"Really, now," exclaimed little Sister Green, the doctor's wife, "do
you think it is the deacon who needs urging?"

"It looks that way to me," Sister Poteet did not hesitate to affirm.

"Well, I heard Sister Clark say that she had heard him call her
'Kitty' one night when they were eating ice-cream at the Mite
Society," Sister Candish, the druggist's wife, added to the fund of
reliable information on hand.

"'Kitty,' indeed!" protested Sister Spicer. "The idea of anybody
calling Kate Stimson 'Kitty'! The deacon will talk that way to 'most
any woman, but if she let him say it to her more than once, she must
be getting mighty anxious, I think."

"Oh," Sister Candish hastened to explain, "Sister Clark didn't say she
had heard him say it twice.'"

"Well, I don't think she heard him say it once," Sister Spicer
asserted with confidence.

"I don't know about that," Sister Poteet argued. "From all I can see
and hear I think Kate Stimson wouldn't object to 'most anything the
deacon would say to her, knowing as she does that he ain't going to
say anything he shouldn't say."

"And isn't saying what he should," added Sister Green, with a sly
snicker, which went around the room softly.

"But as I was saying--" Sister Spicer began, when Sister Poteet, whose
rocker, near the window, commanded a view of the front gate,
interrupted with a warning, "'Sh-'sh."

"Why shouldn't I say what I wanted to when--" Sister Spicer began.

"There she comes now," explained Sister Poteet, "and as I live the
deacon drove her here in his sleigh, and he's waiting while she comes
in. I wonder what next," and Sister Poteet, in conjunction with the
entire society, gasped and held their eager breaths, awaiting the
entrance of the subject of conversation.

Sister Spicer went to the front door to let her in, and she was
greeted with the greatest cordiality by everybody.

"We were just talking about you and wondering why you were so late
coming," cried Sister Poteet. "Now take off your things and make up
for lost time. There's a pair of pants over there to be cut down to
fit that poor little Snithers boy."

The excitement and curiosity of the society were almost more than
could be borne, but never a sister let on that she knew the deacon was
at the gate waiting. Indeed, as far as the widow could discover, there
was not the slightest indication that anybody had ever heard there was
such a person as the deacon in existence.

"Oh," she chirruped, in the liveliest of humors, "you will have to
excuse me for today. Deacon Hawkins overtook me on the way here, and
here said I had simply got to go sleigh-riding with him. He's waiting
out at the gate now."

"Is that so?" exclaimed the society unanimously, and rushed to the
window to see if it were really true.

"Well, did you ever?" commented Sister Poteet, generally.

"Hardly ever," laughed the widow, good-naturedly, "and I don't want to
lose the chance. You know Deacon Hawkins isn't asking somebody every
day to go sleighing with him. I told him I'd go if he would bring me
around here to let you know what had become of me, and so he did. Now,
good-by, and I'll be sure to be present at the next meeting. I have to
hurry because he'll get fidgety."

The widow ran away like a lively schoolgirl. All the sisters watched
her get into the sleigh with the deacon, and resumed the previous
discussion with greatly increased interest.

But little recked the widow and less recked the deacon. He had bought
a new horse and he wanted the widow's opinion of it, for the Widow
Stimson was a competent judge of fine horseflesh. If Deacon Hawkins
had one insatiable ambition it was to own a horse which could fling
its heels in the face of the best that Squire Hopkins drove. In his
early manhood the deacon was no deacon by a great deal. But as the
years gathered in behind him he put off most of the frivolities of
youth and held now only to the one of driving a fast horse. No other
man in the county drove anything faster except Squire Hopkins, and him
the deacon had not been able to throw the dust over. The deacon would
get good ones, but somehow never could he find one that the squire
didn't get a better. The squire had also in the early days beaten the
deacon in the race for a certain pretty girl he dreamed about. But the
girl and the squire had lived happily ever after and the deacon, being
a philosopher, might have forgotten the squire's superiority had it
been manifested in this one regard only. But in horses, too--that
graveled the deacon.

"How much did you give for him?" was the widow's first query, after
they had reached a stretch of road that was good going and the deacon
had let him out for a length or two.

"Well, what do you suppose? You're a judge."

"More than I would give, I'll bet a cookie."

"Not if you was as anxious as I am to show Hopkins that he can't drive
by everything on the pike."

"I thought you loved a good horse because he was a good horse," said
the widow, rather disapprovingly.

"I do, but I could love him a good deal harder if he would stay in
front of Hopkins's best."

"Does he know you've got this one?"

"Yes, and he's been blowing round town that he is waiting to pick me
up on the road some day and make my five hundred dollars look like a
pewter quarter."

"So you gave five hundred dollars for him, did you?" laughed the
widow.

"Is it too much?"

"Um-er," hesitated the widow, glancing along the graceful lines of the
powerful trotter, "I suppose not if you can beat the squire."

"Right you are," crowed the deacon, "and I'll show him a thing or two
in getting over the ground," he added with swelling pride.

"Well, I hope he won't be out looking for you today, with me in your
sleigh," said the widow, almost apprehensively, "because, you know,
deacon, I have always wanted you to beat Squire Hopkins."

The deacon looked at her sharply. There was a softness in her tones
that appealed to him, even if she had not expressed such agreeable
sentiments. Just what the deacon might have said or done after the
impulse had been set going must remain unknown, for at the crucial
moment a sound of militant bells, bells of defiance, jangled up behind
them, disturbing their personal absorption, and they looked around
simultaneously. Behind the bells was the squire in his sleigh drawn by
his fastest stepper, and he was alone, as the deacon was not. The
widow weighed one hundred and sixty pounds, net--which is weighting a
horse in a race rather more than the law allows.

But the deacon never thought of that. Forgetting everything except his
cherished ambition, he braced himself for the contest, took a twist
hold on the lines, sent a sharp, quick call to his horse, and let him
out for all that was in him. The squire followed suit and the deacon.
The road was wide and the snow was worn down smooth. The track
couldn't have been in better condition. The Hopkins colors were not
five rods behind the Hawkins colors as they got away. For half a mile
it was nip and tuck, the deacon encouraging his horse and the widow
encouraging the deacon, and then the squire began creeping up. The
deacon's horse was a good one, but he was not accustomed to hauling
freight in a race. A half-mile of it was as much as he could stand,
and he weakened under the strain.

Not handicapped, the squire's horse forged ahead, and as his nose
pushed up to the dashboard of the deacon's sleigh, that good man
groaned in agonized disappointment and bitterness of spirit. The widow
was mad all over that Squire Hopkins should take such a mean advantage
of his rival. Why didn't he wait till another time when the deacon was
alone, as he was? If she had her way she never would, speak to Squire
Hopkins again, nor to his wife, either. But her resentment was not
helping the deacon's horse to win.

Slowly the squire pulled closer to the front; the deacon's horse,
realizing what it meant to his master and to him, spurted bravely,
but, struggle as gamely as he might, the odds were too many for him,
and he dropped to the rear. The squire shouted in triumph as he drew
past the deacon, and the dejected Hawkins shrivelled into a heap on
the seat, with only his hands sufficiently alive to hold the lines. He
had been beaten again, humiliated before a woman, and that, too, with
the best horse that he could hope to put against the ever-conquering
squire. Here sank his fondest hopes, here ended his ambition. From
this on he would drive a mule or an automobile. The fruit of his
desire had turned to ashes in his mouth.

But no. What of the widow? She realized, if the deacon did not, that
she, not the squire's horse, had beaten the deacon's, and she was
ready to make what atonement she could. As the squire passed ahead of
the deacon she was stirred by a noble resolve. A deep bed of drifted
snow lay close by the side of the road not far in front. It was soft
and safe and she smiled as she looked at it as though waiting for her.
Without a hint of her purpose, or a sign to disturb the deacon in his
final throes, she rose as the sleigh ran near its edge, and with a
spring which had many a time sent her lightly from the ground to the
bare back of a horse in the meadow, she cleared the robes and lit
plump in the drift. The deacon's horse knew before the deacon did that
something had happened in his favor, and was quick to respond. With
his first jump of relief the deacon suddenly revived, his hopes came
fast again, his blood retingled, he gathered himself, and, cracking
his lines, he shot forward, and three minutes later he had passed the
squire as though he were hitched to the fence. For a quarter of a mile
the squire made heroic efforts to recover his vanished prestige, but
effort was useless, and finally concluding that he was practically
left standing, he veered off from the main road down a farm lane to
find some spot in which to hide the humiliation of his defeat. The
deacon, still going at a clipping gait, had one eye over his shoulder
as wary drivers always have on such occasions, and when he saw the
squire was off the track he slowed down and jogged along with the
apparent intention of continuing indefinitely. Presently an idea
struck him, and he looked around for the widow. She was not where he
had seen her last. Where was she? In the enthusiasm of victory he had
forgotten her. He was so dejected at the moment she had leaped that he
did not realize what she had done, and two minutes later he was so
elated that, shame on him! he did not care. With her, all was lost;
without her, all was won, and the deacon's greatest ambition was to
win. But now, with victory perched on his horse-collar, success his at
last, he thought of the widow, and he did care. He cared so much that
he almost threw his horse off his feet by the abrupt turn he gave him,
and back down the pike he flew as if a legion of squires were after
him.

He did not know what injury she might have sustained; She might have
been seriously hurt, if not actually killed. And why? Simply to make
it possible for him to win. The deacon shivered as he thought of it,
and urged his horse to greater speed. The squire, down the lane, saw
him whizzing along and accepted it profanely as an exhibition for his
especial benefit. The deacon now had forgotten the squire as he had
only so shortly before forgotten the widow. Two hundred yards from the
drift into which she had jumped there was a turn in the road, where
some trees shut off the sight, and the deacon's anxiety increased
momentarily until he reached this point. From here he could see ahead,
and down there in the middle of the road stood the widow waving her
shawl as a banner of triumph, though she could only guess at results.
The deacon came on with a rush, and pulled up alongside of her in a
condition of nervousness he didn't think possible to him.

"Hooray! hooray!" shouted the widow, tossing her shawl into the air.
"You beat him. I know you did. Didn't you? I saw you pulling ahead at
the turn yonder. Where is he and his old plug?"

"Oh, bother take him and his horse and the race and everything. Are
you hurt?" gasped the deacon, jumping out, but mindful to keep the
lines in his hand. "Are you hurt?" he repeated, anxiously, though she
looked anything but a hurt woman.

"If I am," she chirped, cheerily, "I'm not hurt half as bad as I would
have been if the squire had beat you, deacon. Now don't you worry
about me. Let's hurry back to town so the squire won't get another
chance, with no place for me to jump."

And the deacon? Well, well, with the lines in the crook of his elbow
the deacon held out his arms to the widow and----. The sisters at the
next meeting of the Sewing Society were unanimously of the opinion
that any woman who would risk her life like that for a husband was
mighty anxious.



GIDEON

By Wells Hastings (1878- )

[From _The Century Magazine_, April, 1914; copyright, 1914, by The
Century Co.; republished by the author's permission.]

"An' de next' frawg dat houn' pup seen, he pass him by wide."

The house, which had hung upon every word, roared with laughter, and
shook with a storming volley of applause. Gideon bowed to right and to
left, low, grinning, assured comedy obeisances; but as the laughter
and applause grew he shook his head, and signaled quietly for the
drop. He had answered many encores, and he was an instinctive artist.
It was part of the fuel of his vanity that his audience had never yet
had enough of him. Dramatic judgment, as well as dramatic sense of
delivery, was native to him, qualities which the shrewd Felix Stuhk,
his manager and exultant discoverer, recognized and wisely trusted in.
Off stage Gideon was watched over like a child and a delicate
investment, but once behind the footlights he was allowed to go his
own triumphant gait.

It was small wonder that Stuhk deemed himself one of the cleverest
managers in the business; that his narrow, blue-shaven face was
continually chiseled in smiles of complacent self-congratulation. He
was rapidly becoming rich, and there were bright prospects of even
greater triumphs, with proportionately greater reward. He had made
Gideon a national character, a headliner, a star of the first
magnitude in the firmament of the vaudeville theater, and all in six
short months. Or, at any rate, he had helped to make him all this; he
had booked him well and given him his opportunity. To be sure, Gideon
had done the rest; Stuhk was as ready as any one to do credit to
Gideon's ability. Still, after all, he, Stuhk, was the discoverer, the
theatrical Columbus who had had the courage and the vision.

A now-hallowed attack of tonsilitis had driven him to Florida, where
presently Gideon had been employed to beguile his convalescence, and
guide him over the intricate shallows of that long lagoon known as the
Indian River in search of various fish. On days when fish had been
reluctant Gideon had been lured into conversation, and gradually into
narrative and the relation of what had appeared to Gideon as humorous
and entertaining; and finally Felix, the vague idea growing big within
him, had one day persuaded his boatman to dance upon the boards of a
long pier where they had made fast for lunch. There, with all the
sudden glory of crystallization, the vague idea took definite form and
became the great inspiration of Stuhk's career.

Gideon had grown to be to vaudeville much what _Uncle Remus_ is to
literature: there was virtue in his very simplicity. His artistry
itself was native and natural. He loved a good story, and he told it
from his own sense of the gleeful morsel upon his tongue as no
training could have made him. He always enjoyed his story and himself
in the telling. Tales never lost their savor, no matter how often
repeated; age was powerless to dim the humor of the thing, and as he
had shouted and gurgled and laughed over the fun of things when all
alone, or holding forth among the men and women and little children of
his color, so he shouted and gurgled and broke from sonorous chuckles
to musical, falsetto mirth when he fronted the sweeping tiers of faces
across the intoxicating glare of the footlights. He had that rare
power of transmitting something of his own enjoyments. When Gideon was
on the stage, Stuhk used to enjoy peeping out at the intent, smiling
faces of the audience, where men and women and children, hardened
theater-goers and folk fresh from the country, sat with moving lips
and faces lit with an eager interest and sympathy for the black man
strutting in loose-footed vivacity before them.

"He's simply unique," he boasted to wondering local managers--"unique,
and it took me to find him. There he was, a little black gold-mine,
and all of 'em passed him by until I came. Some eye? What? I guess
you'll admit you have to hand it some to your Uncle Felix. If that
coon's health holds out, we'll have all the money there is in the
mint."

That was Felix's real anxiety--"If his health holds out." Gideon's
health was watched over as if he had been an ailing prince. His
bubbling vivacity was the foundation upon which his charm and his
success were built. Stuhk became a sort of vicarious neurotic,
eternally searching for symptoms in his protГ©gГ©; Gideon's tongue,
Gideon's liver, Gideon's heart were matters to him of an unfailing
and anxious interest. And of late--of course it might be imagination
--Gideon had shown a little physical falling off. He ate a bit less,
he had begun to move in a restless way, and, worst of all, he laughed
less frequently.

As a matter of fact, there was ground for Stuhk's apprehension. It was
not all a matter of managerial imagination: Gideon was less himself.
Physically there was nothing the matter with him; he could have passed
his rigid insurance scrutiny as easily as he had done months before,
when his life and health had been insured for a sum that made good
copy for his press-agent. He was sound in every organ, but there was
something lacking in general tone. Gideon felt it himself, and was
certain that a "misery," that embracing indisposition of his race, was
creeping upon him. He had been fed well, too well; he was growing
rich, too rich; he had all the praise, all the flattery that his
enormous appetite for approval desired, and too much of it. White men
sought him out and made much of him; white women talked to him about
his career; and wherever he went, women of color--black girls, brown
girls, yellow girls--wrote him of their admiration, whispered, when he
would listen, of their passion and hero-worship. "City niggers" bowed
down before him; the high gallery was always packed with them.
Musk-scented notes scrawled upon barbaric, "high-toned" stationery
poured in upon him. Even a few white women, to his horror and
embarrassment, had written him of love, letters which he straightway
destroyed. His sense of his position was strong in him; he was proud
of it. There might be "folks outer their haids," but he had the sense
to remember. For months he had lived in a heaven of gratified vanity,
but at last his appetite had begun to falter. He was sated; his soul
longed to wipe a spiritual mouth on the back of a spiritual hand, and
have done. His face, now that the curtain was down and he was leaving
the stage, was doleful, almost sullen.

Stuhk met him anxiously in the wings, and walked with him to his
dressing-room. He felt suddenly very weary of Stuhk.

"Nothing the matter, Gideon, is there? Not feeling sick or anything?"

"No, Misteh Stuhk; no, seh. Jes don' feel extry pert, that's all."

"But what is it--anything bothering you?"

Gideon sat gloomily before his mirror.

"Misteh Stuhk," he said at last, "I been steddyin' it oveh, and I
about come to the delusion that I needs a good po'k-chop. Seems
foolish, I know, but it do' seem as if a good po'k-chop, fried jes
right, would he'p consid'able to disumpate this misery feelin' that's
crawlin' and creepin' round my sperit."

Stuhk laughed.

"Pork-chop, eh? Is that the best you can think of? I know what you
mean, though. I've thought for some time that you were getting a
little overtrained. What you need is--let me see--yes, a nice bottle
of wine. That's the ticket; it will ease things up and won't do you
any harm. I'll go, with you. Ever had any champagne, Gideon?"

Gideon struggled for politeness.

"Yes, seh, I's had champagne, and it's a nice kind of lickeh sho
enough; but, Misteh Stuhk, seh, I don' want any of them high-tone
drinks to-night, an' ef yo' don' mind, I'd rather amble off 'lone, or
mebbe eat that po'k-chop with some otheh cullud man, ef I kin fin' one
that ain' one of them no-'count Carolina niggers. Do you s'pose yo'
could let me have a little money to-night, Misteh Stuhk?"

Stuhk thought rapidly. Gideon had certainly worked hard, and he was
not dissipated. If he wanted to roam the town by himself, there was no
harm in it. The sullenness still showed in the black face; Heaven knew
what he might do if he suddenly began to balk. Stuhk thought it wise
to consent gracefully.

"Good!" he said. "Fly to it. How much do you want?
A hundred?"

"How much is coming to me?"

"About a thousand, Gideon."

"Well, I'd moughty like five hun'red of it, ef that's 'greeable to
yo'."

Felix whistled.

"Five hundred? Pork-chops must be coming high. You don't want to carry
all that money around, do you?"

Gideon did not answer; he looked very gloomy.

Stuhk hastened to cheer him.

"Of course you can have anything you want. Wait a minute, and I will
get it for you.

"I'll bet that coon's going to buy himself a ring or something," he
reflected as he went in search of the local manager and Gideon's
money.

But Stuhk was wrong. Gideon had no intention of buying himself a ring.
For the matter of that, he had several that were amply satisfactory.
They had size and sparkle and luster, all the diamond brilliance that
rings need to have; and for none of them had he paid much over five
dollars. He was amply supplied with jewelry in which he felt perfect
satisfaction. His present want was positive, if nebulous; he desired a
fortune in his pocket, bulky, tangible evidence of his miraculous
success. Ever since Stuhk had found him, life had had an unreal
quality for him. His Monte Cristo wealth was too much like a fabulous,
dream-found treasure, money that could not be spent without danger of
awakening. And he had dropped into the habit of storing it about him,
so that in any pocket into which he plunged his hand he might find a
roll of crisp evidence of reality. He liked his bills to be of all
denominations, and some so large as exquisitely to stagger
imagination, others charming by their number and crispness--the
dignified, orange paper of a man of assured position and
wealth-crackling greenbacks the design of which tinged the whole with
actuality. He was specially partial to engravings of President
Lincoln, the particular savior and patron of his race. This five
hundred dollars he was adding to an unreckoned sum of about two
thousand, merely as extra fortification against a growing sense of
gloom. He wished to brace his flagging spirits with the gay wine of
possession, and he was glad, when the money came, that it was in an
elastic-bound roll, so bulky that it was pleasantly uncomfortable in
his pocket as he left his manager.

As he turned into the brilliantly lighted street from the somber
alleyway of the stage entrance, he paused for a moment to glance at
his own name, in three-foot letters of red, before the doors of the
theater. He could read, and the large block type always pleased him.
"THIS WEEK: GIDEON." That was all. None of the fulsome praise, the
superlative, necessary definition given to lesser performers. He had
been, he remembered, "GIDEON, America's Foremost Native Comedian," a
title that was at once boast and challenge. That necessity was now
past, for he was a national character; any explanatory qualification
would have been an insult to the public intelligence. To the world he
was just "Gideon"; that was enough. It gave him pleasure, as he
sauntered along, to see the announcement repeated on window cards and
hoardings.

Presently he came to a window before which he paused in delighted
wonder. It was not a large window; to the casual eye of the passer-by
there was little to draw attention. By day it lighted the fractional
floor space of a little stationer, who supplemented a slim business by
a sub-agency for railroad and steamship lines; but to-night this
window seemed the framework of a marvel of coincidence. On the broad,
dusty sill inside were propped two cards: the one on the left was his
own red-lettered announcement for the week; the one at the right--oh,
world of wonders!--was a photogravure of that exact stretch of the
inner coast of Florida which Gideon knew best, which was home.

There it was, the Indian River, rippling idly in full sunlight,
palmettos leaning over the water, palmettos standing as irregular
sentries along the low, reeflike island which stretched away out of
the picture. There was the gigantic, lonely pine he knew well, and,
yes--he could just make it out--there was his own ramshackle little
pier, which stretched in undulating fashion, like a long-legged,
wading caterpillar, from the abrupt shore-line of eroded coquina into
deep water.

He thought at first that this picture of his home was some new and
delicate device put forth by his press-agent. His name on one side of
a window, his birthplace upon the other--what could be more tastefully
appropriate? Therefore, as he spelled out the reading-matter beneath
the photogravure, he was sharply disappointed. It read:

      Spend this winter in balmy Florida.
    Come to the Land of Perpetual Sunshine.
Golf, tennis, driving, shooting, boating, fishing, all of the best.

There was more, but he had no heart for it; he was disappointed and
puzzled. This picture had, after all, nothing to do with him. It was a
chance, and yet, what a strange chance! It troubled and upset him. His
black, round-featured face took on deep wrinkles of perplexity. The
"misery" which had hung darkly on his horizon for weeks engulfed him
without warning. But in the very bitterness of his melancholy he knew
at last his disease. It was not champagne or recreation that he
needed, not even a "po'k-chop," although his desire for it had been a
symptom, a groping for a too homeopathic remedy: he was homesick.

Easy, childish tears came into his eyes, and ran over his shining
cheeks. He shivered forlornly with a sudden sense of cold, and
absently clutched at the lapels of his gorgeous, fur-lined ulster.

Then in abrupt reaction he laughed aloud, so that the shrill, musical
falsetto startled the passers-by, and in another moment a little
semicircle of the curious watched spellbound as a black man,
exquisitely appareled, danced in wild, loose grace before the dull
background of a somewhat grimy and apparently vacant window. A newsboy
recognized him.

He heard his name being passed from mouth to mouth, and came partly to
his senses. He stopped dancing, and grinned at them.

"Say, you are Gideon, ain't you?" his discoverer demanded, with a sort
of reverent audacity.

"Yaas, _seh_," said Gideon; "that's me. Yo' shu got it right." He
broke into a joyous peal of laughter--the laughter that had made him
famous, and bowed deeply before him. "Gideon--posi-_tive_-ly his las'
puffawmunce." Turning, he dashed for a passing trolley, and, still
laughing, swung aboard.

He was naturally honest. In a land of easy morality his friends had
accounted him something of a paragon; nor had Stuhk ever had anything
but praise for him. But now he crushed aside the ethics of his intent
without a single troubled thought. Running away has always been
inherent in the negro. He gave one regretful thought to the gorgeous
wardrobe he was leaving behind him; but he dared not return for it.
Stuhk might have taken it into his head to go back to their rooms. He
must content himself with the reflection that he was at that moment
wearing his best.

The trolley seemed too slow for him, and, as always happened nowadays,
he was recognized; he heard his name whispered, and was aware of the
admiring glances of the curious. Even popularity had its drawbacks. He
got down in front of a big hotel and chose a taxicab from the waiting
rank, exhorting the driver to make his best speed to the station.
Leaning back in the soft depths of the cab, he savored his
independence, cheered already by the swaying, lurching speed. At the
station he tipped the driver in lordly fashion, very much pleased with
himself and anxious to give pleasure. Only the sternest prudence and
an unconquerable awe of uniform had kept him from tossing bills to the
various traffic policemen who had seemed to smile upon his hurry.

No through train left for hours; but after the first disappointment of
momentary check, he decided that he was more pleased than otherwise.
It would save embarrassment. He was going South, where his color would
be more considered than his reputation, and on the little local he
chose there was a "Jim Crow" car--one, that is, specially set aside
for those of his race. That it proved crowded and full of smoke did
not trouble him at all, nor did the admiring pleasantries which the
splendor of his apparel immediately called forth. No one knew him;
indeed, he was naturally enough mistaken for a prosperous gambler, a
not unflattering supposition. In the yard, after the train pulled out,
he saw his private car under a glaring arc light, and grinned to see
it left behind.

He spent the night pleasantly in a noisy game of high-low-jack, and
the next morning slept more soundly than he had slept for weeks,
hunched upon a wooden bench in the boxlike station of a North Carolina
junction. The express would have brought him to Jacksonville in
twenty-four hours; the journey, as he took it, boarding any local that
happened to be going south, and leaving it for meals or sometimes for
sleep or often as the whim possessed him, filled five happy days.
There he took a night train, and dozed from Jacksonville until a
little north of New Smyrna.

He awoke to find it broad daylight, and the car half empty. The train
was on a siding, with news of a freight wreck ahead. Gideon stretched
himself, and looked out of the window, and emotion seized him. For all
his journey the South had seemed to welcome him, but here at last was
the country he knew. He went out upon the platform and threw back his
head, sniffing the soft breeze, heavy with the mysterious thrill of
unplowed acres, the wondrous existence of primordial jungle, where
life has rioted unceasingly above unceasing decay. It was dry with the
fine dust of waste places, and wet with the warm mists of slumbering
swamps; it seemed to Gideon to tremble with the songs of birds, the
dry murmur of palm leaves, and the almost inaudible whisper of the
gray moss that festooned the live-oaks.

"Um-m-m," he murmured, apostrophizing it, "yo' 's the right kind o'
breeze, yo' is. Yo'-all's healthy." Still sniffing, he climbed down to
the dusty road-bed.

The negroes who had ridden with him were sprawled about him on the
ground; one of them lay sleeping, face up, in the sunlight. The train
had evidently been there for some time, and there were no signs of an
immediate departure. He bought some oranges of a little, bowlegged
black boy, and sat down on a log to eat them and to give up his mind
to enjoyment. The sun was hot upon him, and his thoughts were vague
and drowsy. He was glad that he was alive, glad to be back once more
among familiar scenes. Down the length of the train he saw white
passengers from the Pullmans restlessly pacing up and down, getting
into their cars and out of them, consulting watches, attaching
themselves with gesticulatory expostulation to various officials; but
their impatience found no echo in his thought. What was the hurry?
There was plenty of time. It was sufficient to have come to his own
land; the actual walls of home could wait. The delay was pleasant,
with its opportunity for drowsy sunning, its relief from the grimy
monotony of travel. He glanced at the orange-colored "Jim Crow" with
distaste, and inspiration, dawning slowly upon him, swept all other
thought before it in its great and growing glory.

A brakeman passed, and Gideon leaped to his feet and pursued him.

"Misteh, how long yo'-all reckon this train goin' to be?"

"About an hour."

The question had been a mere matter of form. Gideon had made up his
mind, and if he had been told that they started in five minutes he
would not have changed it. He climbed back into the car for his coat
and his hat, and then almost furtively stole down the steps again and
slipped quietly into the palmetto scrub.

"'Most made the mistake of ma life," he chuckled, "stickin' to that
ol' train foheveh. 'T isn't the right way at, all foh Gideon to come
home."

The river was not far away. He could catch the dancing blue of it from
time to time in ragged vista, and for this beacon he steered directly.
His coat was heavy on his arm, his thin patent-leather ties pinched
and burned and demanded detours around swampy places, but he was
happy.

As he went along, his plan perfected itself. He would get into loose
shoes again, old ones, if money could buy them, and old clothes, too.
The bull-briers snatching at his tailored splendor suggested that.

He laughed when the Florida partridge, a small quail, whirred up from
under his feet; he paused to exchange affectionate mockery with red
squirrels; and once, even when he was brought up suddenly to a
familiar and ominous, dry reverberation, the small, crisp sound of the
rolling drums of death, he did not look about him for some instrument
of destruction, as at any other time he would have done, but instead
peered cautiously over the log before him, and spoke in tolerant
admonition:

"Now, Misteh Rattlesnake, yo' jes min' yo' own business. Nobody's
goin' step on yo', ner go triflin' roun' yo' in no way whatsomeveh.
Yo' jes lay there in the sun an' git 's fat 's yo' please. Don' yo'
tu'n yo' weeked li'l' eyes on Gideon. He's jes goin' 'long home, an'
ain' lookin' foh no muss."

He came presently to the water, and, as luck would have it, to a
little group of negro cabins, where he was able to buy old clothes
and, after much dickering, a long and somewhat leaky rowboat rigged
out with a tattered leg-of-mutton sail. This he provisioned with a jug
of water, a starch box full of white corn-meal, and a wide strip of
lean razorback bacon.

As he pushed out from shore and set his sail to the small breeze that
blew down from the north, an absolute contentment possessed him. The
idle waters of the lagoon, lying without tide or current in eternal
indolence, rippled and sparkled in breeze and sunlight with a merry
surface activity, and seemed to lap the leaky little boat more swiftly
on its way. Mosquito Inlet opened broadly before him, and skirting the
end of Merritt's Island he came at last into that longest lagoon, with
which he was most familiar, the Indian River. Here the wind died down
to a mere breath, which barely kept his boat in motion; but he made no
attempt to row. As long as he moved at all, he was satisfied. He was
living the fulfilment of his dreams in exile, lounging in the stern in
the ancient clothes he had purchased, his feet stretched comfortably
before him in their broken shoes, one foot upon a thwart, the other
hanging overside so laxly that occasional ripples lapped the run-over
heel. From time to time he scanned shore and river for familiar points
of interest--some remembered snag that showed the tip of one gnarled
branch. Or he marked a newly fallen palmetto, already rotting in the
water, which must be added to that map of vast detail that he carried
in his head. But for the most part his broad black face was turned up
to the blue brilliance above him in unblinking contemplation; his keen
eyes, brilliant despite their sun-muddied whites, reveled in the
heights above him, swinging from horizon to horizon in the wake of an
orderly file of little bluebill ducks, winging their way across the
river, or brightening with interest at the rarer sight of a pair of
mallards or redheads, lifting with the soaring circles of the great
bald-headed eagle, or following the scattered squadron of heron--white
heron, blue heron, young and old, trailing, sunlit, brilliant patches,
clear even against the bright white and blue of the sky above them.

Often he laughed aloud, sending a great shout of mirth across the
water in fresh relish of those comedies best known and best enjoyed.
It was as excruciatingly funny as it had ever been, when his boat
nosed its way into a great flock of ducks idling upon the water, to
see the mad paddling haste of those nearest him, the reproachful turn
of their heads, or, if he came too near, their spattering run out of
water, feet and wings pumping together as they rose from the surface,
looking for all the world like fat little women, scurrying with
clutched skirts across city streets. The pelicans, too, delighted him
as they perched with pedantic solemnity upon wharf-piles, or sailed in
hunched and huddled gravity twenty feet above the river's surface in
swift, dignified flight, which always ended suddenly in an abrupt,
up-ended plunge that threw dignity to the winds in its greedy haste,
and dropped them crashing into the water.

When darkness came suddenly at last, he made in toward shore, mooring
to the warm-fretted end of a fallen and forgotten landing. A
straggling orange-grove was here, broken lines of vanquished
cultivation, struggling little trees swathed and choked in the
festooning gray moss, still showing here and there the valiant golden
gleam of fruit. Gideon had seen many such places, had seen settlers
come and clear themselves a space in the jungle, plant their groves,
and live for a while in lazy independence; and then for some reason or
other they would go, and before they had scarcely turned their backs,
the jungle had crept in again, patiently restoring its ancient
sovereignty. The place was eery with the ghost of dead effort; but it
pleased him.

He made a fire and cooked supper, eating enormously and with relish.
His conscience did not trouble him at all. Stuhk and his own career
seemed already distant; they took small place in his thoughts, and
served merely as a background for his present absolute content. He
picked some oranges, and ate them in meditative enjoyment. For a while
he nodded, half asleep, beside his fire, watching the darkened river,
where the mullet, shimmering with phosphorescence, still leaped
starkly above the surface, and fell in spattering brilliance. Midnight
found him sprawled asleep beside his fire.

Once he awoke. The moon had risen, and a little breeze waved the
hanging moss, and whispered in the glossy foliage of orange and
palmetto with a sound like falling rain. Gideon sat up and peered
about him, rolling his eyes hither and thither at the menacing leap
and dance of the jet shadows. His heart was beating thickly, his
muscles twitched, and the awful terrors of night pulsed and shuddered
over him. Nameless specters peered at him from every shadow,
ingenerate familiars of his wild, forgotten blood. He groaned aloud in
a delicious terror; and presently, still twitching and shivering, fell
asleep again. It was as if something magical had happened; his fear
remembered the fear of centuries, and yet with the warm daylight was
absolutely forgotten.

He got up a little after sunrise, and went down to the river to bathe,
diving deep with a joyful sense of freeing himself from the last alien
dust of travel. Once ashore again, however, he began to prepare his
breakfast with some haste. For the first time in his journey he was
feeling a sense of loneliness and a longing for his kind. He was still
happy, but his laughter began to seem strange to him in the solitude.
He tried the defiant experiment of laughing for the effect of it, an
experiment which brought him to his feet in startled terror; for his
laughter was echoed. As he stood peering about him, the sound came
again, not laughter this time, but a suppressed giggle. It was human
beyond a doubt. Gideon's face shone with relief and sympathetic
amusement; he listened for a moment, and then strode surely forward
toward a clump of low palms. There he paused, every sense alert. His
ear caught a soft rustle, a little gasp of fear; the sound of a foot
moved cautiously.

"Missy," he said tentatively, "I reckon yo'-all's come jes 'bout 'n
time foh breakfus. Yo' betteh have some. Ef yo' ain' too white to sit
down with a black man."

The leaves parted, and a smiling face as black as Gideon's own
regarded him in shy amusement.

"Who is yo', man?"

"I mought be king of Kongo," he laughed, "but I ain't. Yo' see befo'
yo' jes Gideon--at yo'r 'steemed sehvice." He bowed elaborately in the
mock humility of assured importance, watching her face in pleasant
anticipation.

But neither awe nor rapture dawned there. She repeated the name,
inclining her head coquettishly; but it evidently meant nothing to
her. She was merely trying its sound. "Gideon, Gideon. I don' call to
min' any sech name ez that. Yo'-all's f'om up No'th likely." He was
beyond the reaches of fame.

"No," said Gideon, hardly knowing whether he was glad or sorry--"no, I
live south of heah. What-all's yo' name?"

The girl giggled deliciously.

"Man," she said, "I shu got the mos' reediculoustest name you eveh did
heah. They call me Vashti--yo' bacon's bu'nin'." She stepped out, and
ran past him to snatch his skillet deftly from the fire.

"Vashti"--a strange and delightful name. Gideon followed her slowly.
Her romantic coming and her romantic name pleased him; and, too, he
thought her beautiful. She was scarcely more than a girl, slim and
strong and almost of his own height. She was barefooted, but her
blue-checked gingham was clean and belted smartly about a small waist.
He remembered only one woman who ran as lithely as she did, one of the
numerous "diving beauties" of the vaudeville stage.

She cooked their breakfast, but he served her with an elaborate
gallantry, putting forward all his new and foreign graces, garnishing
his speech with imposing polysyllables, casting about their picnic
breakfast a radiant aura of grandeur borrowed from the recent days of
his fame. And he saw that he pleased her, and with her open admiration
essayed still greater flights of polished manner.

He made vague plans for delaying his journey as they sat smoking in
pleasant conversational ease; and when an interruption came it vexed
him.

"Vashty! Vashty!" a woman's voice sounded thin and far away.
"Vashty-y! Yo' heah me, chile?"

Vashti rose to her feet with a sigh.

"That's my ma," she said regretfully.

"What do yo' care?" asked Gideon. "Let her yell awhile."

The girl shook her head.

"Ma's a moughty pow'ful 'oman, and she done got a club 'bout the size
o' my wrist." She moved off a step or so, and glanced back at him.

Gideon leaped to his feet.

"When yo' comin' back? Yo'--yo' ain' goin' without----" He held out
his arms to her, but she only giggled and began to walk slowly away.
With a bound he was after her, one hand catching her lightly by the
shoulder. He felt suddenly that he must not lose sight of her.

"Let me go! Tu'n me loose, yo'!" The girl was still laughing, but
evidently troubled. She wrenched herself away with an effort, only to
be caught again a moment later. She screamed and struck at him as he
kissed her; for now she was really in terror.

The blow caught Gideon squarely in the mouth, and with such force that
he staggered back, astonished, while the girl took wildly to her
heels. He stood for a moment irresolute, for something was happening
to him. For months he had evaded love with a gentle embarrassment;
now, with the savage crash of that blow, he knew unreasoningly that he
had found his woman.

He leaped after her again, running as he had not run in years, in
savage, determined pursuit, tearing through brier and scrub, tripping,
falling, rising, never losing sight of the blue-clad figure before him
until at last she tripped and fell, and he stood panting above her.

He took a great breath or so, and leaned over and picked her up in his
arms, where she screamed and struck and scratched at him. He laughed,
for he felt no longer sensible to pain, and, still chuckling, picked
his way carefully back to the shore, wading deep into the water to
unmoor his boat. Then with a swift movement he dropped the girl into
the bow, pushed free, and clambered actively aboard.

The light, early morning breeze had freshened, and he made out well
toward the middle of the river, never even glancing around at the
sound of the hallooing he now heard from shore. His exertions had
quickened his breathing, but he felt strong and joyful. Vashti lay a
huddle of blue in the bow, crouched in fear and desolation, shaken and
torn with sobbing; but he made no effort to comfort her. He was
untroubled by any sense of wrong; he was simply and unreasoningly
satisfied with what he had done. Despite all his gentle, easygoing,
laughter-loving existence, he found nothing incongruous or unnatural
in this sudden act of violence. He was aglow with happiness; he was
taking home a wife. The blind tumult of capture had passed; a great
tenderness possessed him.

The leaky little boat was plunging and dancing in swift ecstasy of
movement; all about them the little waves ran glittering in the
sunlight, plashing and slapping against the boat's low side, tossing
tiny crests to the following wind, showing rifts of white here and
there, blowing handfuls of foam and spray. Gideon went softly about
the business of shortening his small sail, and came quietly back to
his steering-seat again. Soon he would have to be making for what lea
the western shore offered; but he was holding to the middle of the
river as long as he could, because with every mile the shores were
growing more familiar, calling to him to make what speed he could.
Vashti's sobbing had grown small and ceased; he wondered if she had
fallen asleep.

Presently, however, he saw her face raised--a face still shining with
tears. She saw that he was watching her, and crouched low again. A
dash of spray spattered over her, and she looked up frightened,
glancing fearfully overside; then once more her eyes came back to him,
and this time she got up, still small and crouching, and made her way
slowly and painfully down the length of the boat, until at last Gideon
moved aside for her, and she sank in the bottom beside him, hiding her
eyes in her gingham sleeve.

Gideon stretched out a broad hand and touched her head lightly; and
with a tiny gasp her fingers stole up to his.

"Honey," said Gideon--"Honey, yo' ain' mad, is yo'?"

She shook her head, not looking at him.

"Yo' ain' grievin' foh yo' ma?"

Again she shook her head.

"Because," said Gideon, smiling down at her, "I ain' got no beeg club
like she has."

A soft and smothered giggle answered him, and this time Vashti looked
up and laid her head against him with a small sigh of contentment.

Gideon felt very tender, very important, at peace with himself and all
the world. He rounded a jutting point, and stretched out a black hand,
pointing.