LITMIR.BIZ

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hotel. When asked by a Southern guest whether he was the “head-nigger,” the head-waiter grew indignant. “Oh,” said the guest, “I only wanted to know because I have a large tip for the “head-nigger.” At that the head-waiter promptly got off his horse. “Yessah. boss.” he said, “I’se de head-niggah, an’ if yu’ don’ b’leeve me ast all dem othah niggahs deh,’ he said, pointing to the waiters.

      The senator was laughing immoderately, and Dixon laughed heartily, too. Had the senator been a mind reader, however, he would hardly have been flattered at what he considered his prowess as a jokesmith. Dixon was saying to himself, “The idea of some folks at being courteous and setting other people at their ease is so crude that it enters the realm of high comedy.”

      While the senator was still laughing, the train began to slow down, and Dixon, asking to be excused, slid to the other end of the seat to look out, thus leaving the book he had placed behind him, exposed. The senator saw the book, and his laughter soon changed to curiosity.

      The volume stood end up on the seat and he could discern from its size and binding that it might contain serious thought. Did it? He had somehow felt that this Negro was above the ordinary and the sight of the book confirmed the feeling.

      A certain forced quality in the timbre of Dixon’s laughter, as also the merry twinkle in his eye, had made him feel at times just a bit uncomfortable. His curiosity getting the better of him, he reached over to take the volume, but at the same instant Dixon’s slipping back to his former seat caused him to hesitate. Yet he determined to find out. He demanded flippantly, pointing to the book,—“Reading the Bible, George?”

      “No, sir.”

      “What then?”

      “Oh, only a scientific work,” said the other, carelessly, not wishing to broach the subject of racial differences that the title of the book suggested.

      Dixon’s evident desire to evade a direct answer sharpened his curiosity. He suggested off-handedly, but with ill-concealed eagerness: “Pretty deep stuff, eh? Who’s the author?”

      Dixon saw the persistent curiosity in his eye. Knowing too well the type of the man before him, he did not wish to give him the book, but unable to find further pretext for withholding it, he took it from the seat, turned it right side up, and handed it over. The senator took it with feigned indifference. Moistening his forefinger, he turned over the leaves, then settled down to read the marked passages. Now and then he would mutter: “Nonsense! Ridiculous!” Suddenly in a burst of impatience he turned to the frontispiece, and exclaimed in open disgust: “Just as I thought. Written by a Frenchman.” Then, before he could recollect to whom he was talking—so full was he of what he regarded as the absurdity of Finot’s view—he demanded— “Do you believe all this rot about the equality of the races?”

      Dixon’s policy was to avoid any topic that was likely to produce a difference of opinion with a passenger, provided it did not entail any sacrifice of his self-respect. He regarded his questioner as one to be humored, rather than vexed. He remembered a remark, made by this legislator that afternoon:

      “The Jew, the Frenchman, the Dago and the Spaniards are all ‘niggers’ to a greater or less extent. The only white people are the Anglo-Saxon, Teutons and Scandinavians.” This, Dixon surmised, accounted for the remark he had made about Finot’s adopted nationality, and it amused him.

      Dixon pondered the question. Then there occurred to him a way by which he could retain his own opinion and yet be in apparent accord with the passenger. He responded:

      “No, sir, I do not believe in the equality of the races. As you say, it is impossible.”

      The senator looked up as if he had not been expecting a response; but, seemingly pleased with Dixon’s acquiescence, he continued as he turned the leaves: “Writers of this type don’t know what they are talking about. They write from mere theory. If they had to live among ‘niggers,’ they would sing an entirely different tune.”

      Dixon felt that he oughtn’t to let this remark go unchallenged. He protested courteously: “Yet, sir, M. Finot had proved his argument admirably. I am sure if you were to read this book you would agree with him, too.”

      The senator looked up.

      “Didn’t you just say you didn’t agree with this book?” he questioned sharply.

      “I fear you misunderstood me, sir.”

      “Didn’t you say you did not believe in the equality of the races?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Then why?”

      “Because as you said, sir, it is impossible.”

      “Why? Why?

      “Because there is but one race—the human race.”

      The senator did not respond. Though angry at the manner in which Dixon had received and responded to his question, he stopped to ponder the situation in which his unwitting question had placed him. As he had confessed, he did not like educated Negroes, and had no intention of engaging in a controversy with one. His respect and his aversion for this porter increased with a bound. Now he was weighing which was the better of the two possible courses—silence and response. If he said nothing, this Negro might think he had silenced him, while to respond would be to engage in an argument, thus treating the Negro as an equal. After weighing the matter for some time he decided that silence was the less compatible with his racial dignity, and with much condescension, his stiff voice and haughty manner a marked contrast to his jollity of a few minutes past, he demanded:

      “You say there is only one race. What do you call yourself?”

      “An American citizen,” responded the other, composedly.

      “Perhaps you have never heard of the word, ‘nigger’?”

      “Couldn’t help it, sir,” said Dixon, evenly.

      “Then, do you believe the ‘nigger is the equal of the Anglo Saxon race?” he demanded with ill-concealed anger.

      “I have read many books on anthropology, sir, but I have not seen mention of either a ‘nigger’ race or an Anglo-Saxon one.”

      “Very well, do you believe your race—the black race—is equal to the Caucasian?”

      Dixon stopped to weigh the wisdom of his answering. What good would it do to talk with a man seemingly so rooted in his prejudices? Then a simile came to him. On a visit to the Bureau of Standards at Washington, D. C., he had seen the effect of the pressure of a single finger upon a supported bar of steel three inches thick. The light strain had caused the steel to yield one-twenty-thousandth part of an inch, as the delicate apparatus, the interferometer, had registered. Since every action, he went on to reason, produces an effect, and truth, with the impulse of the Cosmos behind it is irresistible, surely if he advanced his views in a kindly spirit, he must modify the error in this man. But still he hesitated. Suddenly he recalled that here was a legislator, one, who, above all others, ought to know the truth. This decided him. He would answer to the point, but would restrict any conversation that might ensue to the topic of the human race as a whole. Above all he would steer clear of the color question in the United States. He said with soft courtesy:

      “I have found, sir, that any division of humanity according to physique, can have but a merely nominal value, as differences in physiques are caused by climatic conditions and are subject to a rechange by them. As you know, both Science and the Bible are agreed that all so-called races came from a single source. Pigmented humanity becomes lighter in the temperate zone, while unpigmented humanity becomes brown in the tropics. One summer’s exposure at a bathing beach is enough to make a life-saver darker than many Indians. The true skin of all human beings is of the same color: all men are white under the first layer.

      “Then it is possible by the blending of human varieties to produce innumerable other varieties, each one capable of reproducing and continuing itself.

      “Again, anthropologists have never been able to classify human varieties.

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