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84 ABBOTT's MONTHLY the Rock. Every bone creaked when he bowed to the king. He and Mac talked in low tones for a short time, then Old Ruin shuffled to the edge of the Rock and began to speak. He had a mighty strong voice for such an old wreck. "At every Feast of The First Fruits of the People of The Black Lion," he shouted, "it is the custom of The Black One, The Eater up of Elephants, The Slayer of Lions, The Father of Kings, The King of The Zulu People to permit any of his subjects or any stranger to challenge him to fight, man to man, for the kingship! Who among the People of The Black Lion would match his skill and strength with Chaka, The Black One-" He rambled on like a revival preacher. I figured Mac was playing to the stands and he a safe bet, when, Gosh! that pint of poison, Ngacoma, stood up and faced the royal party. I smelt a flock of rats right away. If this wasn't a put up job I was a baldheaded sea-buzzard. I gave Myankass a sour look, but she was whispering to Mac and missed it. Her dear father challenged Mac to a finish fight, to the death, for job, home, possessions and relatives, winner take all; weapons furnished by the king; place the time here and now; execution by either, a sure enough air tight challenge. Mac stood up, and he was so much a king, all my thoughts about him selling out to some European power faded away. The sight of him, the king on his Rock, made me ashamed for doubting him. And when he spoke he knocked me for a row of Russian roubles. The king would fight the great chief Ngacoma with bare hands! "Old boy Mac!" I yelled in English. Lord, this life out there was bad on the heart! An hour before I was having the real, lowdown blues because I believed old Mac had let us all down, and just when I lose 'em, back they come worse than before, because I expected Mac to last about ten minutes, game as he was. I had to die some time and I sure meant to "go down" hard. Mac called me to him. All he had on was his mocha or breech cloth, Myankaas held his kaross and gold head band. He handed the belt and Colt to me. "This is a battle between brains and tonnage, John. I fear all that food and beer that entered Mr. Ngacoma an hour ago will fight on my side. Besides, I can box a little. See you later." He smiled up at Myankaas, then with a wave of his hand to me he sauntered over to where Ngacoma stood waiting proud and haughty. The place was as still as the New York Public Library, I could hear Mac's bare feet swish through the grass. Ah, they were two men! The muscles rippled under their bronze skins like big, powerful snakes. Buffalo against lion! A Zulu is the deadliest fighter anybody wants to duck, but he's got to chirp about his former deeds before he commences carnage. Ngacoma began his chanting, saying in time without moving his feet. Mac yawned sleepily. Then, like the strike of a black adder, his right like to drove the chief's teeth through his throat. Gosh! That ton of meat went stark, foaming crazy. He tore after Mac like an express train. "Knock his brains loose, Mac!" I shouted as he planted a vicious left and right to the stomach. Then another hard left on Comy's big nose. This was going to be better than I thought. As yet the chief hadn't struck a blow. In ten minutes the jackals over in the hills must have thought an elephant was suffering from a bad attack of asthma. Ngacoma seemed to need all the air in Africa. Wham! Old Mac brought a right haymaker all the way from Cape Town and sat Comy down sudden and hard. "Go go get him, Mac-he's a hunk of cheese!" Up he came and stopped an left hoo with two hundred and ten pounds of king behind it. The blood flew like rain in an April shower. He hit Mac a crack that knocked him upside down fifteen feet away. That Zulu didn't know how to hit, slammed like he had a hammer in his hand and the blow landed on Mac's chest. He was quick, too, for he dived foot ball fashion and grabbed the king's foot. Mac shook himself loose and was on his feet in eyelash time, sending in a ton of snappy hits, but received another awful blow on the neck. This made Mac more careful, so he sparred pretty for time and jabbed the cruel face to a fare-you-well. He used some pretty foot work to keep clear of that cave man's rushing grip. "Don't bust your hands, old boy!" I shouted. "A couple more long distance socks and then the Flying Mare!" Old Mac must have heard me, a few flashing jabs and as the angry chief came rushing in he brought it. I mean he brought it; flush on that square jaw. Comy didn't fall, sort of sunk like a heap of sand. He rested on his hands, gathering air in big sobs, but his eyes blazed up at Mac like he was just starting. This time he was slower getting on his feet. Mac swarmed all over him. And suddenly Comy got his grip. It seemed years went by as they strained and swayed. I near cried when Mac slumped dead to the world in those great arms. Ngacoma dropped him to the ground. The next instant I saw Comy shoot up and over and land flat on his broad back with a thud that must have shook all Zulu Land. My boy had been playing dumb like a fox. Five times Mac raised that ton of meat and slammed him on his back. The punishment would have killed an elephant. "You got him, Mac!" I whooped; "smear up Zulu Land with him!" Would you believe it? That brute got on his shaky legs after all that massacre, and he sure looked a whang. His nose and mouth looked like something the butcher just cut up and there was blood all over him, yet he stood, great legs apart, those mighty shoulders sagging forward with hanging arms, head lowered and eyes closed. Out on his feet. I had to give it to him, he was one touch baby and game as they come. For the first time I had to admire him. Mac finished him with a right uppercut to the jaw. The folks went crazy over their king. The Zulus loved courage and fighting ability, so when their king smashed up the best fighter in the land they naturally went coo-coo. The soldiers brought him back on their shoulders, the deep voices singing the national chant. Mac had a swollen neck, and blood all over him, (Continued on page 86) for May, 1931 85 Unknown Artists and Their Art - (Continued from page 54) Would take enough interest in the black artist in general, as to give him a chance to offer his works for prizes or sales, since the dealers are so loath to show his works. Many feel that the Harmon awards are a sort of a second emancipation for the race. Much praise is due the Harmon Foundation and the Federal Council of Churches fro the great work they are doing for our artists. From the beginning in 1926 until the present the work of that organization has been unexcelled. It has brought to light many of our artists who hertofore were never known to a general public. Besides their annual exhibits in New York they have sponsored traveling exhibits to principal cities throughout the country. The award consists of a Gold Medal and an honorarium of $400, a bronze Medal and an honorarium of $100. Palmer C. Hayden of New York was the first artist of our race to receive the Harmon Gold Award in the fine arts in the 1926 series, and Hale Woodruff of Indianapolis, Indiana, received the bronze award for that year. Both are now studying abroad. The following year, the Gold Award went to Laura Wheeler Waring of Cheyney, Pennsylvania, and the bronze award to J.W. Hardrick of Indianapolis, Indiana. Since receiving his recognition, Mr. Hardrick is fortunate in having one of his paintings placed in the permanent collection of the Museum of that city. In the 1928 series an anonymous donor gave, and has since given a special prize of $250 to the best piece of work after the Harmon awards have been given. Sargeant Johnson of Berkeley, California, was the first to receive that prize, for his "Sammy" made in black porcelain. The donor has been much pleased with the works that have received his prize. In the 1929 series, a very unusual painter, William H. Johnson, received the Gold Award. Albert A Smith of New York and Sargeant Johnson of Berkeley, California, who received the special prize in 1928, received the bronze award for this series. Elizabeth Prophet, an unusual sculptress, the $250 special prize. As the Harmon Awards were put on for a five year trial period, at this writing this is the fifth year. Through the co-operation of interracial committees in the larger cities of the country, a traveling exhibit was sent out in 1929, the first of its kind ever shown. It was gladly welcomed in every city shown and was viewed by large and enthusiastic audiences. Of the cities visited in the South, Louisville, Kentucky, Atlanta, Georgia and Nashville, Tennessee, it was shown in two of the leading colleges; in the northern cities it was housed in the art museums and was viewed by large crowds of both races. St. Louis was so enthused over the exhibit that it was kept there a month, much longer than elsewhere. There it was show at the City Art Museum in connection with an exhibit of the work of local artists. Large crowds of citizens of both races viewed the exhibit daily. It was the first time that so large a collection of paintings by our artists had ever been shown. In 1930, another traveling exhibit was sent out, this time to visit more cities than before, which indicated the increased interest in Negro art. The jury, in making its selections for the exhibits, felt that the entries were of general high order, a considerable number running from "creditable to distinguished." It is well mention at this time that, according to official record kept of the attendance of the Negro-in-Art week at the Art Institute of Chicago in 1927, an average of eight hundred people daily viewed the exhibits. Since the black artists and their art work have, and are yet growing in popularity, we continue to hear of the accomplishments of some individual among the group. As before said, our women are taking to sculpture with much success. Elizabeth Prophet, who received the Harmon special prize in 1930, has just placed another of her wonderful pieces of sculpture to the Rhode Island School of Design, "Discontent" a piece done in pearwood. It was exhibited at the 56th Gallery in New York , and was purchased by Eleanor B. Green, who presented it to the Rhode Island School, as a part of the permanent collection. Call of the Heart - (Continued from page 78) pass across the full face of the full face of the moon, and through little windows it peeps down at the two passengers beside the ship's rail. "I'm not being sentimental." The girl speaks wistfully. "You don't know how old memories come back to plague me-" "I know how they can plague you," the man breaks in. "It's nearly five years since I ran away from home," the gril continues. "There's my little sister Nina-and Mother. I couldn't stay there on the island any longer-I had to go back to Australia." "Well, there aren't many more days to go. You'll soon be back to your dear mother." "Yes-and will you stay a while with us?" "No, I'm going back to Tahiti with the ship." And the ship ploughs her way through a kind of trembling silver mirror, but the man and the young girl see no image.
