XI

“What’s the matter with you, Matt?” asked Bunny one morning about a month before election. “Ain’t everything going okeh? You look as if we’d lost the election and failed to elect that brilliant intellectual, Henry Givens, President of the United States.”

“Well, we might just as well lose it as far as I’m concerned,” said Matthew, “if I don’t find a way out of this jam I’m in.”

“What jam?”

“Well, Helen got in the family way last winter again. I sent her to Palm Beach and the other resorts, thinking the travel and exercise might bring on another miscarriage.”

“Did it?”

“Not a chance in the world. Then, to make matters worse, she miscalculates. At first she thought she would be confined in December; now she tells me she’s only got about three weeks to go.”

“Say not so!”

“I’m preaching gospel.”

“Well, hush my mouth! Waddya gonna do? You can’t send her to one o’ Crookman’s hospitals, it would be too dangerous right now.”

“That’s just it. You see, I figured she wouldn’t be ready until about a month after election when everything had calmed down, and I could send her then.”

“Would she have gone?”

“She couldn’t afford not to with her old man the President of the United States.”

“Well, whaddya gonna do, Big Boy? Think fast! Think fast! Them three weeks will get away from here in no time.”

“Don’t I know it?”

“What about an abortion?” suggested Bunny, hopefully.

“Nothing doing. First place, she’s too frail, and second place she’s got some fool idea about that being a sin.”

“About the only thing for you to do, then,” said Bunny, “is to get ready to pull out when that kid is born.”

“Oh, Bunny, I’d hate to leave Helen. She’s really the only woman I ever loved, you know. Course she’s got her prejudices and queer notions like everybody else but she’s really a little queen. She’s been an inspiration to me, too, Bunny. Every time I talk about pulling out of this game when things don’t go just right, she makes me stick it out. I guess I’d have been gone after I cleaned up that first million if it hadn’t been for her.”

“You’d have been better off if you had,” Bunny commented.

“Oh, I don’t know. She’s hot for me to become Secretary of State or Ambassador to England or something like that; and the way things are going it looks like I will be. That is, if I can get out of this fix.”

“If you can get out o’ this jam, Matt, I’ll sure take my hat off to you. An’ I know how you feel about scuttling out and leaving her. I had a broad like that once in Harlem. ’Twas through her I got that job in th’ bank. She was crazy about me, Boy, until she caught me two-timin’. Then she tried to shoot me.

“Squaws are funny that way,” Bunny continued, philosophically. “Since I’ve been white I’ve found out they’re all the same, white or black. Kipling was right. They’ll fight to get you, fight to keep you and fight you when they catch you playin’ around. But th’ kinda woman that won’t fight for a man ain’t worth havin’.”

“So you think I ought to pull out, eh Bunny?” asked the worried Matthew, returning to the subject.

“Well, what I’d suggest is this:” his plump friend advised, “about time you think Helen’s gonna be confined, get together as much cash as you can and keep your plane ready. Then, when the baby’s born, go to her, tell her everything an’ offer to take her away with you. If she won’t go, you beat it; if she will, why everything’s hotsy totsy.” Bunny extended his soft pink hands expressively.

“Well, that sounds pretty good, Bunny.”

“It’s your best bet, Big Boy,” said his friend and secretary.

Two days before election the situation was unchanged. There was joy in the Democratic camp, gloom among the Republicans. For the first time in American history it seemed that money was not going to decide an election. The propagandists and publicity men of the Democrats had so played upon the fears and prejudices of the public that even the bulk of Jews and Catholics were wavering and many had been won over to the support of a candidate who had denounced them but a few months before. In this they were but running true to form, however, as they had usually been on the side of white supremacy in the old days when there was a Negro population observable to the eye. The Republicans sought to dig up some scandal against Givens and Snobbcraft but were dissuaded by their Committee on Strategy which feared to set so dangerous a precedent. There were also politicians in their ranks who were guilty of adulteries, drunkenness and grafting.

The Republicans, Goosie and Gump, and the Democrats, Givens and Snobbcraft, had ended their swings around the country and were resting from their labors. There were parades in every city and country town. Minor orators beat the lectern from the Atlantic to the Pacific extolling the imaginary virtues of the candidates of the party that hired them. Dr. Crookman was burned a hundred times in effigy. Several Lying-In hospitals were attacked. Two hundred citizens who knew nothing about either candidate were arrested for fighting over which was the better man.

The air was electric with expectancy. People stood around in knots. Small boys scattered leaflets on ten million doorsteps. Police were on the alert to suppress disorder, except what they created.

Arthur Snobbcraft, jovial and confident that he would soon assume a position befitting a member of one of the First Families of Virginia, was holding a brilliant pre-election party in his palatial residence. Strolling in and out amongst his guests, the master of the house accepted their premature congratulations in good humor. It was fine to hear oneself already addressed as Mr. Vice-President.

The tall English butler hastily edged his way through the throng surrounding the President of the Anglo-Saxon Association and whispered, “Dr. Buggerie is in the study upstairs. He says he must see you at once; that it is very, very important.”

Puzzled, Snobbcraft went up to find out what in the world could be the trouble. As he entered, the massive statistician was striding back and forth, mopping his brow, his eyes starting from his head, a sheaf of typewritten sheets trembling in his hand.

“What’s wrong, Buggerie?” asked Snobbcraft, perturbed.

“Everything! Everything!” shrilled the statistician.

“Be specific, please.”

“Well,” shaking the sheaf of papers in Snobbcraft’s face, “we can’t release any of this stuff! It’s too damaging! It’s too inclusive! We’ll have to suppress it, Snobbcraft. You hear me? We musn’t let anyone get hold of it.” The big man’s flabby jowls worked excitedly.

“What do you mean?” snarled the F.F.V. “Do you mean to tell me that all of that money and work is wasted?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” squeaked Buggerie. “It would be suicidal to publish it.”

“Why? Get down to brass tacks, man, for God’s sake. You get my goat.”

“Now listen here, Snobbcraft,” replied the statistician soberly, dropping heavily into a chair. “Sit down and listen to me. I started this investigation on the theory that the data gathered would prove that around twenty million people, mostly of the lower classes were of Negro ancestry, recent and remote, while about half that number would be of uncertain or unknown ancestry.”

“Well, what have you found?” insisted Snobbcraft, impatiently.

“I have found,” continued Buggerie, “that over half the population has no record of its ancestry beyond five generations!”

“That’s fine!” chortled Snobbcraft. “I’ve always maintained that there were only a few people of good blood in this country.”

“But those figures include all classes,” protested the larger man. “Your class as well as the lower classes.”

“Don’t insult me, Buggerie!” shouted the head of the Anglo-Saxons, half rising from his seat on the sofa.

“Be calm! Be calm!” cried Buggerie excitedly, “You haven’t heard anything yet.”

“What else, in the name of God, could be a worse libel on the aristocracy of this state?” Snobbcraft mopped his dark and haughty countenance.

“Well, these statistics we’ve gathered prove that most of our social leaders, especially of Anglo-Saxon lineage, are descendants of colonial stock that came here in bondage. They associated with slaves, in many cases worked and slept with them. They intermixed with the blacks and the women were sexually exploited by their masters. Then, even more than today, the illegitimate birth rate was very high in America.”

Snobbcraft’s face was working with suppressed rage. He started to rise but reconsidered. “Go on,” he commanded.

“There was so much of this mixing between whites and blacks of the various classes that very early the colonies took steps to put a halt to it. They managed to prevent intermarriage but they couldn’t stop intermixture. You know the old records don’t lie. They’re right there for everybody to see.⁠ ⁠…

“A certain percentage of these Negroes,” continued Buggerie, quite at ease now and seemingly enjoying his dissertation, “in time lightened sufficiently to be able to pass for white. They then merged with the general population. Assuming that there were one thousand such cases fifteen generations ago⁠—and we have proof that there were more⁠—their descendants now number close to fifty million souls. Now I maintain that we dare not risk publishing this information. Too many of our very first families are touched right here in Richmond!”

“Buggerie!” gasped the F.F.V., “Are you mad?”

“Quite sane, sir,” squeaked the ponderous man, somewhat proudly, “and I know what I know.” He winked a watery eye.

“Well, go on. Is there any more?”

“Plenty,” proceeded the statistician, amiably. “Take your own family, for instance. (Now don’t get mad, Snobbcraft). Take your own family. It is true that your people descended from King Alfred, but he has scores, perhaps hundreds of thousands of descendants. Some are, of course, honored and respected citizens, cultured aristocrats who are a credit to the country; but most of them, my dear, dear Snobbcraft, are in what you call the lower orders: that is to say, laboring people, convicts, prostitutes, and that sort. One of your maternal ancestors in the late seventeenth century was the offspring of an English serving maid and a black slave. This woman in turn had a daughter by the plantation owner. This daughter was married to a former indentured slave. Their children were all white and you are one of their direct descendants!” Buggerie beamed.

“Stop!” shouted Snobbcraft, the veins standing out on his narrow forehead and his voice trembling with rage. “You can’t sit there and insult my family that way, suh.”

“Now that outburst just goes to prove my earlier assertion,” the large man continued, blandly. “If you get so excited about the truth, what do you think will be the reaction of other people? There’s no use getting angry at me. I’m not responsible for your ancestry! Nor, for that matter, are you. You’re no worse off than I am, Snobbcraft. My great, great grandfather had his ears cropped for nonpayment of debts and was later jailed for thievery. His illegitimate daughter married a free Negro who fought in the Revolutionary War.” Buggerie wagged his head almost gleefully.

“How can you admit it?” asked the scandalized Snobbcraft.

“Why not?” demanded Buggerie. “I have plenty of company. There’s Givens, who is quite a fanatic on the race question and white supremacy, and yet he’s only four generations removed from a mulatto ancestor.”

“Givens too?”

“Yes, and also the proud Senator Kretin. He boasts, you know, of being descended from Pocahontas and Captain John Smith, but so are thousands of Negroes. Incidentally, there hasn’t been an Indian unmixed with Negro on the Atlantic coastal plain for over a century and a half.”

“What about Matthew Fisher?”

“We can find no record whatever of Fisher, which is true of about twenty million others, and so,” he lowered his voice dramatically, “I have reason to suspect that he is one of those Negroes who have been whitened.”

“And to think that I entertained him in my home!” Snobbcraft muttered to himself. And then aloud: “Well, what are we to do about it?”

“We must destroy the whole shooting match,” the big man announced as emphatically as possible for one with a soprano voice, “and we’d better do it at once. The sooner we get through with it the better.”

“But I can’t leave my guests,” protested Snobbcraft. Then turning angrily upon his friend, he growled, “Why in the devil didn’t you find all of this out before?”

“Well,” said Buggerie, meekly, “I found out as soon as I could. We had to arrange and correlate the data, you know.”

“How do you imagine we’re going to get rid of that mountain of paper at this hour?” asked Snobbcraft, as they started downstairs.

“We’ll get the guards to help us,” said Buggerie, hopefully. “And we’ll have the cards burned in the furnace.”

“All right, then,” snapped the F.F.V., “let’s go and get it over with.”

In five minutes they were speeding down the broad avenue to the headquarters of the Anglo-Saxon Association of America. They parked the car in front of the gate and walked up the cinder road to the front door. It was a balmy, moonlight night, almost as bright as day. They looked around but saw no one.

“I don’t see any of the guards around,” Snobbcraft remarked, craning his neck. “I wonder where they are?”

“Probably they’re inside,” Buggerie suggested, “although I remember telling them to patrol the outside of the building.”

“Well, we’ll go in, anyhow,” remarked Snobbcraft. “Maybe they’re downstairs.”

He unlocked the door, swung it open and they entered. The hall was pitch dark. Both men felt along the wall for the button for the light. Suddenly there was a thud and Snobbcraft cursed.

“What’s the matter?” wailed the frightened Buggerie, frantically feeling for a match.

“Turn on that God damned light!” roared Snobbcraft. “I just stumbled over a man.⁠ ⁠… Hurry up, will you?”

Dr. Buggerie finally found a match, struck it, located the wall button and pressed it. The hall was flooded with light. There arranged in a row on the floor and neatly trussed up and gagged were the six special guards.

“What the hell does this mean?” yelled Snobbcraft at the mute men prone before them. Buggerie quickly removed the gags.

They had been suddenly set upon, the head watchman explained, about an hour before, just after Dr. Buggerie left, by a crowd of gunmen who had blackjacked them into unconsciousness and carried them into the building. The watchman displayed the lumps on their heads as evidence and looked quite aggrieved. Not one of them could remember what transpired after the sleep-producing buffet.

“The vault!” shrilled Buggerie. “Let’s have a look at the vault.”

Down the stairs they rushed, Buggerie wheezing in the lead, Snobbcraft following and the six tousled watchmen bringing up the rear. The lights in the basement were still burning brightly. The doors of the vault were open, sagging on their hinges. There was a litter of trash in front of the vault. They all clustered around the opening and peered inside. The vault was absolutely empty.

“My God!” exclaimed Snobbcraft and Buggerie in unison, turning two shades paler.

For a second or two they just gazed at each other. Then suddenly Buggerie smiled.

“That stuff won’t do them any good,” he remarked triumphantly.

“Why not?” demanded Snobbcraft, in his tone a mixture of eagerness, hope and doubt.

“Well, it will take them as long to get anything out of that mass of cards as it took our staff, and by that time you and Givens will be elected and no one will dare publish anything like that,” the statistician explained. “I have in my possession the only summary⁠—those papers I showed you at your house. As long as I’ve got that document and they haven’t, we’re all right!” he grinned in obese joy.

“That sounds good,” sighed Snobbcraft, contentedly. “By the way, where is that summary?”

Buggerie jumped as if stuck by a pin and looked first into his empty hands, then into his coat pockets and finally his trousers pockets. He turned and dashed out to the car, followed by the grim-looking Snobbcraft and the six uniformed watchmen with their tousled hair and sore bumps. They searched the car in vain, Snobbcraft loudly cursing Buggerie’s stupidity.

“I⁠—I must have left it in your study,” wept Buggerie, meekly and hopefully. “In fact I think I remember leaving it right there on the table.”

The enraged Snobbcraft ordered him into the car and they drove off leaving the six uniformed watchmen gaping at the entrance to the grounds, the moonbeams playing through their tousled hair.

The two men hit the ground almost as soon as the car crunched to a stop, dashed up the steps, into the house, through the crowd of bewildered guests, up the winding colonial stairs, down the hallway and into the study.

Buggerie switched on the light and looked wildly, hopefully around. Simultaneously the two men made a grab for a sheaf of white paper lying on the sofa. The statistician reached it first and gazed hungrily, gratefully at it. Then his eyes started from his head and his hand trembled.

“Look!” he shrieked dolefully, thrusting the sheaf of paper under Snobbcraft’s eyes.

All of the sheets were blank except the one on top. On that was scribbled:

Thanks very much for leaving that report where I could get hold of it. Am leaving this paper so you’ll have something on which to write another summary.

Happy dreams, Little One.

“Great God!” gasped Snobbcraft, sinking into a chair.