tainly worthy of his attention. Presently, he looked back at the figure before him.
I am very much interested in Negro literature; that's why I sent for you, the editor continued. He appeared to be in no manner of hurry, but Byron made no reply. . . . Also, Durwood went on, after a pause, when I see a fellow with talent going the wrong way, I try to be honest. It pays better in the end. It's more useful to you, too, he said, at once giving his remarks a more personal slant. Byron felt his heart thumping. . . . What I want to know is this: why in hell don't you write about something you know about? Without waiting for a response, he continued rapidly, I happen to be acquainted to some extent with Negro life. I am proud to call certain Negroes my friends. I have visited Harlem in two capacities, as a customer in the cabarets and as a guest in my friends' homes. The whole place, contrary to the general impression, is overrun with fresh, unused material. Nobody has yet written a good gambling story; nobody has touched the outskirts of cabaret life; nobody has gone into the curious subject of the divers tribes of the region. Why, there are West Indians and Abyssinian Jews, religious Negroes, pagan Negroes, and Negro intellectuals, all living together more or less amicably in the same community, each group with its own opinions and atmosphere and manner of living; each individual with his own opinions and atmosphere and manner of living. But
