With a day off in Atlanta, Matthew and Jimmie looked up Perigua’s friends. Jimmie laughed at the venture, although Matthew did not tell him much of his plans and reasons.
“Don’t worry,” grinned Jimmie; “let the white folks worry; it’ll all come out right.”
They had a difficult time finding any of the persons to whom Perigua had referred Matthew. First, they went down to Decatur Street. It was the first time Matthew had been so far south or so near the black belt. The September heat was intense, and the flood of black folk overwhelmed him. After all, what did he know of these people, of their thoughts, ambitions, hurts, plans? Suppose Perigua really knew and that he who thought he knew was densely ignorant? They walked over to Auburn Avenue. Could anyone tell them where the office of the Arrow was? It was up “yonder.” Matthew and Jimmie climbed to an attic. It was empty, but a notice sent them to a basement three blocks away—empty, too, and without notice. Then they ran across the editor in a barber shop where they were inquiring—a little, silent, black man with sharp eyes. No, the Arrow was temporarily suspended and had been for a year. Perigua? Oh, yes.
“Well, there could be a conference tonight at eight in the Odd Fellows Hall—one of the small rooms.”
“At what hour?”
“Well, you know colored people.”
If he came at nine he’d be early. Yes, he knew Perigua. No, he couldn’t say that Perigua had much of a following in Atlanta, but Perigua had ideas. Perigua had—yes, ideas; well, then, at nine. Jimmie said he’d leave him at that. He had a date, and he didn’t like speeches anyhow. They parted, laughing.
Nobody came until nine-thirty; by ten there was the editor, an ironmolder, a college student, a politician, a street cleaner, a young physician, an insurance agent, and two men who might have been idlers, agitators, or plain crooks. It was an ugly room, incongruously furnished and with no natural center like a fireplace, a table, or a rostrum. Some of the men smoked, some did not; there was a certain air of mutual suspicion. Matthew gathered quickly that this was no regular group, but a fortuitous meeting of particles arranged by the editor. Instead of listening to a conference, he found himself introduced as a representative of Mr. Perigua of New York, and they prepared to hear a speech. Matthew was puzzled, nonplussed, almost dumb. He hated speechmaking. His folk talked too easily and glibly in his opinion. They did not mean what they said—not half—but they said it well. But he must do something; he must test Perigua and his followers. He must know the truth. So Matthew talked—at first a little vaguely and haltingly; and then finally he found himself telling them almost word for word that conversation about American Negroes in Berlin. He did not say who talked or where it took place; he just told what was said by certain strangers. They all listened with deep absorption. The student was the first to break out with:
“It is the truth; we’re punk—useless sheep; and all because of the cowardice of the old men who are in the saddle. Youth has no recognition. It is fear that rules. Old slipper is afraid of missing his tea and toast.”
The editor agreed. “No recognition for genius,” he said. “I’ve published the Arrow off and on for three years.”
“Usually off,” growled the politician.
“And a damn poor paper it is,” added the ironmolder.
“I know it, but what can you expect from two hundred and fifty-eight paid subscribers? If I had five thousand I’d show you a radical paper.”
“Aw, it’s no good—niggers won’t stay put,” returned the politician.
“You mean they won’t stay sold,” said someone.
“We’re satisfied—that’s the trouble,” said the editor. “We’re too damn satisfied. We’ve done so much more with ourselves than we ever dreamed of doing that we’re sitting back licking our chops and patting each other on the back.”
“Well,” said the young physician, “we have done well, haven’t we?”
“You has,” growled the ironmolder. “But how ’bout us? You-all is piling up money, but it don’t help us none. If we had our own foundries, we’d get something like wages stead of scabbing to starve white folks.”
“Well, you know we are investing,” said the insurance agent. “Our company—”
“Hell! That ain’t investment, it’s gambling.”
“That’s the trouble,” said the scavenger. “We’se strivers; we’se climbing on one another’s backs; we’se gittin’ up—some of us—by trompin’ others down.”
“Well, at any rate, some do get up.”
“Yes, sure—but the most of us, where is we going? Down, with not only white folks but niggers on top of us.”
“Well, what are we going to do about it?”
“What can we do? Merit and thrift will rise,” said the physician.
“Nonsense. Selfishness and fraud rise until somebody begins to fight,” answered the editor.
“Perigua is fighting.”
“Perigua is a fool—Negroes won’t fight.”
“You won’t.”
“Will you?”
“If I get a chance.”
“Chance? Hell! Can’t any fool fight?” asked the editor.
“Sure, but I ain’t no fool—and besides, if I was, how’d I begin?”
“How!” yelled the student. “Clubs, guns, dynamite!”
But the politician sneered. “You couldn’t get one nigger in a million to fight at all, and then they’d sell each other out.”
“You ought to know.”
“I sure do!”
And so it went on. When the meeting broke up, Matthew felt bruised and bewildered.