on, are
written for white men. We blacks must solve the question for
ourselves."

He had lost some of the ardor with which he had started out but he was
still full of hope. He refused to accept Mr. Featherton's point of
view as general or final. So he hailed a passing car that in the
course of a half hour set him down at the door of the great factory
which, with its improvements, its army of clerks and employees, had
built up one whole section of the town. He felt especially hopeful in
attacking this citadel, because they were constantly advertising for
clerks and their placards plainly stated that preference would be
given to graduates of the local high school. The owners were
philanthropists in their way. Well, what better chance could there be
before him? He had graduated there and stood well in his classes, and
besides, he knew that a number of his classmates were holding good
positions in the factory. So his voice was cheerful as he asked to see
Mr. Stockard, who had charge of the clerical department.

Mr. Stockard was a fat, wheezy young man, with a reputation for humor
based entirely upon his size and his rubicund face, for he had really
never said anything humorous in his life. He came panting into the
room now with a "Well, what can I do for you?"

"I wanted to see you about a situation"--began Halliday.

"Oh, no, no, you don't want to see me," broke in Stockard, "you want
to see the head janitor."

"But I don't want to see the head janitor. I want to see the head of
the clerical department."

"You want to see the head of the clerical department!"

"Yes, sir, I see you are advertising for clerks with preference given
to the high school boys. Well, I am an old high school boy, but have
been away for a few years at college."

Mr. Stockard opened his eyes to their widest extent, and his jaw
dropped. Evidently he had never come across such presumption before.

"We have nothing for you," he wheezed after awhile.

"Very well, I should be glad to drop in again and see you," said
Halliday, moving to the door. "I hope you will remember me if anything
opens."

Mr. Stockard did not reply to this or to Bert's good-bye. He stood in
the middle of the floor and stared at the door through which the
colored man had gone, then he dropped into a chair with a gasp.

"Well, I'm dumbed!" he said.

A doubt had begun to arise in Bertram Halliday's mind that turned him
cold and then hot with a burning indignation. He c