by Unknown
“It’s only one-fifth of twenty-five hundred,” I told him.
There was another long silence. Then, “Suppose, Joey, I didn’t see my way clear to letting you have it?”
I made a clucking sound with my tongue and shook my head sadly.
“It’s my conscience,” I told him. “My damnable conscience. It’s driving me to perform my civic duty. To tell Headquarters how you told Colby what you’d figured before you told Wolley. How you explained to Colby how you’d figured he must be in a bad financial jam in order to have murdered Capek. How you pointed out that his peculations were bound to come out when you had him pinched for murder.”
“Yes, Joey,” said Sackler weakly. “Anything else?”
“Why, yes,” I said. “It occurs to me that you offered him an easy out. Instead of being pilloried in the press, instead of bearing the sneers of his upper-crust friends, you offered to let him commit suicide. For a consideration.”
“A consideration, Joey?”
“Twenty-five hundred and fifty dollars,” I said. “Of course, you couldn’t let him kill himself before the check was cashed. It wouldn’t have been legal. That’s why you called our attention to the time when we heard the shot that killed Colby. Your check was in the bank by then.”
I looked at him and observed with vast satisfaction that for the first time in our joint careers I had him on the run.
“To ensure his not dying before you cashed the check you locked him in the attic and gave him a gun with no ammunition. Moreover, you referred to him as Smith so that Wolley wouldn’t arrest Colby, at once, thus wrecking your deal. Then when you had the dough in your pocket you sent me up with a bullet, all as per private and strictly extralegal agreement with Colby.”
“Joey,” he said, “you figured all that out yourself?”
“I did, indeed,” I said. “And my reward will be five hundred and twenty dollars spread over the coming year, plus thirty-three bucks in cash—now.”
He sighed heavily. He thrust his hand into his pocket and took out some bills. He handed them over to me, then delivered a speech which, coming from Rex Sackler, has always seemed a classic to me.
“Joey,” he said reproachfully, “sometimes I think there is nothing you wouldn’t do for money.”
The Color of Honor
Richard Connell
RICHARD (EDWARD) CONNELL (1893–1949) was born in Dutchess County, New York, and went to Harvard, where he edited the Daily Crimson and the Harvard Lampoon. He took a job as a reporter for the New York American, then became an advertising copywriter. After serving in World War I, he became a full-time freelance writer, moving to Hollywood in 1925 to work in the film industry, writing stories for several films as well as a large number of short stories for the pulps and the top American slick magazines.
His most famous story, and one of the most anthologized stories ever written, was “The Most Dangerous Game,” the now-familiar tale of a man, Sanger Rainsford, who falls off a ship traveling up the Amazon River and saves himself by swimming to an island, where he is greeted by General Zaroff. Ensconced in a luxurious mansion, Zaroff is a dedicated hunter whose passion for the sport has driven him to pursue the ultimate game—man—and Rainsford is the prey. The story has been filmed numerous times, sometimes credited, as with The Most Dangerous Game (1932, RKO, starring Joel McCrea and Fay Wray), A Game of Death (1945, RKO, with John Loder), and Run for the Sun (1956, United Artists, with Richard Widmark and Jane Greer). Films based on other Connell stories include F-Man (1936, Paramount, with Jack Haley) and Brother Orchid (1940, Warner Brothers, with Edward G. Robinson, Ann Sothern, and Humphrey Bogart).
“The Color of Honor” was published in the June 1923 issue.
The Color of Honor
Richard Connell
This Southern Klan story—by one of America’s best-known writers—needs no comment from us, except this: a number of people have told us Courtnay would not have acted as he did in this story. What are your ideas about it?
WHEN CATER COURTNAY WAS ELEVEN years old his father whipped him with a blacksnake whip until he could hardly stand because the boy, in some juvenile game with some lads from a nearby plantation, had cheated. Afterward the father talked to his son in the paneled library of the old house.
“You see your great-uncle, Carroll Courtnay, up there?” said the father, pointing to a picture, done in oil, of a darkly handsome man in a grey uniform.
The boy nodded; he was very white but not once through it all had he sobbed.
“General Lee trusted him,” went on the father.
“He trusted him, son, because he knew the stuff the Courtnays are made of. At Shiloh your great-uncle could have saved himself from death by one little act of dishonor—most men wouldn’t have thought it dishonorable at all—but, of course, he didn’t. He remembered that he was a Courtnay, and Courtnays do not cheat, or lie, or do any dishonorable action. They stand by their word, and by their kind. You are a Courtnay, son—the last of the name, when I am gone—and while the breath of life is in you you must not forget the proud name you bear.”
The boy nodded again.
“Now, shake hands with me, Cater,” said the father. “I hope I didn’t hurt you much.”
The boy held out his hand to his father. His father never again had any occasion to whip him for cheating.
When Cater Courtnay was nearing thirty, and was still unmarried, his father died and from him Cater inherited many broad acres of rich cotton land, and the great pillared house in its grove of live oaks. He was a serious young man, tall, sun-bronzed, almost saturnine of aspect, and he took seriously his duties as overlord of the estate, with almost feudal powers over the men and women who lived on it and worked for him.
One night in the early autumn he sat in the library talking with a guest, a man from the North, whom he had known in college.
“But I tell you, Godwin, you can never understand,” said Cater Courtnay, his voice low, intense.
Godwin puffed at his pipe before he answered.
“Men are men,” he said finally.
Courtnay shook his head impatiently.
“There are white men,” he said, “and there are black men.”
“But,” returned Godwin, “they are both men. Color doesn’t count. Underneath there’s no difference.”
“You’re wrong, Godwin. A Northerner just can’t understand; but there are differences, real differences—”
“For example?”
“Did you ever see a nigger who was a gentleman?”
Godwin laughed.
“There are precious few white gentlemen,” he said.
“Granted. But there are some—”
“Yes, of course—”
“Well, what are the marks of a gentleman?”
“Honor, first, I suppose—” said Godwin.
“Precisely. Honor. But a nigger with honor? That’s ridiculous, Godwin.”
“Is it?”
“It is. I know. I’ve handled niggers for years, thousands of them; I’ve over two hundred on my place right now. I know them as you could never know them, Godwin, and I tell you it’s not only their skins that are black—they’re black all through—”
“But they’ve had no chance,” Godwin replied, “down here. That’s why I suggested to John Greel that he start a school here.”
Courtnay’s tanned face showed that the subject of Greel had been discussed and that it was an unpleasant one.
“Godwin,” said Courtnay, “you’re an old friend of mine, and I’m going to take the liberty of speaking very frankly to you. Down here we feel capable of managing our own affairs. We don’t want Greel and we don’t want his school.”
Godwin shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s too late to prevent Greel coming,” he said, “even if I agreed with you that the negro is invincibly ignorant and that schooling will do him no good. Greel’s mind is made up and you know what a determined fellow he is.”
“How should I?”<
br />
“He was in college in your time.”
“What of it? I don’t make a point of associating with niggers, Godwin.”
“Well, you’ve seen the plucky way he played football,” said Godwin, with a laugh.
“Let him stay up North. There’s work enough for him up there.” Courtnay’s voice had a menace in it. “I tell you, Godwin, Greel’s not wanted here and you would be doing him a service to tell him so. The men around here haven’t much patience with these fancy, educated Northern niggers.”
Godwin made no reply; for a time he smoked.
“You won’t help the school then, Courtnay?”
“I will not.”
Godwin stood up.
“It’s getting near my train time,” he said. “I’d better be starting.”
“Sorry you have to go, Godwin. I don’t get much civilized society these days. Lots of old families down here, but pretty well gone to seed. Mammy Stella, my housekeeper, would call them ‘reeefine but oneducate.’ ”
“Really?”
“Yes; you’ve no idea how they resist any new methods in farming; and of course the niggers are impossible; they will do things the way their grandfathers did them—”
“You’ve tried to teach the negroes then?”
“Have I tried? Till my head nearly burst.”
“They seem to work hard—I noticed that in the fields today—”
“Oh, I get a lot of work out of them. They’re a little afraid of me. They know I’ll stand no nonsense from them. Also, they know I’ll treat them squarely. You’ve no idea, Godwin, what children they are: I have to feed them, clothe them, nurse them and bury them. But it isn’t gratitude that makes them work—it’s fear.”
“Fear?”
“Yes; even their motives are dark.”
“They need education; now, Greel’s school—”
Courtnay held up his hand; his face tightened into stern lines.
“Please! Let’s not discuss that anymore. I won’t stand for Greel and his school; that’s final. There’s the car outside. I’ll ride down to the station with you.”
II
Ten white men sat around the long mahogany table in the library of Cater Courtnay’s house, and from their faces and their manner it was clear that business of a most serious nature had brought them together. They were men whose faces had long known the sun, prosperous-appearing men, who among them owned most of the good farming land in the county.
Sam Hull, big-faced, untidy, in a wrinkled suit, was speaking.
“Yes, sirs,” he was saying, an overtone of hate in his voice, “right now is the time to call a halt. Learn ’em a lesson they won’t forget in a hurry; they got one coming to them. I reckon you all have noticed how they been getting out of hand of late.”
The men about the table nodded and growled. Cater Courtnay at the head of the table said:
“Yes, yes, I guess we all have. Go on, Sam.”
“But this last thing—that’s the limit with me.”
“You mean that voting business, Sam?” asked one of the men.
The big-faced planter nodded.
“What were the facts, Sam? I was down to Mobile when it happened.”
“Well,” said Hull, “last week on registration day over at Live Oak Corners, little Ned Harris, the election clerk, was dozing in the polling place, when in come two niggers, that big boy Ike, that works for Cassius Pryor, and Courtnay’s boy Matt. Ned Harris sings out, ‘What in hell do you want here?’ and do you know what Matt says?”
The narrator paused before he answered his own question.
“Matt says, ‘Mr. Harris, please, sir, we all would like to vote, if you please.’ At first Ned Harris thought they was fooling, and he says, ‘You want to what?’ ‘We want to vote,’ says Ike and Matt, together, like they had rehearsed. Well, you know what a hair-trigger temper Ned Harris has. ‘You get out of here and get damn quick,’ he says. And do you know what Ike says?”
The listeners did not know but expressed a keen interest in knowing.
“Ike says, ‘Mr. Harris, sir, in the Constitution of the United States it says we all can vote and—and—we want our constitutional rights.’ Well, with that Ned Harris jumps up to knock him down; but Ned ain’t very strong and the blow only staggers Ike, and then do you know what Ike does?”
The speaker looked round the ring of attentive eyes before continuing:
“He pushes Ned Harris back into his seat, and says, ‘Mr. Harris, sir, you don’t respect the Constitution,’ and then he and Matt walks out.”
“Where are those two niggers now?” demanded one of the men, sharply.
“Matt’s lit out,” Cater Courtnay informed him.
“What about the other one—Ike?”
“Oh, after what Cassius Pryor did to him I guess he won’t be overanxious about his constitutional rights again.”
They all laughed. The man who had been in Mobile threw out a question.
“How come these niggers are so glib about their constitutional rights? Those boys can’t read, can they?”
Courtnay stood up.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “Telfair, here, has put his finger on the sore spot of the whole business. Who put these niggers up to acting this way? Ike and Matt and the rest of them haven’t the brains or the nerve; someone is behind them, telling them what to say. I reckon all of us know who I mean.”
There were growls of, “Greel. That skunk Greel.”
“I always figure, gentlemen,” went on Courtnay, “that the way to stop a thing is to stop it at its source—”
“In other words,” interjected Sam Hull, “get Greel.”
“Precisely.”
They looked at each other; there was no dissension.
“I had Greel come to see me last week,” said Courtnay. “He’s a smart, educated nigger, not at all like the hands down here. He’s full of a lot of wind about racial equality—”
He saw that his words were goading them; he went on:
“No. I didn’t hit him. That’s not the way to handle his kind. I just gave him a strong hint that if he valued his skin he’d better take his school up North, where it would be appreciated.”
“Getting mighty polite, ain’t you, Courtnay?” one of the men suggested.
“Oh, I didn’t mince words. I told him point blank that if he didn’t shut up his damn school and get out of the county, some night something highly unpleasant would happen to him. That was a week ago—”
“He’s still here—” said one planter.
“And the school’s still running,” said another.
“And the niggers are having their heads pumped full of nonsense—” put in a third.
“Dangerous nonsense for us,” said a fourth.
“That’s why we’re meeting here tonight, gentlemen,” said Cater Courtnay. “We’re the responsible white men of the community. What are we going to do? Greel has had his warning; he has ignored it; he told me a week ago he was going to stick—his duty to his people or some such rot—and he has stuck.”
“We must teach him a lesson,” Sam Hull declared, his voice rasping. “We must teach them all a lesson—”
“You don’t mean—” The man who interrupted did not finish his sentence; he was a small bird-faced man who appeared, habitually, never to finish anything—his tie was not tied, his buttons not buttoned.…
“You know what we mean, Wood,” said Courtnay. “Are you with us?”
“Yes, yes, of course. But, good God, Courtnay, is there no other way? You know how such things set the papers up North snarling at us. We can’t afford—” His voice trailed off, leaving the end of the sentence ragged, for Courtnay’s austere eye was on him, and there was contempt in it.
“Duty is duty,” said Courtnay, “no matter how unpleasant it is. None of us likes to do what we’re going to have to do. But if the whites are going to keep their place, the blacks have to be kept in theirs.”
“I know, I know,” the little unfi
nished man twisted out the words, “but this isn’t right, it’s—
“It’s—”
Courtnay cut in.
“We can’t be soft, Wood. We’ll try not to hurt the man.”
“That is,” put in Sam Hull, “if he listens to reason.”
“But,” Wood said, “you know Greel’s not like the others—he’s got guts—he’ll fight back—he may—”
“Suppose he does fight back—” said Courtnay. “We can fight a bit ourselves, eh, gentlemen?”
Their laughter was hard.
“Well, when shall it be?” asked Sam Hull.
“Why not tonight?” Cater Courtnay said this.
“Tonight?”
“Yes; let’s get it over with. It’s got to be done.”
“Good. Tonight.”
“Yes, tonight.”
“But I didn’t come—prepared,” said Sam Hull.
“Nor I.”
“Mine’s home, too.”
“Gentlemen,” said Courtnay, “it’s only nine. You’ll have time to go to your homes and get what you require. Remember, we want to do this thing in an orderly, business-like manner.”
“Shall we wear hoods?” asked one.
Courtnay considered.
“Yes,” he said, “that’s a good idea. The niggers still have a superstitious dread of the old Klan; pillow cases with holes will do—”
“When we get Greel,” suggested Sam Hull, “we can stage a little parade through the cabins. Might as well put the fear of God into them right, while we’re about it.”
“He’ll fight, I warn you,” the unfinished man, Wood, quavered. “He’ll shoot—”
They did not wait for him to finish.
“Then there’ll be one less fancy nigger in the world,” said Sam Hull.
“We’ll meet at eleven sharp,” Courtnay said; he spoke as an accepted leader. “Under the oak at the cross-roads. Each man will bring a gun, a hood and a whip. No one is to speak a word till we order Greel to come out. He sleeps in that little shack about a half mile from the cross-roads near the old Claymore creek bridge. Let’s set our watches now. Eleven sharp, remember. Any man who isn’t there will be left behind.”
