The first thing necessary, of course, would be to secure agents. School had closed recently, and he had intended coming to the city, to enlist some of the teachers for that work. Securing a number of names and addresses, he began calling on them, but without any immediate success. Late that afternoon, however, a teacher, a settled woman, gave him the name and address of one whom she felt, she assured him, would take up the work. "At least," she said, "she always does something during vacation. Her name is Miss Palmer," so thither he went. She lived not far away, and near the center of a block in a small two story house, rusty and somewhat ramshackle. He mounted the steps, which were perhaps a half dozen, and asked for her. She was out, they informed him, but was expected to return shortly. Before they were through telling him, she came. She was a brown-skinned woman, although in the fading twilight, she struck him as being a mulatto. Of medium height and size, she gave a welcome that played about the corners of her small mouth. Her chin was long and tapered to a small point, which made her appearance unusual; her eyes were small, very small, and playful. They were very soon in conversation, and he was pleased to learn, after he had talked with her a few minutes, that she was a woman with the strength of her convictions, although there was something about her he did not, and was not likely, he felt, to understand for some time to come, and he didn't. Presently he stated the object of his visit, and suggested that she take up the work during her vacation. She shook her head dubiously, and said: "I don't mind canvassing; but I don't want to sell books." "Why not books?" he inquired, in a tone of surprise, and then added: "It would seem that, being a teacher, selling a nice book would be preferable to something else." "Yes, that may be," said she, thoughtfully now, "but nigga's here don't read. At least they won't buy and pay for books. Sell them toilet articles or hair goods, something to straighten their kinks or rub on their faces, anything guaranteed to make their hair grow soft and curly, or their black faces brighter." He laughed long. She now observed him with something akin to admiration. "Then the people of your community--the black people--don't consider feeding the mind an essential to moral welfare," he suggested mirthfully. "Naw, Lord," she replied flatly. "These Negroes in Effingham are nigga's proper. They think nothing about reading and trying to learn something, they only care for dressing up and having a good time." He was silent and resigned for a time. They now sat together in a swing that hung suspended from the porch. Directly, when he had said nothing for some time, she looked again at him, and with something in her demeanor that was anxious. "What book is it?" she inquired. He told her.