ruling the wide crossing with supreme self-assurance; and he, too, was a Negro!
Yet most of the vehicles that leaped or crouched at his bidding carried white passengers. One of these overdrove bounds a few feet and Gillis heard the officer's shrill whistle and gruff reproof, saw the driver's face turn red and his car draw back like a threatened pup. It was beyond belief—impossible. Black might be white, but it couldn't be that white!
“Done died an’ woke up in Heaven,” thought King Solomon, watching, fascinated; and after a while, as if the wonder of it were too great to believe simply by seeing, "Cullud policemans!” he said, half aloud; then repeated over and over, with greater and greater conviction, “Even got cullud policemans—even got cullud—"
“Where y' want to go, big boy?”
Gillis turned. A little, sharp-faced yellow man was addressing him.
“Saw you was a stranger. Thought maybe I could help y' out.”
King Solomon located and gratefully extended a slip of paper. “Wha' dis hyeh at, please, suh?”
The other studied it a moment, pushing back his hat and scratching his head. The hat was a tall-crowned, unindented brown felt; the head was brown patent-leather, its glistening brush-back flawless save for a suspicious crimpiness near the clean-grazed edges.
“See that second corner? Turn to the left when you get there. Number forty-five's about halfway the block.”
“Thank y', suh.”
“You from—Massachusetts?”
"No, suh, Nawth Ca'lina.”
“Is 'at so? You look like a Northerner. Be with us long?”
“Till I die,” grinned the flattered King Solomon.
"Stoppin' there?
“Reckon I is. Man in Washin'ton 'lowed I'd find lodgin' at dis ad-dress.”
"Good enough. If y' don't, maybe I can fix y' up. Harlem's pretty crowded. This is me.” He proffered a card.
