"You seem to be successful in getting the biggest kind of churches here," said Wyeth. "Yes," returned the druggist, "and they will be paying for them, as they have been for the last--since I ever knew anything." "But they have the churches, nevertheless." "Oh, so far as that goes, yes." "They must have had to pay as much as forty per cent of the cost, to secure a loan for the remainder?" "Yes, Tempest; but what has that to do with it?" "Well, if the big church on the corner up the street could be secured at a cost of seventy-five thousand dollars, half or more of which I understand has been paid, then, a like amount should be available in a town of this size, and which has an equal number of colored people, shouldn't it?" "Tempest is out for argument," said the druggist. "No argument, when almost every large city in the north--and some not as large as this town--have a Y.M.C.A. for its black population. And more than half that have such, have not nearly the colored population that this town has, and positively have not nearly the need." "Tempest has been worrying about a library, a park, and everything else for this town, in the months he has been here," the druggist said, looking almost amused. Wyeth took exception. "I _am_ interested in this town, and in another, where I see and read of more crime and murder, than I ever dreamed was possible." "Then, Tempest," said the druggist, naively, "you ought to get one. Or, at least, you ought to awaken, by some initiative on your part, some enthusiasm to that end. You see all we need, you do, a globe trotter, and you have certainly criticised to that end, and now," his voice took on a cold, hard tone, "I say: Do something to prove this criticism worth the while, or I'll brand _you_ as a faker--a frost, with all your premeditated ideas!" Every one about was silent, while their eyes turned and regarded Sidney Wyeth. About the corners of their mouths a smile that spelled of a sneer, played subtly. If Sidney Wyeth didn't see it, he at least felt it. And in that moment, he realized that he would not dare show his face about this place, lest he be scorned henceforth, if he didn't take the stand the druggist had taken. "Very well, Dr. Randall," he said, rising. "_I shall do so._" He regarded them all for a moment, with a firm sweep of his eyes, and, next, he turned and left the store. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR _The Arraignment_ "I guess that will do," whispered Wyeth to himself, arising from his typewriter at one-thirty the following morning. Carefully he placed the typewritten pages in the drawer, and retired. * * * * * "A colored man to see you, Mr. Byron," said the clerk, to the managing editor of the Effingham _Age-Herald_. "Show him in," said the other shortly, and kept about his work. A moment later, Sidney Wyeth stood before the editor. "Well?" "I should like twenty minutes talk with you, Mr. Byron," said the other calmly.