"I've made this remark, so hear me out, that I may show that I am justified in making it." They were quiet, but impatient. "You have several large drug stores, doing a creditable business in the city. Omitting a few operated by white men in Negro neighborhoods, you will hardly find one that does not carry a goodly stock of magazines for his trade. Not a colored drug store carries one. Tompkins, other than _The Climax_, does not sell any. Now, gentlemen, with such a population as you have," (he was very serious now), "is it consistent to believe that these black people read in proportion to what they should, when there is so little current demand for literature?" The outburst that followed this was too intense to describe. The composure that was in keeping with their appearance and training was, for the time, lost. Everybody had something to say to the contrary, and, at the same time. "I have five hundred dollars worth of books in my house," cried Dickson. "I take _The Climax_, and have since it began publication," cried still another. "Derwin, its editor, is a traitor to his race, and I can prove it," persisted another. "Theah ain' nothin' in it, nohow," yelled another whose English was not the best. "It's the only magazine edited by, and in the interest of this race," retorted Wyeth; "and has a circulation more than double that of any other publication by Negroes since freedom." "You northern Negroes think a whole lot of Derwin, and are imbued with his point of view," cried Dickson; "but we had him down here before he went north, and we know him for what he is," and he looked about him meaningly. The others gave sanction. "He's the author of the only book in sociology, that stands out as a mark of Negro literature. The book is a classic, and is one of possibly two or three from the pen of a Negro since Dumas." It is difficult to foretell where the argument may have ended, but Sidney slipped out. As the door closed behind him, a mighty roar of indignation came over the transom. "He's a liar." "He's crazy!" "Like all from that section!" When these men met Wyeth afterward, and for some time, they did not recognize him. He was not surprised. They are, and the best of them, in a measure, still incapable of accepting criticism as it is meant. Our story will go to prove this more conclusively later on; but for the present, Sidney Wyeth had made friends.... CHAPTER EIGHT _Henry Hugh Hodder_ Weeks had passed, and a touch of spring time was in the Dixie air. Sidney Wyeth's canvass was now assisted by another, while from over the country he had secured, here and there, an agent to sell the book. He found desk space in an office on the second floor, hired a stenographer, and filled the country with circular letters. Perhaps fifty or more replies were received, a few with a money order and requests for further information.