Since that day I have waited anxiously for many a turn of the wheel of fortune, but never under greater tension than when I watched for the order in which those letters would fall from “Red’s” lips—­“o-u-r-t-h.”  A sigh of relief and disappointment went up from the class.  Afterwards, through all our school days, “Red Head” shared my wit and quickness and I benefited by his strength and dogged faithfulness.

There were some black and brown boys and girls in the school, and several of them were in my class.  One of the boys strongly attracted my attention from the first day I saw him.  His face was as black as night, but shone as though it were polished; he had sparkling eyes, and when he opened his mouth, he displayed glistening white teeth.  It struck me at once as appropriate to call him “Shiny Face,” or “Shiny Eyes,” or “Shiny Teeth,” and I spoke of him often by one of these names to the other boys.  These terms were finally merged into “Shiny,” and to that name he answered good-naturedly during the balance of his public school days.

“Shiny” was considered without question to be the best speller, the best reader, the best penman—­in a word, the best scholar, in the class.  He was very quick to catch anything, but, nevertheless, studied hard; thus he possessed two powers very rarely combined in one boy.  I saw him year after year, on up into the high school, win the majority of the prizes for punctuality, deportment, essay writing, and declamation.  Yet it did not take me long to discover that, in spite of his standing as a scholar, he was in some way looked down upon.

The other black boys and girls were still more looked down upon.  Some of the boys often spoke of them as “niggers.”  Sometimes on the way home from school a crowd would walk behind them repeating: 

  “Nigger, nigger, never die,
  Black face and shiny eye.”

On one such afternoon one of the black boys turned suddenly on his tormentors and hurled a slate; it struck one of the white boys in the mouth, cutting a slight gash in his lip.  At sight of the blood the boy who had thrown the slate ran, and his companions quickly followed.  We ran after them pelting them with stones until they separated in several directions.  I was very much wrought up over the affair, and went home and told my mother how one of the “niggers” had struck a boy with a slate.  I shall never forget how she turned on me.  “Don’t you ever use that word again,” she said, “and don’t you ever bother the colored children at school.  You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”  I did hang my head in shame, not because she had convinced me that I had done wrong, but because I was hurt by the first sharp word she had ever given me.

My school days ran along very pleasantly.  I stood well in my studies, not always so well with regard to my behavior.  I was never guilty of any serious misconduct, but my love of fun sometimes got me into trouble.  I remember, however, that my sense of humor was so sly that most of the trouble usually fell on the head of the other fellow.  My ability to play on the piano at school exercises was looked upon as little short of marvelous in a boy of my age.  I was not chummy with many of my mates, but, on the whole, was about as popular as it is good for a boy to be.