"It's the only magazine edited by, and in the interest of this race," retorted Wyeth; "and has a circulation more than double that of any other publication by Negroes since freedom."
"You northern Negroes think a whole lot of Derwin, and are imbued with his point of view," cried Dickson; "but we had him down here before he went north, and we know him for what he is," and he looked about him meaningly.
The others gave sanction.
"He's the author of the only book in sociology, that stands out as a mark of Negro literature. The book is a classic, and is one of possibly two or three from the pen of a Negro since Dumas."
It is difficult to foretell where the argument may have ended, but Sidney slipped out. As the door closed behind him, a mighty roar of indignation came over the transom. "He's a liar." "He's crazy!" "Like all from that section!"
When these men met Wyeth afterward, and for some time, they did not recognize him. He was not surprised. They are, and the best of them, in a measure, still incapable of accepting criticism as it is meant. Our story will go to prove this more conclusively later on; but for the present, Sidney Wyeth had made friends....
CHAPTER EIGHT
Henry Hugh Hodder
Weeks had passed, and a touch of spring time was in the Dixie air. Sidney Wyeth's canvass was now assisted by another, while from over the country he had secured, here and there, an agent to sell the book. He found desk space in an office on the second floor, hired a stenographer, and filled the country with circular letters. Perhaps fifty or more replies were received, a few with a money order and requests for further information.