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Updated: June 9, 2025
"It's this," she said in an uncertain voice: "sometimes we we girls here in Niggertown copy the wrong thing first." Peter looked blankly at her. "The wrong thing first, Cissie?" "Oh, yes; we we begin on clothes and and hair and and that isn't the real matter." "Why, no-o-o, that isn't the real matter," said Peter puzzled. Cissie looked at his face and became hopeless. "Oh, don't you understand!
He could barely see her then, and somehow she looked very pathetic hurrying along in the cold, dim light of dawn. After she had cooked the Arkwright breakfast, swept the Arkwright floors, dusted the Arkwright furniture, she passed back toward Niggertown, somewhere near nine. About eleven o'clock she went up to cook dinner, and returned at one or two in the afternoon.
It was absurd to think that Cissie, in the midst of her almost pathetic struggle to break away from the uncouthness of Niggertown, would stoop to Even in his thoughts Peter avoided nominating the charge. And then, somehow, his memory fished up the fact that years ago Ida May, according to village rumor, was "light-fingered."
"Cissie, if I can he of any service to you in a substantial way, I'll be more than glad to " She put out a hand and stopped him; then talked on in justification of her determination to go away. "I just can't endure it any longer, Peter." She shuddered again. "I can't stand Niggertown, or this side of town any of it. They they have no feeling for a colored girl, Peter, not not a speck!"
"Whut you s'pose us niggers is got to roast in a tukky roaster?" The constable answered shortly that his business was to find the roaster, not what the negroes meant to put in it. "I decla'," satirized old Caroline, savagely, "dish-heah Niggertown is a white man's pocket. Ever' time he misplace somp'n, he feel in his pocket to see ef it ain't thaiuh. Don'-chu turn over dat sody-water, white man!
His career in Niggertown formed a record of slight mistakes, but they were not to be undone, and their combined force had swung him a long way from the course he had plotted for himself. There was no way to explain. Hooker's Bend would judge him by the sheer surface of his works. What he had meant to do, his dreams and altruisms, they would never surmise. That was the irony of the thing.
Cissie Dildine was impossible for him now. Niggertown was immovable, at least for him. He was no Washington to lead his people to a loftier plane. In fact, Peter began to suspect that he was no leader at all. He saw now that his initial success with the Sons and Daughters of Benevolence had been effected merely by the aura of his college training.
"Come, Jim Pink, what do you know?" he asked. The magician poked out his huge lips. "Mr. Bobbs turn acrost by de church, over de Big Hill. Da' 's always a ba-ad sign." Peter's brief interest in the matter flickered out. Another arrest for some niggerish peccadillo. The history of Niggertown was one long series of petty offenses, petty raids, and petty punishments.
The hobbledehoy walked down the other side of the street, hands thrust in pockets, with the usual discontented expression on his face. Cissie slammed the door shut, and the two stood rather at a loss in the sudden gloom of the hall. Cissie broke into a brief, mirthless laugh. "Peter, it's hard to be nice in Niggertown.
The "worthinesses" and "disgraces" implicit in Harvard atmosphere, which Peter had spent four years of his life imbibing, slowly melted away in the air of Niggertown. What was honorable there, what was disgraceful there, somehow changed its color here. By virtue of this change Peter felt intuitively that Cissie Dildine was neither disgraced by her arrest nor soiled by her physical condition.
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