Robert found Pinkney, hat on head, about to leave the office.
“Come along,” he said, “you’re just in time. I’m going to the Tribe office. I’ll introduce you to the Sublime Headman—Joseph Andrew Lister.” Together they descended to the street.
“Lister? I heard the name at the concilium. Who is he otherwise? Is he a Corinthian?”
“Lister?—have a cigar, Robert. He’s the Rev. Mr. Lister, a very distinguished minister. Let me see. I think he was a Methodist divine. But he has given up his clerical work, he told me, to devote all his time to the Tribe. It was his idea, in fact. He began recruiting members in about 1915 or so and laid the foundation. The office is only a few blocks down.”
“I thought,” said Robert, “the initiation ceremony had a sort of ecclesiastical flavor. It was very impressive though. I dreamed about it all night.”
“Did you?” Pinkney grinned. “Lister and Griffith devised it. Lister is the man with the ideal of solidifying the best element in this country; while Griffith is the practical man. He really made it. He works out all the plans. He is really quite a capable fellow.”
They crossed the street, Pinkney, with his slightly annoying habit of politeness, or excessive friendliness, holding Hamilton’s arm and helping him. A persistent newsboy thrust a paper before him and Pinkney bought two copies.
“Want one? I have mine delivered at the office every day, but—”
Robert glanced at the streamer headline and discovered the meaning of what the newsboy had been shouting. A half-dozen masked men had taken a Negro from his place of employment in Corinth, driven him far into the country and tarred and feathered him. Members of the Trick Track Tribe were suspected. Howard’s cheeks were flushed and he moistened his lips with his tongue.
“Look at that,” said Robert, “they’re accusing the Tribe.”