The Strength of Gideon and Other Stories by Paul Laurence Dunbar

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As the reporters say, the meeting came to a close amid great
enthusiasm.

The day of election came and Little Africa gathered as usual about the
polls in the precinct. The Republicans followed their plan of not
bothering about the district. They had heard of the Deacon's meeting,
and chuckled to themselves in their committee-room. Little Africa was
all solid, as usual, but Lane was not done yet. His emissaries were
about, as thick as insurance agents, and they, as well as the
Republican workers, had money to spare and to spend. Some votes, which
counted only for numbers, were fifty cents apiece, but when Tom Swift
came down they knew who he was and what his influence could do. They
gave him five dollars, and Lane had one more vote and a deal of
prestige. The young man thought he was voting for his convictions.

He had just cast his ballot, and the crowd was murmuring around him
still at the wonder of it--for the Australian ballot has tongues as
well as ears--when his father came up, with two or three of his old
friends, each with the old ticket in his hands. He heard the rumor
and laughed. Then he came up to Tom.

"Huh," he said, "dey been sayin' 'roun' hyeah you voted de Democratic
ticket. Go mek 'em out a lie."

"I did vote the Democratic ticket," said Tom steadily.

The old man fell back a step and gasped, as if he had been struck.

"You did?" he cried. "You did?"

"Yes," said Tom, visibly shaken; "every man has a right--"

"Evah man has a right to what?" cried the old man.

"To vote as he thinks he ought to," was his son's reply.

Deacon Swift's eyes were bulging and reddening.

"You--you tell me dat?" His slender form towered above his son's, and
his knotted, toil-hardened hands opened and closed.

"You tell me dat? You with yo' bringin' up vote de way you think
you're right? You lie! Tell me what dey paid you, or, befo' de Lawd,
I'll taih you to pieces right hyeah!"

Tom wavered. He was weaker than his father. He had not gone through
the same things, and was not made of the same stuff.

"They--they give me five dollahs," he said; "but it wa'n't fu'
votin'."

"Fi' dollahs! fi' dollahs! My son sell hisse'f fu' fi' dollahs! an'
forty yeahs ago I brung fifteen hun'erd, an' dat was only my body, but
you sell body an' soul fu' fi' dollahs!"

Horror and scorn and grief and anger were in the old man's tone. Tears
trickled down his wrinkled face, but there was no weakness in the grip
with which he took hold of his son's arms.

"Tek it back to 'em!" he said. "Tek it back to 'em."

"But, pap--"

"Tek it back to 'em, I say, or yo' blood be on yo' own haid!"

And then, shamefaced before the crowd, driven by his father's anger,
he went back to the man who had paid him and yielded up the precious
bank-note. Then they turned, the one head-hung, the other proud in his
very indignation, and made their way homeward.

There was prayer-meeting the next Wednesday night at Bethel Chapel. It
was nearly over and the minister was about to announce the Doxology,
when old Deacon Swift arose.

"Des' a minute, brothahs," he said. "I want to mek a 'fession. I was
too ha'd an' too brash in my talk de othah night, an' de Lawd visited
my sins upon my haid. He struck me in de bosom o' my own fambly. My
own son went wrong. Pray fu' me!"

THE TRUSTFULNESS OF POLLY

Polly Jackson was a model woman. She was practical and hard-working.
She knew the value of a dollar, could make one and keep one,
sometimes--fate permitting. Fate was usually Sam and Sam was Polly's
husband. Any morning at six o'clock she might be seen, basket on arm,
wending her way to the homes of her wealthy patrons for the purpose of
bringing in their washing, for by this means did she gain her
livelihood. She had been a person of hard common sense, which suffered
its greatest lapse when she allied herself with the man whose name she
bore. After that the lapses were more frequent.

How she could ever have done so no one on earth could tell. Sam was
her exact opposite. He was an easy-going, happy-go-lucky individual,
who worked only when occasion demanded and inclination and the weather
permitted. The weather was usually more acquiescent than inclination.
He was sanguine of temperament, highly imaginative and a dreamer of
dreams. Indeed, he just missed being a poet. A man who dreams takes
either to poetry or policy. Not being able quite to reach the former,
Sam had declined upon the latter, and, instead of meter, feet and
rhyme, his mind was taken up with "hosses," "gigs" and "straddles."

He was always "jes' behin' dem policy sha'ks, an' I'll be boun',
Polly, but I gwine to ketch 'em dis time."

Polly heard this and saw the same result so often that even her
stalwart faith began to turn into doubt. But Sam continued to reassure
her and promise that some day luck would change. "An' when hit do
change," he would add, impressively, "it's gwine change fu' sho', an'
we'll have one wakenin' up time. Den I bet you'll git dat silk dress
you been wantin' so long."

Polly did have ambitions in the direction of some such finery, and
this plea always melted her. Trust was restored again, and Hope
resumed her accustomed place.

It was, however, not through the successful culmination of any of
Sam's policy manipulations that the opportunity at last came to Polly
to realize her ambitions. A lady for whom she worked had a
second-hand silk dress, which she was willing to sell cheap. Another
woman had spoken for it, but if Polly could get the money in three
weeks she would let her have it for seven dollars.

To say that the companion of Sam Jackson jumped at the offer hardly
indicates the attitude of eagerness with which she received the
proposition.

"Yas'm, I kin sholy git dat much money together in th'ee weeks de way
I's a-wo'kin'."

"Well, now, Polly, be sure; for if you are not prompt I shall have to
dispose of it where it was first promised," was the admonition.

"Oh, you kin 'pend on me, Mis' Mo'ton; fu' when I sets out to save
money I kin save, I tell you." Polly was not usually so sanguine, but
what changes will not the notion of the possession of a brown silk
dress trimmed with passementrie make in the disposition of a woman?

Polly let Sam into the secret, and, be it said to his credit, he
entered into the plan with an enthusiasm no less intense than her own.
He had always wanted to see her in a silk dress, he told her, and then
in a quizzically injured tone of voice, "but you ought to waited tell
I ketched dem policy sha'ks an' I'd 'a' got you a new one." He even
went so far as to go to work for a week and bring Polly his earnings,
of course, after certain "little debts" which he mentioned but did not
specify, had been deducted.

But in spite of all this, when washing isn't bringing an especially
good price; when one must eat and food is high; when a grasping
landlord comes around once every week and exacts tribute for the
privilege of breathing foul air from an alley in a room up four
flights; when, I say, all this is true, and it generally is true in
the New York tenderloin, seven whole dollars are not easily saved.
There was much raking and scraping and pinching during each day that
at night Polly might add a few nickels or pennies to the store that
jingled in a blue jug in one corner of her closet. She called it her
bank, and Sam had laughed at the conceit, telling her that that was
one bank anyhow that couldn't "bust."

As the days went on how she counted her savings and exulted in their
growth! She already saw herself decked out in her new gown, the envy
and admiration of every woman in the neighborhood. She even began to
wish that she had a full-length glass in order that she might get the
complete effect of her own magnificence. So saving, hoping, dreaming,
the time went on until a few days before the limit, and there was only
about a dollar to be added to make the required amount. This she could
do easily in the remaining time. So Polly was jubilant.

Now everything would have been all right and matters would have ended
happily if Sam had only kept on at work. But, no. He must needs stop,
and give his mind the chance to be employed with other things. And
that is just what happened. For about this time, having nothing else
to do, like that old king of Bible renown, he dreamed a dream. But
unlike the royal dreamer, he asked no seer or prophet to interpret his
dream to him. He merely drove his hand down into his inside pocket,
and fished up an ancient dream-book, greasy and tattered with use.
Over this he pored until his eyes bulged and his hands shook with
excitement.

"Got 'em at last!" he exclaimed. "Dey ain't no way fu' dem to git away
f'om me. I's behind 'em. I's behind 'em I tell you," and then his face
fell and he sat for a long time with his chin in his hand thinking,
thinking.

"Polly," said he when his wife came in, "d'you know what I dremp 'bout
las' night?"

"La! Sam Jackson, you ain't gone to dreamin' agin. I thought you done
quit all dat foolishness."

"Now jes' listen at you runnin' on. You ain't never axed me what I
dremp 'bout yit."

"Hit don' make much diffunce to me, less 'n you kin dream 'bout a
dollah mo' into my pocket."

"Dey has been sich things did," said Sam sententiously. He got up and
went out. If there is one thing above another that your professional
dreamer does demand, it is appreciation. Sam had failed to get it from
Polly, but he found a balm for all his hurts when he met Bob Davis.

"What!" exclaimed Bob. "Dreamed of a nakid black man. Fu' de Lawd
sake, Sam, don' let de chance pass. You got 'em dis time sho'. I'll
put somep'n' on it myse'f. Wha'd you think ef we'd win de 'capital'?"

That was enough. The two parted and Sam hurried home. He crept into
the house. Polly was busy hanging clothes on the roof. Where now are
the guardian spirits that look after the welfare of trusting women?
Where now are the enchanted belongings that even in the hands of the
thief cry out to their unsuspecting owners? Gone. All gone with the
ages of faith that gave them birth. Without an outcry, without even so
much as a warning jingle, the contents of the blue jug and the
embodied hope of a woman's heart were transferred to the gaping pocket
of Sam Jackson. Polly went on hanging up clothes on the roof.

Sam chuckled to himself: "She won't never have a chanst to scol' me.
I'll git de drawin's early dis evenin', an' go ma'chin' home wif a new
silk fu' huh, an' money besides. I do' want my wife waihin' no white
folks' secon'-han' clothes nohow. My, but won't she be su'prised an'
tickled. I kin jes' see huh now. Oh, mistah policy-sha'k, I got you
now. I been layin' fu' you fu' a long time, but you's my meat at
las'."

He marched into the policy shop like a conqueror. To the amazement of
the clerk, he turned out a pocketful of small coin on the table and
played it all in "gigs," "straddles and combinations."

"I'll call on you about ha' pas' fou', Mr. McFadden," he announced
exultantly as he went out.

"Faith, sor," said McFadden to his colleague, "if that nagur does
ketch it he'll break us, sure."

Sam could hardly wait for half-past four. A minute before the time he
burst in upon McFadden and demanded the drawings. They were handed to
him. He held his breath as his eye went down the column of figures.
Then he gasped and staggered weakly out of the room. The policy sharks
had triumphed again.

Sam walked the streets until nine o'clock that night. He was afraid to
go home to Polly. He knew that she had been to the jug and found--. He
groaned, but at last his very helplessness drove him in. Polly, with
swollen eyes, was sitting by the table, the empty jug lying on its
side before her.

"Sam," she exclaimed, "whaih's my money? Whaih's my money I been
wo'kin' fu' all dis time?"

"Why--Why, Polly--"

"Don' go beatin' 'roun' de bush. I want 'o know whaih my money is; you
tuck it."

"Polly, I dremp--"

"I do' keer what you dremp, I want my money fu' my dress."

His face was miserable.

"I thought sho' dem numbers 'u'd come out, an'--"

The woman flung herself upon the floor and burst into a storm of
tears. Sam bent over her. "Nemmine, Polly," he said. "Nemmine. I
thought I'd su'prise you. Dey beat me dis time." His teeth clenched.
"But when I ketch dem policy sha'ks--"

THE TRAGEDY AT THREE FORKS

It was a drizzly, disagreeable April night. The wind was howling in a
particularly dismal and malignant way along the valleys and hollows of
that part of Central Kentucky in which the rural settlement of Three
Forks is situated. It had been "trying to rain" all day in a
half-hearted sort of manner, and now the drops were flying about in a
cold spray. The night was one of dense, inky blackness, occasionally
relieved by flashes of lightning. It was hardly a night on which a
girl should be out. And yet one was out, scudding before the storm,
with clenched teeth and wild eyes, wrapped head and shoulders in a
great blanket shawl, and looking, as she sped along like a restless,
dark ghost. For her, the night and the storm had no terrors; passion
had driven out fear. There was determination in her every movement,
and purpose was apparent in the concentration of energy with which she
set her foot down. She drew the shawl closer about her head with a
convulsive grip, and muttered with a half sob, "'Tain't the first
time, 'tain't the first time she's tried to take me down in comp'ny,
but--" and the sob gave way to the dry, sharp note in her voice, "I'll
fix her, if it kills me. She thinks I ain't her ekals, does she?
'Cause her pap's got money, an' has good crops on his lan', an' my pap
ain't never had no luck, but I'll show 'er, I'll show 'er that good
luck can't allus last. Pleg-take 'er, she's jealous, 'cause I'm better
lookin' than she is, an' pearter in every way, so she tries to make me
little in the eyes of people. Well, you'll find out what it is to be
pore--to have nothin', Seliny Williams, if you live."

The black night hid a gleam in the girl's eyes, and her shawl hid a
bundle of something light, which she clutched very tightly, and which
smelled of kerosene.

The dark outline of a house and its outbuildings loomed into view
through the dense gloom; and the increased caution with which the girl
proceeded, together with the sudden breathless intentness of her
conduct, indicated that it was with this house and its occupants she
was concerned.

The house was cellarless, but it was raised at the four corners on
heavy blocks, leaving a space between the ground and the floor, the
sides of which were partly closed by banks of ashes and earth which
were thrown up against the weather-boarding. It was but a few minutes'
work to scrape away a portion of this earth, and push under the pack
of shavings into which the mysterious bundle resolved itself. A match
was lighted, sheltered, until it blazed, and then dropped among them.
It took only a short walk and a shorter time to drop a handful of
burning shavings into the hay at the barn. Then the girl turned and
sped away, muttering: "I reckon I've fixed you, Seliny Williams,
mebbe, next time you meet me out at a dance, you won't snub me; mebbe
next time, you'll be ez pore ez I am, an'll be willin' to dance crost
from even ole 'Lias Hunster's gal."

The constantly falling drizzle might have dampened the shavings and
put out the fire, had not the wind fanned the sparks into too rapid a
flame, which caught eagerly at shingle, board and joist until house
and barn were wrapped in flames. The whinnying of the horses first
woke Isaac Williams, and he sprang from bed at sight of the furious
light which surrounded his house. He got his family up and out of the
house, each seizing what he could of wearing apparel as he fled before
the flames. Nothing else could be saved, for the fire had gained
terrible headway, and its fierceness precluded all possibility of
fighting it. The neighbors attracted by the lurid glare came from far
and near, but the fire had done its work, and their efforts availed
nothing. House, barn, stock, all, were a mass of ashes and charred
cinders. Isaac Williams, who had a day before, been accounted one of
the solidest farmers in the region, went out that night with his
family--homeless.

Kindly neighbors took them in, and by morning the news had spread
throughout all the country-side. Incendiarism was the only cause that
could be assigned, and many were the speculations as to who the guilty
party could be. Of course, Isaac Williams had enemies. But who among
them was mean, ay, daring enough to perpetrate such a deed as this?

Conjecture was rife, but futile, until old 'Lias Hunster, who though
he hated Williams, was shocked at the deed, voiced the popular
sentiment by saying, "Look a here, folks, I tell you that's the work
o' niggers, I kin see their hand in it."

"Niggers, o' course," exclaimed every one else. "Why didn't we think
of it before? It's jest like 'em."

Public opinion ran high and fermented until Saturday afternoon when
the county paper brought the whole matter to a climax by coming out in
a sulphurous account of the affair, under the scarehead:

A TERRIBLE OUTRAGE!

MOST DASTARDLY DEED EVER COMMITTED IN THE HISTORY OF
BARLOW COUNTY. A HIGHLY RESPECTED, UNOFFENDING
AND WELL-BELOVED FAMILY BURNED OUT OF HOUSE
AND HOME. NEGROES! UNDOUBTEDLY THE
PERPETRATORS OF THE DEED!

The article went on to give the facts of the case, and many more
supposed facts, which had originated entirely in the mind of the
correspondent. Among these facts was the intelligence that some
strange negroes had been seen lurking in the vicinity the day before
the catastrophe and that a party of citizens and farmers were scouring
the surrounding country in search of them. "They would, if caught,"
concluded the correspondent, "be summarily dealt with."

Notwithstanding the utter falsity of these statements, it did not take
long for the latter part of the article to become a prophecy
fulfilled, and soon, excited, inflamed and misguided parties of men
and boys were scouring the woods and roads in search of strange
"niggers." Nor was it long, before one of the parties raised the cry
that they had found the culprits. They had come upon two strange
negroes going through the woods, who seeing a band of mounted and
armed men, had instantly taken to their heels. This one act had
accused, tried and convicted them.

The different divisions of the searching party came together, and led
the negroes with ropes around their necks into the centre of the
village. Excited crowds on the one or two streets which the hamlet
boasted, cried "Lynch 'em, lynch 'em! Hang the niggers up to the first
tree!"

Jane Hunster was in one of the groups, as the shivering negroes
passed, and she turned very pale even under the sunburn that browned
her face.

The law-abiding citizens of Barlow County, who composed the capturing
party, were deaf to the admonitions of the crowd. They filed solemnly
up the street, and delivered their prisoners to the keeper of the
jail, sheriff, by courtesy, and scamp by the seal of Satan; and then
quietly dispersed. There was something ominous in their very
orderliness.

Late that afternoon, the man who did duty as prosecuting attorney for
that county, visited the prisoners at the jail, and drew from them the
story that they were farm-laborers from an adjoining county. They had
come over only the day before, and were passing through on the quest
for work; the bad weather and the lateness of the season having thrown
them out at home.

"Uh, huh," said the prosecuting attorney at the conclusion of the
tale, "your story's all right, but the only trouble is that it won't
do here. They won't believe you. Now, I'm a friend to niggers as much
as any white man can be, if they'll only be friends to themselves, an'
I want to help you two all I can. There's only one way out of this
trouble. You must confess that you did this."

"But Mistah," said the bolder of the two negroes, "how kin we 'fess,
when we wasn' nowhahs nigh de place?"

"Now there you go with regular nigger stubbornness; didn't I tell you
that that was the only way out of this? If you persist in saying you
didn't do it, they'll hang you; whereas, if you own, you'll only get a
couple of years in the 'pen.' Which 'ud you rather have, a couple o'
years to work out, or your necks stretched?"

"Oh, we'll 'fess, Mistah, we'll 'fess we done it; please, please don't
let 'em hang us!" cried the thoroughly frightened blacks.

"Well, that's something like it," said the prosecuting attorney as he
rose to go. "I'll see what can be done for you."

With marvelous and mysterious rapidity, considering the reticence
which a prosecuting attorney who was friendly to the negroes should
display, the report got abroad that the negroes had confessed their
crime, and soon after dark, ominous looking crowds began to gather in
the streets. They passed and repassed the place, where stationed on
the little wooden shelf that did duty as a doorstep, Jane Hunster sat
with her head buried in her hands. She did not raise up to look at any
of them, until a hand was laid on her shoulder, and a voice called
her, "Jane!"

"Oh, hit's you, is it, Bud," she said, raising her head slowly,
"howdy?"

"Howdy yoreself," said the young man, looking down at her tenderly.

"Bresh off yore pants an' set down," said the girl making room for him
on the step. The young man did so, at the same time taking hold of her
hand with awkward tenderness.

"Jane," he said, "I jest can't wait fur my answer no longer! you got
to tell me to-night, either one way or the other. Dock Heaters has
been a-blowin' hit aroun' that he has beat my time with you. I don't
believe it Jane, fur after keepin' me waitin' all these years, I don't
believe you'd go back on me. You know I've allus loved you, ever sence
we was little children together."

The girl was silent until he leaned over and said in pleading tones,
"What do you say, Jane?"

"I hain't fitten fur you, Bud."

"Don't talk that-a-way, Jane, you know ef you jest say 'yes,' I'll be
the happiest man in the state."

"Well, yes, then, Bud, for you're my choice, even ef I have fooled
with you fur a long time; an' I'm glad now that I kin make somebody
happy." The girl was shivering, and her hands were cold, but she made
no movement to rise or enter the house.

Bud put his arms around her and kissed her shyly. And just then a
shout arose from the crowd down the street.

"What's that?" she asked.

"It's the boys gittin' worked up, I reckon. They're going to lynch
them niggers to-night that burned ole man Williams out."

The girl leaped to her feet, "They mustn't do it," she cried. "They
ain't never been tried!"

"Set down, Janey," said her lover, "they've owned up to it."

"I don't believe it," she exclaimed, "somebody's jest a lyin' on 'em
to git 'em hung because they're niggers."

"Sh--Jane, you're excited, you ain't well; I noticed that when I first
come to-night. Somebody's got to suffer fur that house-burnin', an' it
might ez well be them ez anybody else. You mustn't talk so. Ef people
knowed you wuz a standin' up fur niggers so, it 'ud ruin you."

He had hardly finished speaking, when the gate opened, and another man
joined them.

"Hello, there, Dock Heaters, that you?" said Bud Mason.

"Yes, it's me. How are you, Jane?" said the newcomer.

"Oh, jest middlin', Dock, I ain't right well."

"Well, you might be in better business than settin' out here talkin'
to Bud Mason."

"Don't know how as to that," said his rival, "seein' as we're
engaged."

"You're a liar!" flashed Dock Heaters.

Bud Mason half rose, then sat down again; his triumph was sufficient
without a fight. To him "liar" was a hard name to swallow without
resort to blows, but he only said, his flashing eyes belying his calm
tone, "Mebbe I am a liar, jest ast Jane."

"Is that the truth, Jane?" asked Heaters, angrily.

"Yes, hit is, Dock Heaters, an' I don't see what you've got to say
about it; I hain't never promised you nothin' shore."

Heaters turned toward the gate without a word. Bud sent after him a
mocking laugh, and the bantering words, "You'd better go down, an'
he'p hang them niggers, that's all you're good fur." And the rival
really did bend his steps in that direction.

Another shout arose from the throng down the street, and rising
hastily, Bud Mason exclaimed, "I must be goin', that yell means
business."

"Don't go down there, Bud!" cried Jane. "Don't go, fur my sake, don't
go." She stretched out her arms, and clasped them about his neck.

"You don't want me to miss nothin' like that," he said as he unclasped
her arms; "don't you be worried, I'll be back past here." And in a
moment he was gone, leaving her cry of "Bud, Bud, come back," to smite
the empty silence.

When Bud Mason reached the scene of action, the mob had already broken
into the jail and taken out the trembling prisoners. The ropes were
round their necks and they had been led to a tree.

"See ef they'll do anymore house-burnin'!" cried one as the ends of
the ropes were thrown over the limbs of the tree.

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