The Forged Note
A Romance of the Darker Races
BY
OSCAR MICHEAUX
Author of “The Conquest”
ILLUSTRATED BY C.W. HELLER
Lincoln, Nebraska
WESTERN BOOK SUPPLY COMPANY
1915
COPYRIGHT, 1915
BY
Woodruff Bank Note Co.
All rights reserved
TO ONE WHOSE NAME DOES NOT APPEAR
I am leaving you and Dixie land tomorrow. It is customary perhaps to say, “Dear Old Dixie” but, since I happen to be from that little place off in the northwest, of which I have fondly told you, the Rosebud Country, where I am returning at once, and which is the only place that is dear to me, I could not conscientiously use the other term. Still, I am grateful, and well I should be; for, had I not spent these eighteen months down here, I could never have written this story. No imagination, positively not mine, could have created “Slim”, “T. Toddy”, “Legs”, “John Moore”, et al. I really knew them. I haven’t even changed their names, since what’s the use? They, unless by chance, will never know, for, as I knew them, they never read. Only one of them I am sure ever owned a book. That one did, however, and that I know, for he stole my dictionary before I left the town. Whatever he expected to do with it, is a puzzle to me, but since it was leather-bound, I think he imagined it was a Bible. He was very fond of Bibles, and I recall that was the only thing he read. He is in jail now, so I understand; which is no surprise, since he visited there quite often in the six months I knew him. As to “Legs”, I have no word; but since summer time has come, I am sure “Slim” has either gone into “business” or is “preaching.” “T. Toddy” was pretty shaky when I saw him last, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he were not now in Heaven. And still, with what he threatened to do to me when he was informed that I had written of him in a book, he may be in the other place, who knows! I recall it with a tremor. We were in a restaurant some time after the first threat, but at that time, he appeared to understand that I had written nothing bad concerning him, and we were quite friendly. He told of himself and his travels, relating a trip abroad, to Liverpool and London. In the course of his remarks, he told that he used to run down from Liverpool to London every morning, since it was just over the hill a mile, and could be seen from Liverpool whenever the fog lifted. He advised me a bit remonstratingly, that, since I had written of him in the book, if I had come to him in advance, he would have told me something of himself to put into it that would have interested the world. I suggested that it was not then too late, and that he should make a copy of it. He intimated that it would be worth something and I agreed with him, and told him I would give him fifty cents. He said that would be satisfactory, but he wanted it then in advance. I wouldn’t agree to that, but told him that he would have to give me a brief of his life, where and when he was born, if he had been, also where and when he expected to die, etc. first. He got “mad” then and threatened to do something “awful”. Took himself outside and opened a knife, the blade of which had been broken, and was then about a half inch long, and told me to come out, whereupon he would show me my heart. As he waited vainly for me, he took on an expression that made him appear the worst man in all the world. I did not, of course go out, and told him so—through the window.
That was the end of it—and of him, so far as I know. But you can understand by this how near I have been to death in your Dixie Land. When I come back it will not be for “color”; but—well, I guess you know.
New Orleans, La., August 1, 1915.
O.M.