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  Where, she wondered, would she get the money. Like most New Yorkers she put up a big front with very little cash behind it, always looking hopefully forward to the morrow for a lucky break. She had two-thirds of the rent money already, by dint of much borrowing, and if she could “do” a few nappy heads she would be in the clear; but hardly a customer had crossed her threshold in a fortnight, except two or three Jewish girls from downtown who came up regularly to have their hair straightened because it wouldn’t stand inspection in the Nordic world. The Negro women had seemingly deserted her. Day after day she saw her old customers pass by hurriedly without even looking in her direction. Verily a revolution was taking place in Negro society.

  “Oh, Miss Simpson!” cried the hair-straightener after a passing young lady. “Ain’t you going to say hello?”

  The young woman halted reluctantly and approached the doorway. Her brown face looked strained. Two weeks before she would have been a rare sight in the Black Belt because her kinky hair was not straightened; it was merely combed, brushed and neatly pinned up. Miss Simpson had vowed that she wasn’t going to spend any dollar a week having her hair “done” when she only lacked fifteen dollars of having money enough to quit the Negro race forever.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Blandish,” she apologized, “but I swear I didn’t see you. I’ve been just that busy that I haven’t had eyes for anything or anybody except my job and back home again. You know I’m all alone now. Yes, Charlie went over two weeks ago and I haven’t heard a word from him. Just think of that! After all I’ve done for that nigger. Oh well! I’ll soon be over there myself. Another week’s work will fix me all right.”

  “Humph!” snorted Mme. Blandish. “That’s all you niggers are thinking about nowadays. Why don’t you come down here and give me some business? If I don’t hurry up and make some more money I’ll have to close up this place and go to work myself.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Mrs. Blandish,” the girl mumbled indifferently, moving off toward the corner to catch the approaching street car, “but I guess I can hold out with this here bad hair until Saturday night. You know I’ve taken too much punishment being dark these twenty-two years to miss this opportunity. . . . Well,” she flung over her shoulder, “Goodbye! See you later.”

  Madame Blandish settled her 250 pounds back into her armchair and sighed heavily. Like all American Negroes she had desired to be white when she was young and before she entered business for herself and became a person of consequence in the community. Now she had lived long enough to have no illusions about the magic of a white skin. She liked her business and she liked her social position in Harlem. As a white woman she would have to start all over again, and she wasn’t so sure of herself. Here at least she was somebody. In the great Caucasian world she would be just another white woman, and they were becoming a drug on the market, what with the simultaneous decline of chivalry, the marriage rate and professional prostitution. She had seen too many elderly, white-haired Caucasian females scrubbing floors and toiling in sculleries not to know what being just another white woman meant. Yet she admitted to herself that it would be nice to get over being the butt for jokes and petty prejudice.

  The Madame was in a quandary and so also were hundreds of others in the upper stratum of Harlem life. With the Negro masses moving out from under them, what other alternative did they have except to follow? True, only a few hundred Negroes had so far vanished from their wonted haunts, but it was known that thousands, tens of thousands, yes, millions would follow them.

  FOUR

  Matthew Fisher, alias Max Disher, joined the Easter Sunday crowds, twirling his malacca stick and ogling the pretty flappers who passed giggling in their spring finery. For nearly three months he had idled around the Georgia capital hoping to catch a glimpse of the beautiful girl who on New Year’s Eve had told him “I never dance with niggers.” He had searched diligently in almost every stratum of Atlanta society, but he had failed to find her. There were hundreds of tall, beautiful, blonde maidens in the city; to seek a particular one whose name one did not know was somewhat akin to hunting for a Russian Jew in the Bronx or a particular Italian gunman in Chicago.

  For three months he had dreamed of this girl, carefully perused the society columns of the local newspapers on the chance that her picture might appear in them. He was like most men who have been repulsed by a pretty girl, his desire for her grew stronger and stronger.

  He was not finding life as a white man the rosy existence he had anticipated. He was forced to conclude that it was pretty dull and that he was bored. As a boy he had been taught to look up to white folks as just a little less than gods; now he found them little different from the Negroes, except that they were uniformly less courteous and less interesting.

  Often when the desire for the happy-go-lucky, jovial good-fellowship of the Negroes came upon him strongly, he would go down to Auburn Avenue and stroll around the vicinity, looking at the dark folk and listening to their conversation and banter. But no one down there wanted him around. He was a white man and thus suspect. Only the black women who ran the “Call Houses” on the hill wanted his company. There was nothing left for him except the hard, materialistic, grasping, inbred society of the whites. Sometimes a slight feeling of regret that he had left his people forever would cross his mind, but it fled before the painful memories of past experiences in this, his home town.

  The unreasoning and illogical color prejudice of most of the people with whom he was forced to associate infuriated him. He often laughed cynically when some coarse, ignorant white man voiced his opinion concerning the inferior mentality and morality of the Negroes. He was moving in white society now and he could compare it with the society he had known as a Negro in Atlanta and Harlem. What a let-down it was from the good breeding, sophistication, refinement and gentle cynicism to which he had become accustomed as a popular young man about town in New York’s Black Belt. He was not able to articulate this feeling but he was conscious of the reaction nevertheless.

  For a week, now, he had been thinking seriously of going to work. His thousand dollars had dwindled to less than a hundred. He would have to find some source of income and yet the young white men with whom he talked about work all complained that it was very scarce. Being white, he finally concluded, was no Open Sesame to employment for he sought work in banks and insurance offices without success.

  During his period of idleness and soft living, he had followed the news and opinion in the local daily press and confessed himself surprised at the antagonistic attitude of the newspapers toward Black-No-More, Incorporated. From the vantage point of having formerly been a Negro, he was able to see how the newspapers were fanning the color prejudice of the white people. Business men, he found were also bitterly opposed to Dr. Crookman and his efforts to bring about chromatic democracy in the nation.

  The attitude of these people puzzled him. Was not Black-No-More getting rid of the Negroes upon whom all of the blame was placed for the backwardness of the South? Then he recalled what a Negro street speaker had said one night on the corner of 138th Street and Seventh Avenue in New York: that unorganized labor meant cheap labor; that the guarantee of cheap labor was an effective means of luring new industries into the South; that so long as the ignorant white masses could be kept thinking of the menace of the Negro to Caucasian race purity and political control, they would give little thought to labor organization. It suddenly dawned upon Matthew Fisher that this Black-No-More treatment was more of a menace to white business than to white labor. And not long afterward he became aware of the money-making possibilities involved in the present situation.

  How could he work it? He was not known and he belonged to no organization. Here was a veritable gold mine but how could he reach the ore? He scratched his head over the problem but could think of no solution. Who would be interested in it that he could trust?

  He was pondering this question the Monday after Easter while breakfasting i
n an armchair restaurant when he noticed an advertisement in a newspaper lying in the next chair. He read it and then re-read it.

  THE KNIGHTS OF NORDICA

  WANT 10,000 ATLANTA WHITE MEN AND WOMEN TO

  JOIN IN THE FIGHT FOR WHITE RACE INTEGRITY.

  IMPERIAL KLONKLAVE TONIGHT

  THE RACIAL INTEGRITY OF THE CAUCASIAN RACE

  IS BEING THREATENED BY THE ACTIVITIES OF A

  SCIENTIFIC BLACK BEELZEBUB IN NEW YORK

  LET US UNITE NOW BEFORE IT IS

  TOO LATE!

  COME TO NORDICA HALL TONIGHT ADMISSION FREE.

  REV. HENRY GIVENS,

  IMPERIAL GRAND WIZARD

  Here, Matthew figured, was just what he had been looking for. Probably he could get in with this fellow Givens. He finished his cup of coffee, lit a cigar and, paying his check, strolled out into the sunshine of Peachtree Street.

  He took the trolley out to Nordica Hall. It was a big, unpainted barnlike edifice, with a suite of offices in front and a huge auditorium in the rear. A new oilcloth sign reading THE KNIGHTS OF NORDICA was stretched across the front of the building.

  Matthew paused for a moment and sized up the edifice. Givens must have some money, he thought, to keep up such a large place. Might not be a bad idea to get a little dope on him before going inside.

  “This fellow Givens is a pretty big guy around here, ain’t he?” he asked the young man at the soda fountain across the street.

  “Yessah, he’s one o’ th’ bigges’ men in this heah town. Used to be a big somethin’ or other in th’ old Ku Klux Klan ’fore it died. Now he’s stahtin’ this heah Knights o’ Nordica.”

  “He must have pretty good jack,” suggested Matthew.

  “He oughtta have,” answered the soda jerker. “My paw tells me he was close to th’ money when he was in th’ Klan.”

  Here, thought Matthew, was just the place for him. He paid for his soda and walked across the street to the door marked “Office.” He felt a slight tremor of uneasiness as he turned the knob and entered. Despite his white skin he still possessed the fear of the Klan and kindred organizations possessed by most Negroes.

  A rather pretty young stenographer asked him his business as he walked into the ante room. Better be bold, he thought. This was probably the best chance he would have to keep from working, and his funds were getting lower and lower.

  “Please tell Rev. Givens, the Imperial Grand Wizard, that Mr. Matthew Fisher of the New York Anthropological Society is very anxious to have about a half-hour’s conversation with him relative to his new venture.” Matthew spoke in an impressive, businesslike manner, rocked back on his heels and looked profound.

  “Yassah,” almost whispered the awed young lady, “I’ll tell him.” She withdrew into an inner office and Matthew chuckled softly to himself. He wondered if he could impress this old fakir as easily as he had the girl.

  Rev. Henry Givens, Imperial Grand Wizard of the Knights of Nordica, was a short, wizened, almost-bald, bull-voiced, ignorant ex-evangelist, who had come originally from the hilly country north of Atlanta. He had helped in the organization of the Ku Klux Klan following the Great War and had worked with a zeal only equalled by his thankfulness to God for escaping from the precarious existence of an itinerant saver of souls.

  Not only had the Rev. Givens toiled diligently to increase the prestige, power and membership of the defunct Ku Klux Klan, but he had also been a very hard worker in withdrawing as much money from its treasury as possible. He convinced himself, as did the other officers, that this stealing was not stealing at all but merely appropriation of rightful reward for his valuable services. When the morons finally tired of supporting the show and the stream of ten-dollar memberships declined to a trickle, Givens had been able to retire gracefully and live on the interest of his money.

  Then, when the newspapers began to recount the activities of Black-No-More, Incorporated, he saw a vision of work to be done, and founded the Knights of Nordica. So far there were only a hundred members but he had high hopes for the future. Tonight, he felt would tell the story. The prospect of a full treasury to dip into again made his little gray eyes twinkle and the palms of his skinny hands itch.

  The stenographer interrupted him to announce the newcomer.

  “Hum-n!” said Givens, half to himself. “New York Anthropological Society, eh? This feller must know somethin’. Might be able to use him in this business. . . . All right, show him in!”

  The two men shook hands and swiftly appraised each other. Givens waved Matthew to a chair.

  “How can I serve you, Mr. Fisher?” he began in sepulchral tone dripping with unction.

  “It is rather,” countered Matthew in his best salesman’s croon, “how I can serve you and your valuable organization. As an anthropologist, I have, of course, been long interested in the work with which you have been identified. It has always seemed to me that there was no question in American life more important than that of preserving the integrity of the white race. We all know what has been the fate of those nations that have permitted their blood to be polluted with that of inferior breeds.” (He had read some argument like that in a Sunday supplement not long before, which was the extent of his knowledge of anthropology.) “This latest menace of Black-No-More is the most formidable the white people of America have had to face since the founding of the Republic. As a resident of New York City, I am aware, of course, of the extent of the activities of this Negro Crookman and his two associates. Already thousands of blacks have passed over into the white race. Not satisfied with operating in New York City, they have opened their sanitariums in twenty other cities from Coast to Coast. They open a new one almost every day. In their literature and advertisements in the darky newspapers they boast that they are now turning four thousand Negroes white every day.” He knitted his blond eyebrows. “You see how great the menace is? At this rate there will not be a Negro in the country in ten years, for you must remember that the rate is increasing every day as new sanitariums are opened. Don’t you see that something must be done about this immediately? Don’t you see that Congress must be aroused; that these places must be closed?” The young man glared with belligerent indignation.

  Rev. Givens saw. He nodded his head as Matthew, now glorying in his newly-discovered eloquence, made point after point, and concluded that this pale, dapper young fellow, with his ready tongue, his sincerity, his scientific training and knowledge of the situation, ought to prove a valuable asset to the Knights of Nordica.

  “I tried to interest some agencies in New York,” Matthew continued, “but they are all blind to this menace and to their duty. Then someone told me of you and your valuable work, and I decided to come down here and have a talk with you. I had intended to suggest the organization of some such militant secret order as you have started, but since you’ve already seen the necessity for it, I want to hasten to offer my services as a scientific man and one familiar with the facts and able to present them to your members.”

  “I should be very glad,” boomed Givens, “very happy, indeed, Brother Fisher, to have you join us. We need you. I believe you can help us a great deal. Would you, er—ah, be interested in coming out to the mass meeting this evening? It would help us tremendously to get members if you would be willing to get up and tell the audience what you have just related about the progress of this iniquitous nigger corporation in New York.”

  Matthew pretended to think over the matter for a moment or two and then agreed. If he made a hit at the initial meeting, he would be sure to get on the staff. Once there he could go after the larger game. Unlike Givens, he had no belief in the racial integrity nonsense nor any confidence in the white masses whom he thought were destined to flock to the Knights of Nordica. On the contrary he despised and hated them. He had the average Negro’s justifiable fear of the poor whites and only planned to use them as a stepladder to the real money.
r />   When Matthew left, Givens congratulated himself upon the fact that he had been able to attract such talent to the organization in its very infancy. His ideas must be sound, he concluded, if scientists from New York were impressed by them. He reached over, pulled the dictionary stand toward him and opened the big book at A.

  “Lemme see, now,” he muttered aloud. “Anthropology. Better git that word straight ’fore I go talkin’ too much about it. . . . Humn! Humn! . . . That boy must know a hull lot.” He read over the definition of the word twice without understanding it, and then, cutting off a large chew of tobacco from his plug, he leaned back in his swivel chair to rest after the unaccustomed mental exertion.

  Matthew went gaily back to his hotel. “Man alive!” he chortled to himself. “What a lucky break! Can’t keep old Max down long. . . . Will I speak to ’em? Well, I won’t stay quiet!” He felt so delighted over the prospect of getting close to some real money that he treated himself to an expensive dinner and a twenty-five-cent cigar. Afterward he inquired further about old man Givens from the house detective, a native Atlantan.