THE MOHAMMEDANS
287
money n take his skin! .You kin lynch him n burn him, BUT YOU AINT
GONNA GIT HIS SOUL!"
The enthusiasm ·leaped up to meet him, almost drowning out his
final words.
No, they shouted, never; you tell
it,
father, no, no, no!
Simon,
frow~ing,
looked about the hall with a curious nervousness, less
defined but akin to his mad fear of the blue-coat; he looked about the
hall, heard the stamping and groaning and chortling, saw the arms fly
up and the moist and shining eyes. In some extraordinarily physical
way, he was assailed by all this: He blinked and backed out of the
doorway, thinking: he's a charlatan, a rapist, no doubt a very great man!
Wiley Bey imperiously calmed the· crowd and changed his tone, speaking
quietly, persuasively. Now lie's telling him he's stronger than they,
thought Simon, and that it's useless to resist. At that moment, a white
man detached himself from the crowd which lined the wall on the right,
and walked back toward the door. He was a well-dressed young man,
with a knowing tilt to his new grey hat; very tall and-in that mass of
rags, bent backs and ravaged faces-almost offensively handsome, strong,
self-possessed. He walked through the doorway, unceremoniously hustling
Simon as he passed; then he wheeled about, smiling ironically, and
expertly hung a cigarette on his lip.
"You've got to hand it to these niggers," he said. "They sure know
how to put on a show!"
Simon did not reply. Usually of an almost neurotic politeness, he
was annoyed now, by all this supercilious youthfulness and detachment.
The young man broadened his smile.
"I suppose you're a Mohammedan too!"
Simon drew himself up haughtily. "In this country," he said,
"we're all Mohammedans. When you've lived a little longer and seen
something of the world, you'll understand that."
"Well what do you know!"
"These people, to be sure, are a slightly heretical sect."
0 this was his evening of eloquence and public action! Smiling
slyly, yet with a face ingenuous and persuasive, his two hands palms
outward in a gesture of evidence, clarity, simple faith, Simon turned–
to find that the young man had disappeared. Astonished, he moved out
to the curb and saw him striding swiftly away, in the direction of the
bright lights.
Inside the store, there was a great murmur and chatter, a pushing
back of benches. The meeting was over, people were crowding around
the platform ; Wiley Bey was nodding gravely, shaking hands. This was
the moment that Simon, all unconsciously, had come for: he would go
in, report on his visit to the draft-board, clear the matter up.... Negroes
were beginning to drift out of the store, eyeing him curiously. A fat
old lady, very black, planted herself in front of him and, with the most
extraordinary insolence, stared him up and down. Simon backed away.
Yes, now that he was here, he was anxious to talk to Wiley Bey. They
would have a long conversation,
their first,
full of warmth and under–
standing. He would tell the Negro where he was wrong and where he
was right. He would confess his own intimate sins.
Alas! Now the crowd, moving boisterously out of the hall, threat-
