A drummer from Chicago—big cigar, diamond stickpin, dominant joviality and a talent for smutty stories—denounced the Bolsheviki—but his nose was Semitic and his name was something with a “son” on the end of it.
The thin, blond man with horn-rimmed spectacles—an advertising copywriter on his way back to Chicago from a vacation—said business was unusually good, it was simply a problem of going after it. None of them, in fact, had felt that the integrity of the American nation was being subverted. They were hopelessly optimistic.
When he referred to the Negro question, two men who were from the South began to take interest. One was an old gentleman—he seemed at least seventy-five—the other, a young man, perhaps Robert’s junior by three years, on his first trip north—to Louisville.
“That’s a real problem,” said the young man, taking part in the conversation for the first time that evening. “Some times I think they should all be shipped over to Africa—the whole bunch of ’em. Send ’em to Liberia. Africa’s the place for ’em all.”
He related an incident of how a Negro had stolen a hen from an uncle’s roost. A policeman, with a sense of humor, saw the darkey waddling down the street, suspiciously fat.
“Good-evening, Rastus,” said the policeman. “Nice evening.” It was the first time in his life that a policeman had ever said “good evening” to him, or, in fact, any white man.
“Yes, sah, pow’ful fine evenin’,” said the nigger uneasily, trying to conceal the hen, make a getaway and be polite to the guardian of the law at the same time.
“You’re looking fine,” said the policeman, playfully prodding him. “Wife’s cooking must agree with you.”
“Yes, pow’ful fine cooking. I gain thuty pound in one week. But I must be going home. I heah de poke chops frying on de pan and a-calling me. Good-night.”
At this moment the hen began to cackle.