this he began to tell jokes about chicken-stealing, razor-fights and watermelon feasts. Of such jokes he evidently had an abundant stock. Nearly all of these Dixon had heard time and again. One was the anecdote of a Negro head-waiter in a Northern hotel who, when asked by a Southern guest if he were the head ‘nigger,’ indignantly objected to the epithet, but upon the visitor’s informing him that it was his custom to give a large tip to the ‘head-nigger’ this head-waiter, so the story goes, effusively retracted, saying, “Yessah, Boss, I’se de’ head niggah,’ and pointing to the waiters, added, “and ef you doan b’leave me ast all dem othah niggahs deh.”
The narrator was laughing immoderately, and so was the listener. Had the entertainer been a mind reader, however, he might not have been flattered by his success as a comedian, since it was his conduct, and not his wit, that was furnishing the porter’s mirth.
While the senator was still laughing the train began to slow down, and Dixon, asking to be excused, slid to the other end of the seat to look out, thus exposing the book he had placed behind him. The senator saw the volume and his look of laughter was instantly changed to one of curiosity.
The book stood end up on the seat and he could discern from its size and binding that it was a volume that might contain serious thought. He had somehow felt that this Negro was above the ordinary and the sight of the book now confirmed the feeling.
A certain forced quality in the timbre of Dixon’s laughter, as also the merry twinkle in his eye, had made him feel at times just a bit uncomfortable, and now he wanted to verify the suspicion. His curiosity getting the better of him, he reached over to take the volume, but at the same instant Dixon’s slipping back to his former seat caused him to hesitate. Yet he determined to find out. He demanded flippantly, pointing to the book,—“Reading the Bible, George?”
“No, sir.”
“What then?”
“Oh, only a scientific work,” said the other, carelessly, not wishing to broach the subject of racial differences that the title of the book suggested.
Dixon’s very evident desire to evade a direct answer seemed to sharpen the other’s curiosity. He suggested off-handedly, but with ill-concealed eagerness: “Pretty deep stuff, eh?” Then in the same manner he inquired, “Who’s the author?”
Dixon saw the persistent curiosity in the other’s eye. Knowing too well the nature of the man before him, he did not want to give him the book, but being unable to find any pretext for further withholding it, he took it from the seat, turned it right side up, and handed it to the senator. The latter took it with feigned indifference. Moistening his forefinger, he began turning over the leaves, then settled down to read the marked passages. Now and then he would mutter: “Nonsense! Ridiculous!” Suddenly, in a burst of impatience he turned to the frontispiece, and exclaimed in open disgust: “Just as I thought. Written by a Frenchman.” Then, before he could recollect to whom he was talking—so full was he of what he regarded as the absurdity of Finot’s view—he demanded—“Do you believe all this rot about the equality of the races?”
Now Dixon’s policy was to avoid any topic that would be likely to produce a difference of opinion with a passenger, provided that the avoidance did not entail any sacrifice of his self-respect. In this instance he regarded his questioner as one to be humored, rather than vexed, for just then the following remark, made by this legislator that afternoon, recurred to him:
“The Jew, the Frenchman, the Dago and the Spaniards are all ‘niggers’ to a greater or lesser extent. The only white people are the Anglo-Saxon, Teutons and Scandinavians.” This, Dixon surmised, had accounted for the remark the other had made about the author’s adopted nationality, and it amused him.
As Dixon pondered the question there occurred to him a way by which he could retain his own opinion while in apparent accord with the passenger. He responded accordingly:—
“No, sir, I do not believe in the equality of the races. As you say, it is impossible.”
The senator looked up as if he had not been expecting a response, but seemingly pleased with Dixon’s acquiescence he continued as he turned the leaves: “Writers of this type don’t know what they are talking about. They write from mere theory. If they had to live among ‘niggers,’ they would sing an entirely different tune.”
Dixon felt that he ought not to let this remark go unchallenged. He protested courteously: “Yet, sir, M. Finot had proved his argument admirably. I am sure if you were to read his book you would agree with him, too.”
“Didn’t you just say you didn’t agree with this book?” questioned the senator sharply, looking up.
“I fear you misunderstood me, sir.”
“Didn’t you say you did not believe in the equality of the races?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why?”
“Because as you said, sir, it is impossible.”
“Why? Why?”
“Because there is but one race—the human race.”
The senator did not respond. Despite his anger at the manner in which Dixon had received and responded to his question, he stopped to ponder the situation in which his unwitting question had placed him. As he had confessed, he did not like educated Negroes, and had no intention of engaging in a controversy with one. His respect and his aversion for this porter had increased with a bound. Now he was weighing the respective merits of the two possible courses—silence and response. If he remained silent, this Negro might think he had silenced him, while to respond would be to engage in an argument, thus treating the Negro as an equal. After weighing the matter for some time he decided that of the two courses, silence was the less compatible with his racial dignity, and with much condescension, his stiff voice and haughty manner a marked contrast to his jollity of a few minutes past, he demanded:
“You say there is only one race. What do you call yourself?”
“An American citizen,” responded the other, composedly.
“Perhaps you have never heard of the word ‘nigger’?”
“Couldn’t help it, sir,” came the reply in the same quiet voice.
“Then, do you believe the ‘nigger’ is the equal of the Anglo-Saxon race?” he demanded with ill-concealed anger.
“I have read many books on anthropology, sir, but I have not seen mention of either a ‘nigger’ race or an Anglo-Saxon one.”
“Very well, do you believe your race—the black race—is equal to the Caucasian?”
Dixon stopped to weigh the wisdom of his answering. What good would it do to talk with a man seemingly so rooted in his prejudices? Then a simile came to him. On a visit to the Bureau of Standards at Washington, D. C., he had seen the effect of the pressure of a single finger upon a supported bar of steel three inches thick. The slight strain had caused the steel to yield one-twenty-thousandth part of an inch, as the delicate apparatus, the interferometer, had registered. Since every action, he went on to reason, produces an effect, and truth, with the impulse of the Cosmos behind it, is irresistible, surely if he advanced his views in a kindly spirit, he must modify the error in this man. But still he hesitated. Suddenly he recalled that here was a legislator: was one of those, who, above all others, ought to know the truth. This thought decided his course. He would answer to the point, resolving at the same time to restrict any conversation that might ensue to the topic of the human race as a whole and to steer clear of the color question in the United States. He responded with soft courtesy:
“I have found, sir, that any division of humanity according to physique, can have but a merely nominal value, as differences in physiques are caused by climatic conditions and are subject to a rechange by them. As you know, both Science and the Bible are agreed that all so-called races came from a single source. Scientists who have made a study of this question tell us that the Negro and the Yankee are both approaching the Red Indian type. Pigmented humanity