her children’s fall—
By Plymouth’s rock and Bunker’s mound,
By Griswold’s stained and shattered wall,
By Warren’s ghost, by Langdon’s shade,
By all the memories of our dead!By their enlarging souls, which burst
Whittier
The bands and fetters round them set,
By the free Pilgrim spirit nursed
Within our inmost bosoms, yet,
By all above, around, below,
Be ours the indignant answer—No!
When Judge Watson, the president of the League, reached his office on that eventful March morning, he found his desk deluged with telegrams from all over the country. From the South the cry was: “Can nothing be done?” “Where is Massachusetts? Has our old friend been turned against us at last?” “For God’s sake help us!” “How long, O Lord, how long!” “Let the voice of the League be heard from every city, town and village in the Union. Speak, and let our voices be heard!”
Such were the messages that compelled the hoary-haired veteran of a hundred anti-slavery meetings to crush back the sobs which arose in his throat as he, too, reiterated the cry of an afflicted people: “How long, O Lord, how long!” That day the executive committee of the League met and asked themselves what could be done. “Nothing,” was the final decision after debating the question, “but to agitate.” This plan they proceeded to put into execution. Notices were sent all over New England of a gigantic public meeting to be held at the church on X Street, on the Tuesday evening following. The press, with one or two exceptions, sided either openly or secretly against the Negroes, North and South. “Ah, ah!” they cried, “see how the Negro abuses the great privileges which we have bestowed upon him.” In view of this fact, the League decided that a conservative white man should be asked to address the meeting, along with men imbued with the old abolition spirit, and in this way each side could have a chance to represent the subject as seen from its point of view. “Let us, once and for all, look at the question dispassionately; if the fault be ours, let us acknowledge it like men, and seek to amend it; if it belongs to others, may God help them to do right.”
The excitement among the colored
