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 be possible for white and black to live peaceably, side by side, each offering his gifts, one to the other? That consummation, Byron admitted to himself, was not to be immediately hoped for.

Forty-second Street! the guard was shouting. Byron left the car.

The Cletheredge Building was a huge nest of offices towering to the sky in the early forties, its upper storeys resting on a series of graceful terraces. The effect of the front portal, guarded by elaborately carved, sinister, stone dragons, was sombre and portentous. As Byron entered he recalled the device Dante had blazoned over the gates of hell.

In a spacious underground room he discovered a group of young Negroes, laughing, chattering, smoking cigarettes, as they donned their uniforms. In one corner, three boys were shooting craps.

Pull duh chain! one of them cried. Dis heah is duh new boy.

Whah you from? another demanded. Later, Byron identified him as the Joel to whom, the day before, he had been instructed to report.

Harlem, Byron replied.

Ah ain' seen you. Joel regarded the newcomer with suspicion.

Shoot duh fo'! a voice in the corner called.

Stop rollin' dose bones! Joel ordered. Then to Byron, Roll duh babies?

Sometimes.

Well, come along an' git yo' suit. Joel conducted