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Waterson, Berlin, and snyder, Music PuBlishers. Women are like that. Heat rose from the pavement, made the building and the people look wavy. Made everything look wavy. Question was, could he really trust Martin? Will Marion Cook. Rosamund Johnson. James Reese Europe. None of them would give him the time of day any more. Scott Joplin was low-class, him and his ragtime music. Low-class and old hat. An embarrassment to the race. He pulled a well-used handkerchief from his pocket, mopped water from his forehead, glanced at the sheaf of papers in his left hand.

Was there anybody he could trust? Well, sure, his wife. Lottie was always square at his side. And Nell—of course. Never mind her father, he could trust Nell with his life. He sighed. And yeah, he really did think Martin was okay.

Mysteries of Love

Nice kid, wanted to play piano just like Scott Joplin, came up every week for his lesson. Berlin was doing musical shows now, not just writ- ing popular songs. Joplin had his doubts, but decided to give it a try. But he was not about to take Martin along with him, no need to do that. Scott Joplin was the King of Ragtime.

Besides, his head had felt pretty good earlier this morning.

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All this heat and humidity, all that noise, gasoline motorcars with their backfires, all the people, pushing, yelling, waving their arms. He tried to will calm, blew out a deep breath, then moved, a little unsteadily, toward the door. Lottie had fixed him up right to go downtown, shaved him close, got him into his best dark suit and tie, but as far as that old woman was concerned, Scott Joplin was just another drunk nigger. But what was he supposed to tell her? He turned to go back home, but pulled himself up short. He had to leave Lottie some money. Had to. And besides.

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No children. No paintings, no books, no buildings. He wheeled about, then walked carefully up the steps to the door, pulled it open and went inside, past the elevator, up the staircase.

The third floor hallway was stifling. He felt dizzy, afraid he might pass out. Guiding himself with his free hand against the wall, he made his way down the corridor and into the Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder Reception Room. Nobody there. He looked right, left, right again. Joplin felt like he was standing at the hub of a wagon wheel. The wheel slowed, stopped.

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Joplin raised his head by degrees. Still no one in the room, nobody waiting to show a tune to a buyer, or hoping to bag a tune for a vaudeville act. No receptionist at the desk. The composer picked up his music, stepped cautiously across the room, peered down the corridor to the right of the desk. No luck. He walked a few steps past the desk to check the second corridor. Again, no one in sight…but then he heard a loud, phlegmy cough.

He gripped his papers, started walking.

Gerald P. Murphy

The door to the fourth office on his left sat open. Joplin saw a man sitting at a desk, his back to the door. The composer paused. This nervousness was going to be the death of him. Even when he sat alone at his piano these days, trying to put a tune together, he felt ants crawling up his legs, butterflies sailing around inside his stomach. The white man at the desk swiveled to face him. Joplin recognized him instantly.

Not since , Joplin thought. He held out his offering. The pile of papers shook; he was afraid he might drop the whole stack onto the floor. The white man stood, pushed a hardbacked wooden chair toward his visitor. Take a load off, catch your breath. You say you want me look at your music? Joplin nodded.

Lottie had warned him. Slow and easy. He lowered himself into the seat. Theater music. Like a buzzard spotting a chunk of meat in the gutter. The publisher extended a white, well-manicured hand. Or you just want to keep me guessing? Joplin laid his music, slow-motion, on the desk.

The white man craned his neck to read; his eyebrows went up. A musical drama in two acts. Not any longer than Treemonisha. Shaking even worse now. He fought to go on talking. See what you think. Instead, the white man leaned back in his chair and took a moment to study his visitor. Just like for Treemonisha.

Drama - Ragtime Mystery - One Act Play for Kids

I do my own work, all of it. Anger hit the colored man like a wild animal released from a cage to pounce on his chest. Lottie spoke to him in his mind, gentle but firm. What you want is to get him to take on your music.

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He is proved correct when a volunteer firehouse is bombed and several firemen are killed. He terrorizes New Rochelle, killing several firemen and bombing a volunteer firehouse while posting demands that his car be restored and returned to him, and that Will Conklin be delivered into his hands. Booker T. The family stands at the center of the scandal as Mother retains custody of Sarah and Coalhouse's baby. Father blames her for bringing this turmoil into their lives, but Younger Brother furiously lambasts him for his blindness.

He storms out of the house. Mother is becoming increasingly irritated by Father's actions, and encourages him to explain to their son what is happening.