“Doctor, have you thought of the possibility of—er—trouble if your motives are not understood? That is, suppose some of the poor whites are stirred up by the landlords and merchants you’re trying to take these coloured farmers away from—have you figured out what might be the result?”
“Yes, I have,” responded Kenneth. “I realize there might be some who’d break up our groups⸺”
“No—No—I mean to you personally,” interjected Anthony.
“I don’t think they’ll bother me,” was Kenneth’s confident reply. “But if something should happen—well, if I can feel I’ve perhaps pointed a way out for my people, I can die happy. … At any rate, killing or running me away wouldn’t kill the spirit of revolt these coloured people have it might stir it even higher. Not that I’ve any ambition for martyrdom,” he ended with a laugh.
Kenneth spoke with no bravado, with none of the cant of the poseur. His words, rather, were uttered with the simplicity of the earnest seeker after truth—the unheroic but sincere worker in a cause that is just.
“Let’s hope you’ll come through,” said Anthony. “I’m a Southerner with all the traditions and prejudices of the South, but I wish you luck.” He added after a pause: “You’ll need it.”
After Kenneth had gone, the three men looked at each other questioningly.
“What do you think of him and his plan?” asked Dr. Scott, half to himself.
It was Gordon who answered.
“It’s a good scheme—if it works. I’m mighty afraid, though, he’s going to run into deep water if his societies grow very large. And the pity of it is that we in Atlanta can’t help him if we dared.” Anthony grunted.