The Homesteader: A Novel

by Oscar Micheaux

  CHAPTER III

  IRENE GREY

  Men of the type of Jean Baptiste don't waver and despair regardless asto how discouraged they may at times, under adverse circumstances,become. When he was confronted with the law with the papers to take fromhim the stock with which to seed his crop, his mental faculties becamebusy, and in the course of two hours he had been granted an extension onthe note and the deputy sheriff had returned to Winner as he had come,empty handed.

  But _what was he to do_! He had no money and no credit. He had the landin Tripp County that was broken into winter wheat, while that in thenext county east was rented. He could, of course, rent some more landand put it to crop; but he was for the present through with any morelarge crops until the seasons became more normal. So he was at a losshow to engage himself for the months that were coming. He still lived onhis wife's homestead, and had no plans and nowhere else to live. Inthese days he found reading a great diversion. He simply devoured books,studying every detail of construction, and learning a great deal as tostyle and effect.

  Then he tried writing short stories, but like the book manuscript, theyalways came back. He concluded after a time that it was a waste ofpostage to send them around; that in truth they were not read--andagain, that there was no fortune in writers' royalties always, anyhow.

  He was possessed with a business turn of mind, and one day he met a manwho told him that it was possible for him to have his book printed andbe his own publisher. That sounded very good--anything sounded good inthese dark days in the life of Jean Baptiste. This was a splendid idea.But it was some time before he was able to find the proper persons withwhom to take this up. But, he finally secured the address of a companywho would manufacture a book to exceed 300 pages for fifty cents perbook. Although this was the most encouraging thing he had encountered inhis literary effort, the price seemed very high in view of what he hadbeen told. He had planned that it could be made for much less. Howeverhe decided to consider it.

  Now Jean Baptiste had less means at hand than he had ever had in hislife. Not a dollar did he possess--not even did he have a suit ofclothes any more, and wore every day his corduroys. He owed thepromoters of the old townsite of Dallas more than he was likely to payvery soon, but they still were his friends. But to get to Dallas, fiftymiles away, was still another problem. He went to a bank in the littletown where he had other friends from whom he had never asked credit.They loaned him what he asked for, $5.00. With this he went to Dallas.The senior member of the firm was in town--that is, senior in age butnot in position. Jean Baptiste possessed great personality, and to benear one was to effect that one with it.

  "I believe you could do alright with that book, Baptiste," this one saidwhen Baptiste had told him regarding the company who would put it outfor him.

  "Yes, I am confident I can, too, Graydon," replied Baptiste. "But I amclean, dead broke. I can't go down there."

  The other was silent for a moment as he stood wrapped in thought.Presently he said:

  "How much do you have to have to go down there?"

  "Oh, thirty-five or forty dollars."

  "I'll let you have fifty."

  "I'm ready at any minute," so saying, he went to a store across thestreet where he had friends, and there was dressed from head to foot,charging the clothes to his account. Two days later he walked into theoffice of the printing firm with which he had been in correspondence.They were rather surprised when they saw that he was an Ethiopian, buthe soon put them at ease.

  After several days' of negotiating they finally reached an agreementwhereby they would manufacture one thousand copies at seventy-five centsper copy. He was to pay one third of the amount before the book went topress, the balance he was to pay within a reasonable time. An outrageousprice, he knew--at least felt. But he was to have all subsequenteditions for one half the amount of the original edition, which was someconsolation to look forward to.

  Another fence: who would furnish that two hundred and fifty dollars andsecure him for the remainder? Besides, what would he do with the bookswhen he had them? Publishing meant distribution. But what did he know ofsuch? He thought these things over carefully and finally decided that hewould sell them himself. He communicated this fact to the firm. It wasrather unusual for an author, perhaps, to sell his own works. JeanBaptiste had never sold anything by solicitation since he had grown up,but when he was young he had been a great peddler of garden vegetables.He would sell his book, and he seemed to convince them that he could.

  They prepared some prospectuses for him, and back home he returned. Hetold, in answer to the volumes of inquiries that everything was allright, and that the book would appear soon. He said nothing, however, tothe friends he had in view to put up the money and that necessarysecurity. He believed in proving a thing, and all else would necessarilyfollow. He would go out and secure orders there at home among hisfriends and acquaintances. But the day he planned to start was verycold--the mercury stood twenty-seven below zero.

  Starting in Dallas he received orders for one hundred forty-two copiesthe first day. Very good for a starter. He went to Winner the next day.Despite the fact that the drought had done no good to the people of thatcommunity and town, they all were acquainted with and admired JeanBaptiste. Besides, they would not see Dallas beat them. And one hundredfifty-three copies were ordered by them.

  Jean Baptiste could prove anything in a fair fight if given a chance. Hesecured orders for fifteen hundred copies of his book in two weeks. Thepromoters went his security and put up the cash into the bargain, and hewent back to the publishing house victorious.

  The printers had evidenced their confidence in him, for they had been soimpressed with his personality that they had begun work upon the copywhen he returned. In thirty days it was ready, and in sixty days fromthe time he was penniless, he had deposited twenty-five hundred dollarsto the credit of the book in the banks.

  As he was winding up his business preparatory to interviewing hisprinters, establishing an office and going into the book business for alivelihood, he was the recipient of a telegram from Washington advisingthat the Honorable Secretary of the Interior had reversed thecommissioner's decision, which had been adverse to his wife, with regardto the claim. He had won, but as to how he would ever prove up hedidn't know, nor did he let it worry him. He was too flushed withsuccess in his new field. He could still hold the claim, but it would behis wife who must offer proof on the same, and his wife he had not heardfrom for over a year.

  He did not find his new field of endeavor so profitable when he began towork among strangers. Indeed, while he did business the money didn'tseem to come in as it should. He conceived an idea of securing agentsamong the colored people, and in that way effect a good sale. To beginwith, this was difficult, for the reason the black man's environment hasnot been conducive to the art of selling anything except those thingsthat require little or no wide knowledge. They deal largely in hairgoods to make their curls grow or hang straighter,--or in complexioncreams to clarify and whiten the skin. Yet he succeeded in getting manyto take the agency and these received orders and sent for the books. Hehad learned that it was a custom with subscription book companies toallow agents to have the books and give them thirty days in which toremit the money. This proved agreeable to his agents. However, thegreater number of them took not only thirty days--but life, and did notsend in the money when they died.

  He was confronted then with the task of learning how he could get thebooks to them and be assured of his money. To learn this, he went on theroad himself appointing agents and selling to bookstores. And it wasupon this journey that he met one who had played a little part in hislife some years before, at a time when conditions had been entirelydifferent with him.

  In Kansas City she occurred to him. He recalled that it was only twelvemiles from the city where her father owned and lived upon one of thegreatest farms in the country. He thought of the last letter he hadreceived from her, the letter that had come too late. And then hethought of what had pass
ed since. Girls in her circumstances would notbe likely to waste their sympathies with grasswidowers; but he wishedthat he might see her and look just once into the eyes that might havebeen his. But his courage failed him. He still had spirit and pride, sohe gave it up for the time.

  Late in the afternoon of that day, he was engaged with someacquaintances in the bar-room of a club. They became quite jolly ascocktails and red liquor flowed and tingled their veins. He thoughtagain of Irene Grey, and the memory was exhilarating. And the cocktailsgave him the necessary courage. He was bold at last and to the telephonehe went and called her over long distance.

  "Is this the Greys home?" he called.

  "Yes," came back the answer, and he was thrilled at the mellowness ofthe voice at the other end.

  "Is Miss Irene at home?" he called now.

  "Yes," it said. "This is she."

  He was sobered. All the effect of the cocktails went out of him on theinstant. He choked blindly, groped for words, and finally said:

  "Why--er--ah--this is a friend of yours. An old friend. Mayhap you haveforgotten me."

  "I don't know," she called back. "Who are you?"

  He still didn't have the courage to tell her, but sought to make himselfknown by explaining. He then mentioned the state from whence he came,but no further did he get. It so happened that she had heard all abouthis troubles following his marriage, and, womanlike, feeling that shehad been in a way displaced by the other, she had always been anxious tomeet and know him.

  "Oh," she cried, and the echo of her voice rang in his ears over thewire for some moments. "Is this you?" she cried now, her voiceevidencing the excitement she was laboring under.

  "Yes," he admitted somewhat awkwardly, not knowing whether the fact hadthrilled and joyed her, or, whether he was in for a rebuke for callingher up. But he was speedily reassured.

  "Then why don't you come on out here?" she cried.

  "I--I didn't know whether I would be welcome," he replied, happy in anew way.

  "Oh, pshaw! Why _wouldn't_ you be welcome? But now," her tone changed."Where are you?"

  "In Kansas City."

  "Let me see," she said, and he knew she was thinking. "It is now fourthirty, and a train leaves there that passes through here in fortyminutes. It doesn't stop here; but you catch it and go to the stationabove here, do you understand?"

  "Yes, yes," he replied eagerly.

  "Well, now, listen! The station I refer to is only four miles abovethis, and when you get off there, catch another train that comes in afew minutes back this way, see?"

  "Yes, yes."

  "Well, that train stops at this station, and there I will meet you."

  "Oh, fine," he cried. "I'll be there."

  "Now you will be sure to catch it," she cautioned.

  "Most assuredly!"

  "I will depend on it."

  "Count me there!"

  "I want to talk to you, I'm going to talk all night."

  "Good-by."