Scootie promptly hit the ground with both feet, landing by the side of Figger Bush.
“Come on, honey!” she said, seizing him by the hand. “Less go quick!”
“Kin I go, too?” Little Bit, the driver of the second wagon asked in a whining tone. No answer was given to him, so he jumped down and followed.
From the top of the hill, they looked down to where the red brick court-house baked in the summer sun. Side by side they started toward the court-house, and the new life.
On the other side of the hill, sole guardian of the grand old man in the cabin, the mocking-bird sat in the pecan tree and sang its song of love.
The swinging doors of the Hen-Scratch saloon fell apart and Conko Mukes walked in.
He was a large man and, to look at, very impressive.
The negroes in Tickfall had never seen clothes like his, so large in stripe and so variegated in color. On either lapel of his coat was a large, brassy emblem of some secret lodge.
On the middle finger of each hand was a rolled-gold band ring nearly an inch wide. Across the vast expanse of his sky-muckle-dun-colored waistcoat was a gangrened near-gold watch-chain like the cable chain of a Mississippi River steamboat, and a charm suspended from it was constructed of the talons of an eagle.
His ponderous feet shook the floor as he walked across the saloon and seated himself at a table. Removing his stove-pipe hat, he placed that upon one chair, kicked another chair from under the table on which to deposit his feet, and leaned back in a third chair, with his gorilla-like arms resting comfortably across the back of a fourth. The barroom appeared to be empty.
“Hey, dar! Come here—eve’ybody!” he bellowed.
Skeeter Butts peeped at Conko Mukes around the corner of the bar behind which he was sitting.
The black face which he beheld advertised unmistakably what Conko Mukes was. It was the mug of a typical prize-fighter.
The face was clean-shaven, accentuating a jaw, heavy, brutal, aggressive. His head was also shaven, and every bump on his villainous cranium stood forth like a promontory on a level plain. His eyes were heavy-lidded, lazy, sleepy-looking, like the eyes of a lion.
The nose had been broken and was crooked; his thick lips had been battered in many fights until they were shapeless, and the mouth was simply an ugly gash across his face. And to complete the adornment, one ear was “tin” and the other was cauliflower, both permanently disfigured and disfiguring.
Conko Mukes moved in his chair as if burdened by the heavy weight of his muscles, and his heavy-lidded eyes glowed yellow in the dim light of the saloon as he glared around him. Again his voice boomed:
“Hey! Am eve’ybody done hauled off an’ died? Come out here, Skeeter Butts—whut’s hidin’ you?”
“I guess dis is my move-up,” Skeeter remarked as he pocketed a handful of silver which he had been counting behind the bar and came to the table.
Conko watched the diminutive darky until he stopped by his table. Then the lazy, lion-likeeyes glowed with a yellow fire, and with a slapping motion of his monstrous hand he exclaimed:
“Shoo, fly, don’t bodder me!”
Skeeter Butts cackled like a nervous hen, fluttered well out of reach of that hand, and snickered:
“Lawd, Conko, you sho’ is one powerful funny man! Dat gits you a free-fer-nothin’ drink. You is better’n a show-actor.”
“You done kotch de lizard by de tail, son—kotch him de fust time,” Conko informed him in deep, rumbling bellow. “I is a holy show!”
“How is you feelin’ to-day, Conko?” Skeeter asked as he set the drink before him.
“I feels like I is sorry I wus borned to die!” Conko answered, swallowing the raw whisky with one gulp and with a dry eye. “How is de bettin’ gittin’ on?”
“De niggers takes up eve’y bet, Conko,” Skeeter replied. “You see, dis here Hitch Diamond—nobody ain’t never knocked him out yit!”
“He ain’t never fit nobody yit,” Conko remarked easily. “Befo’ dis day is over I’ll make him wish he’d been borned a little nigger gal!”
“I hopes so,” Skeeter said with a nervous flutter in his tone. “I done bet de limit. Ef it ain’t a win wid you, I’s gwine hab de misforchine to lose fawty dollars.”
With a pompous air Conko Mukes thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out a large roll of bills which had been carefully wrapped around a fat corn-cob. He tossed it across the table.
“Dar am fifteen dollars whut you kin bet fer me, Skeeter. Dat many money says to you dat I’s gwine make Hitch Diamond dig a hole in de groun’ to git away from de Georgia Cyclome.”
“Hitch specify dat he gwine rub his gloves wid hoodoo-juice,” Skeeter said as he fumbled with the corn-cob. “Ain’t you got no stunts like dat to pull on?”
Conko Mukes opened his eyes with a sudden and tremendous interest. He sat for a moment in deep thought. Then he answered in a regretful tone:
“Naw, suh, I ain’t never studied ’bout dat befo’. I don’t depen’ on no hoodoo-juice. I depen’s on elbow-grease! I fights straight, and hits hard, an’ knocks ’em out on de level.”
“Yes, suh, elbow-grease is powerful good,” Skeeter said uneasily; “but I figgers dat us oughter hab all de he’p we kin git! Of co’se, I don’t b’lieve in no hoodoo myse’f, but——”
“Us don’t need no hoodoo,” Conko interrupted. “Let Hitch Diamond git it. He needs it. He don’t know it yit, but he needs a dorctor, a preacher, a undertaker, an’ a nice, deep grave in de cem’tery!”
“I wouldn’t be so powerful shore ’bout dat, Conko,” Skeeter suggested. “You ain’t never seed dat Hitch Diamond pufform.”
“Whut sort lookin’ coon is he?” Conko asked.
“He’s mo’ tall dan you, wider dan you, heavier dan you is. He’s got arms long enough to hug a elerphunt aroun’ de stomick.”
“I’ll break dem long arms in fo’ pieces an’ wrop ’em aroun’ Hitch’s neck like a mournin’ rag,” Conko declared.
“Hitch kin put his hands on yo’ head an’ mash yo’ face plum’ down in yo’ stomick—jes’ like you wus a mud-turkle!” Skeeter said.
“He won’t git no chance to mash,” Conko assured him. “I’ll make him think he’s got bofe hands tied behime him an’ bofe behime foots kotch in a bear-trap.”
“Hitch won’t take but two licks at you,” Skeeter continued. “One’ll be a up-cut whut’ll punch you in de air like a balloom; den he’ll take a side-swipe at you when you is comin’ down, an’ phish!—you’ll be over on de yuther side of Jordan!”
“Huh!” Conko grunted. “Whut you reckin I’ll be doin’ to him when I’s comin’ down?”
“De las’ time Hitch had a prize-fight,” Skeeter remarked, as he tried to roll a cigarette with fingers which trembled and spilled all the tobacco, “he specify dat he didn’t need but one glove, an’ he made em tie it on hiselbow. He fiddled aroun’ an’ dodged dat big stiff till de nigger got in reach of dat elbow; den Hitch gib him a little jab in his soul-complexion, an’ dat nigger went to heaben fer a week!”
“Huh!” Conko grunted. “Hitch’ll need gloves on his elbows to-day, too. But he’ll want ’em to keep him from hurtin’ his crazy-bones when I knocks him down.”
“Hitch Diamond challenged Jack Johnsing,”Skeeter declared. “An’ you know whut dat nigger champeen of de worl’ went an’ done? He got on a big ferry-boat an’ went to Framce an’ specify dat he wustn’t never comin’ back to dis country no mo’!”
“Jack Johnsing got skeared too soon,” Conko replied easily. “I always said he had a yeller streak.”
“I seed Hitch fight a bear once,” Skeeter informed him. “He kotch dat bear by de tail, an’ dat bear gib one loud squall an’ drug Hitch plum’ to Arkansas befo’ Hitch could let loose his handholt!”
“Huh,” Conko grunted, undismayed. “I ain’t got no tail.”
Skeeter stopped. His thought could go no higher. His imagination could reach no further.
Conko lighted a big cigar and puffed smoke like a steam-engine. He laid two monstrous hands, palm upward, upon the table between them and remarked:
“Dese here hands needs exoncise, Skeeter. Hitch Diamond is shore gwine make a good punchin’ bag.”
“I hopes you gits yo’ punch in fust,” Skeeter sighed, wishing that he had not bet so heavily.
“Whut’s de matter wid you?” Conko Mukes bawled. “Is you gittin’ cold foots?”
“Naw. Nothin’ like dat,” Skeeter hastened to assure him, “but——”
“’Tain’t no need to git anxious,” Conko declared as he rose to go. “You go out an’ bet mymoney, an’ remember dat de Georgia Cyclome is a real twister.”
“Hitch is a stem-winder, too,” Skeeter declared.
As Conko Mukes tramped out of the saloon, Skeeter Butts wiped the clammy sweat from his face and sighed.
“My Lawd!” he moaned. “I tried to skeer dat nigger up so he’d be keerful, but Conko don’t take no skeer. Leastwise, he don’t talk dat way. I got de hunch dat he ain’t nothin’ but beef an’ wind an’ a loud noise. I bet I’s gwine lose eve’y bet whut I done bet. Dat’s de bes’ bet I could bet!”
“Huh!” Conko Mukes meditated as he walked slowly toward that portion of Tickfall inhabited by the whites. “Dat Skeeter Butts specify dat Hitch Diamond is some fightin’ coon. I wish I hadn’t bet dem fifteen dollars; I cain’t affode to lose ’em. I needs he’p. Wonder whar I could git some of dat hoodoo-juice?”
Professor Dodo Zodono, medium, magician, hypnotist, stood on a box in front of the Tickfall drug-store, adjusted the joints of his flute, and placed it to his lips. The sweet, piercing notes quickly drew a crowd around him.
The professor was tall and thin, with long black hair, big black eyes, a long mustache, and long, snaky fingers. His black clothes appeared to hang upon his emaciated form like draperies, a circumstance which helped him greatly in his sleight-of-hand tricks.
Two assistants stood on the ground beside the box. Both were tall and very thin, with lank, damp hair and listless, humid eyes, and tallow-colored skin always moist with nervous sweat—you have seen many like them lying in hypnotic sleep in some show window, or have peered down a wooden chute to see them slumbering in a coffin six feet under the ground.
When the music ended Professor Zodono handed his flute to one of his assistants and began his spiel:
“Fellow citizens, I have called you together to give you a little demonstration of my powers.
“We are surrounded by mystery. There is a vast realm of the unknown which science has not explored. I shall demonstrate to you to-night that we have not yet even reached the edge of the great ocean of discovery—price of admission, fifteen and twenty-five cents!
“I shall show you wonders which cannot be accounted for. You will hear sounds which defy the laws of acoustics. You will behold appearances which fly in the face of investigation, and effects which do not appear to have a sufficient cause—all for the insignificant price of fifteen and twenty-five cents!
“I shall now give you a free demonstration of hypnotism. This is no new thing, and I do not charge you a cent to see an old and familiar stunt. It is nothing but a nervous sleep induced by the active mind of the operator upon the subjective consciousness of the hypnotic. This power has been known to the world for eighteen hundredyears. Under this influence, the operator can make his subject dance, sing, speak, or perform any stunt he pleases. In New York, Dr. Meseran hypnotized Sandow, the modern Samson, and that giant who could lift three hundred pounds above his head with one hand could not even lift his hand to his head to scratch his ear——”
At this point there was a slight commotion in the closely packed crowd in front of Zodono. A giant darky gorgeously dressed was pressing himself to the front. It was Conko Mukes.
His manner and speech, as he pushed aside both whites and blacks, were the very apotheosis of deference and courtesy:
“’Scuse me, boss! Beg parding, kunnel! Fer Gawd’s sake, don’t lemme disturb you-alls! Gotter git to de drug-sto’ prompt, cap’n. Please, suh, let a po’ mis’ble nigger git by fer de white folks’ med’cine. Thank ’e, suh, de Lawd is shore gwine bless you fer dis nigger’s sake.”
By the time Conko Mukes was within four feet of the box on which Zodono stood, the professor had resumed his speech and the crowd had forgotten the interruption. Mukes stopped where he was and listened.
“Every positive character in the world has this power of hypnotism over every negative character,” the professor proclaimed. “It is the simple power of mind over mind by suggestion—all of which I shall prove to you to-night at the opera-house for a few nickels admission—price, fifteen and twenty-five cents!”
At this point one of the professor’s assistants walked toward the box, his feet dragging and moving as if some one had him by the shoulders, leading him forward. His thin arms dangled at his sides, and his bony fingers twitched and writhed like the tail of a snake.
He climbed upon the box with awkward movements as if the joints of his shoulders and hips were stiff and the hinges rusty, and they hurt him.
He walked slowly, reluctantly toward Zodono, and the professor threw up his hand, snapped his fingers, and cried “Stop!”
The assistant flinched, dodged like a dog, and the crowd snickered.
“My Gawd!” Conko Mukes mumbled in a low tone. “Look at dat!”
For a moment the professor glared in the eyes of his assistant; then his hands began making slow, stroking motions downward before the subject’s face. Red spots came and went in the bleached cheeks of the hypnotic; his breath was short and quick; his nostrils and lips were pinched.
The crowd looked on breathlessly as the hand of the professor, fingers outstretched, clawed the air before that weak, chalky face, with its twitching lips and feeble, trembling chin.
“Ah!” the professor exclaimed theatrically, grinning his triumph in the face of the crowd.
“Ah!” the crowd echoed with an expulsive sound of breath released after a moment of breathless attention.
The man stood before them, asleep on his feet, his body waving slowly like a feather suspended from a thread and gently wafted by a slight breeze.
The druggist and his two clerks came out, picked up the hypnotic, who was as stiff as a board; carried him into the drug-store, and laid him flat on his back in the show window.
Then the druggist unfolded a sheet, covered the body, tucked the covering close around the sleeper’s chalky face, and stepped across the store to the soda-fountain with an eye alert and a hand ready for trade.
“Remember, gents!” Professor Zodono exclaimed. “An educational and instructive show for men, women, and children—opera-house to-night at eight o’clock sharp—fifteen and twenty-five cents!”
Then, followed by his other assistant, the professor walked slowly up the street to the opera-house to dress the stage for his evening’s performance.
They were followed at a respectful distance by Conko Mukes.
The moment the two men had passed out of sight through the stage entrance in the alley by the Gaitskill store, Conko Mukes knocked on the door.
“Open up, Bill!” Zodono commanded. “I guess that is the nigger washwoman come after those curtains.”
When Conko Mukes entered, Zodono came forward.
“Have you come after the washing?” he asked.
Conko Mukes took off his hat, and his immensemouth with its mashed and shapeless lips spread wide in an ugly grin.
“Don’t you know me, Mister Jimmy?” Conko asked.
“My Lord!” Zodono exclaimed after a moment’s inspection. “You damn’ ole coon! What you doing in this place, Conko?”
“I had to take a good riddunce of Georgia, Mr. Jimmy,” Conko growled, grinning like a bear. “De gram jury lawed me all de time an’ dat place got too hot. How is all de white folks an’ de niggers in Tupelo?”
“Fine—when I saw them last,” Zodono grinned. “The grand jury lawed me, too, and I left.”
“Is dat how come you change yo’ name?” Conko asked in polite tones.
“Oh, no; it wasn’t as bad as that,” Zodono laughed. “But I could never make any money in my business with my real name. A spiritualistic medium, fortune-teller, magician, and hypnotist named Jim Skaggs—that would never do. What are you doing here?”
“I’se prize-fightin’, Mr. Jimmy. I been fightin’ up’n down de Mississippi River, an’ I come here to git a fight dis atternoon wid a nigger named Hitch Diamond.”
“How did you like my show out in front?” Zodono asked.
“It wus fine, Mr. Jimmy!” Conko exclaimed in enthusiastic tones. “Dat’s how come I wants to see you. I would like to ’terrogate you ’bout dat show.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Whut I axes you is dis,” Conko began; “you s’pose a nigger could learn how to hypnertize like you?”
Zodono looked at Bill, his assistant, and winked. Then he answered:
“Certainly, Conko.”
“How is it did, boss?” the negro asked eagerly.
Zodono looked at the negro for a moment then grinned. He looked at Bill and Bill grinned back. Here was a chance to have some fun.
“You’re getting ready to pull some hypnotic stunt in that prize-fight this afternoon, ain’t you Conko?” the professor asked.
“Yes, suh,” Conko chuckled like a rumbling train. “I figger ef I could put dat fightin’ coon to sleep like you done dat white boy in front of de drug-sto’, dat I could knock him out widout wastin’ so much wind an’ elbow-grease.”
“Well,” Professor Zodono began, “first you walk straight up to the subject and look into his eyes.”
“Which eye does you look at his eyes wid?” Conko asked.
“Both eyes—your own eyes!” Zodono explained.
“Yes, suh.”
“Then you make a stroking motion in front of his face with the fingers of your hand extended like you were combing wool——”
“Yes, suh; you paws at him.”
“Then you bring your dominant will to bearupon the subject’s subconscious mind, willing him to sleep—to stand upright and sleep——”
“Dat sounds easy,” Conko grinned.
“Do you think you could do that?” Zodono inquired.
“Suttinly. Dat is—mebbe so. I’d shore like to try it one time befo’ I hypnertized dat fightin’ coon——”
“All right. I’ll let you try it on a white man. If you can hypnotize a white man, you can certainly come it over on a nigger. We’ll try it on Bill.”
Zodono turned and glanced at his assistant. That glance was like the stroke of a whip-lash, and Bill quailed and flinched, the grin faded from his face, and the flush changed to a deadly pallor.
“Now, Conko,” Zodono commanded. “Walk right up to Bill. Look straight into his eyes.”
Bill stood like a rag doll, or anything else you can think of which is spineless and helpless and non-resistant.
Conko walked up and glared into Bill’s listless, humid eyes like a monstrous, bloodthirsty gorilla eying a wax dummy. Bill did not see the negro, for unknown to Conko, the tall form of Zodono stood just behind him, and the professor’s eyes held the hypnotic as a snake charms a bird.
“Now,” Zodono commanded in sharp tones to the darky, “make a stroking motion before his face—slow—slow—slow. Now bring your will to bear upon his subconscious mind—that’s it. Sleep—sleep—sleep—ah!”
With a horrified expression upon his face, Conko stood staring at the face of the man before him. The hypnotic slowly teetered forward and backward, threatening with each swaying movement to lose his balance and tumble over.
“Catch him!” Zodono commanded sharply.
Conko sprang forward and eased the falling man to the floor.
“My Gawd!” a strange negro voice exclaimed. “Did anybody ever see de beat of dat?”
Professor Zodono wheeled and stared at the frightened face of a large, full-bosomed, golden-brown girl, whose long, straight, black hair clung around her face, by contrast making her octoroon complexion almost white. Her bold, black eyes were big with wonder and awe, and the hands clasped over her bosom were trembling.
“What do you want?” Zodono snapped.
“I come fer de washin’,” the girl stammered; “but I wants to git outen here real prompt.”
“Don’t be afraid,” the professor said, as he walked over to a table where a pile of soiled curtains were stacked. “That man is not dead; just sleeping.”
The girl backed around behind Zodono and peeped at Conko.
“Kin dat nigger wake dat white man up?” she asked.
“Yes,” Zodono answered. Then he called to Mukes: “Wake him up, Conko!”
Conko leaned over, shook Bill by the shoulder, and bellowed:
“Git up, Mr. Bill! De bossman say fer you to git up!”
But Bill slept on. Zodono laughed.
“Bring your dominant mind to bear upon his subjective consciousness, Conko,” he grinned.
Conko grabbed Bill on each side of his face, glared into his eyes, and howled:
“Hey, Bill; git up! Don’t you hear me tellin’ you? Wake up!”
While this was going on, Zodono asked the girl:
“What is your name?”
“Dey calls me Goldie,” she answered, staring at Conko Mukes.
“All right, Goldie. Be sure to bring the curtains back to-morrow.”
But Goldie was not listening. She was watching Conko struggling with the inert form of Bill.
Finally Conko stood up and strode toward the exit, his ugly black face frightened and uneasy.
“What’s the matter, Conko?” Zodono called. “Going?”
“Yes, suh. I’s gwine, Mr. Jimmy,” Conko answered nervously. “I—I—done got dat white man hypped, an’ I—I—cain’t unhyp him!”
Without waiting for a reply, Conko passed out of the theater, trotted down the crooked alley, and hastened to the Hen-Scratch saloon.
“Skeeter!” he boomed. “If you got any money to bet, you bet it on me! I’s gwine to pull a stunt on dat Hitch Diamond dis atternoon whut’ll make all de coons in Tickfall think I done borrered de debbil’s own knockout draps!”
A short distance from Tickfall where the Dorfoche Bayou widened into a small lake, and where pine-trees grew thick and shady upon a sandy plain was the negro baseball park and picnic grounds.
Hundreds of negroes had assembled here to witness the prize-fight between Hitch Diamond, the Tickfall Tiger, and Conko Mukes, the Georgia Cyclone. The women were as numerous as the men, and all were betting wildly on the result.
Skeeter Butts, backing Conko Mukes, was in a blue funk.
He had bet forty dollars, and called that the limit until Conko informed him that he possessed a hoodoo-stunt which would decide the contest in his own favor; then Skeeter had hazarded sixty dollars more. He found takers so readily that he had lost all courage and enthusiasm for his pugilist. He considered his money as good as gone.
A rude, squared ring had been roped off on the edge of the little lake by the simple process of stretching the rope from one sapling to another as a woman fixes a clothes-line. The ground, rising from the edge of the water presented a natural amphitheater for the accommodation of the spectators.
Many a prize-fight had occurred at this spot, in most of which the whites had taken a prominent part, being interested spectators and extravagant gamblers. But to-day no white people were on the ground.
When Hitch Diamond emerged from the plum-thicketwhich had served for a dressing-room, his seconds behind him, and stalked through the crowd to the ring, a wild burst of greeting and applause went up from his waiting fellow townsmen, all of whom, except Skeeter Butts and Figger Bush, had backed him to the limit at any odds.
Hitch bowed right and left, waved his giant arms at the people on the edge of the crowd, and listened with hungry ears to their pleas:
“We’re bettin’ on you, Hitch; don’t make us lose our money!”
“Knock him out, Hitchey! Den us’ll all be rich!”
Hitch ducked through the ropes and walked to his corner, where he sat down upon a folding stool.
Vinegar Atts, the referee, came over and shook Hitch by the hand. Atts was a broken-down pugilist whom the Lord had called to preach after his last K. O., and he and Hitch were great friends.
“How you feelin’, Hitchey?” Vinegar wanted to know.
“Feel as sweet as a fly in a vat of merlasses,” Hitch grinned.
“Don’t let yo’ knock-out punch git sour,” Vinegar grinned. “I got all my loose change on you.”
There was another roar of applause, and Conko Mukes emerged from his plum-thicket and came through the crowd, his knotty, shaved head shining in the sun like a block of ivory. His scarred and villainous face, with its mashed lips and brokennose and iron jaw, glowed with excitement and enthusiasm.
The mob applauded without partizanship as he climbed through the ropes and sat down in his corner.
Each pugilist eyed the other curiously, but neither could see much, for both were swathed in horse-blankets.
Prince Total and a scar-faced negro named Possum, Hitch Diamond’s seconds, slipped on Hitch’s gloves and laced them tight, while Skeeter Butts and Figger Bush performed the same office for Conko Mukes.
Then the seconds removed the heavy woolen horse-blankets, and the two fighters stood forth in their ring costumes, visible in all their fighting strength for the first time to the crowd—both men deep-chested, heavy-thewed, with muscles which moved like live snakes under their black-satin skins, their bodies acrawl with life and brutal power.
The two men advanced and touched gloves.
Then something happened which would make old John L. Sullivan laugh till he dislocated his iron jaw.
You who follow the fistic combats of Jess Willard and other white hopes and hopelessnesses, know that for months before the combatants meet in the ring their press-agents are busy informing the public what each pugilist says he expects to do to his opponent.
In the negro prize-fights in the South, thepugilist, lacking the press-agent, demands the right to make a speech before each round of the fight, in which he tells his friends and backers what he expects to do to his opponent in the next round.
Can you beat that?
So, in accordance with this custom, after the two fighters had touched gloves, Hitch Diamond went back to his corner and sat down.
Conko Mukes stepped to the middle of the ring and bellowed:
“I’s de great unwhupped Tuskeegee Cyclome. I fights any nigger whut misdoubts my words! I’s de brayin’ jackass of Georgia, an’ no nigger in Tickfall cain’t comb my mane!”
He sprang up, cracked his heels together, waved his gorilla-like arms in the air, and uttered a piercing whoop which echoed like a steam-whistle far down the Dorfoche Bayou.
Thereupon Hitch Diamond sprang to his feet and howled:
“I fights any nigger in the worl’ fer two bits, fer a chaw terbaccer, fer a watermillyum rind, fer de tail of a tadpole!”
He jumped three feet in the air, cracked his heels together like two clapboards, and shrieked:
“I’s de Tickfall Tiger, an’ I kin curry dat Georgia jackass fo’ inches under his hide!”
Then the seconds clattered out of the ring with their folding stools, and the two men advanced and took their fighting attitudes.
Pap Curtain picked up a baseball bat and strucka large wagon-tire suspended from a tree on the edge of the bayou. This was the gong.
Drawn by E. W. Kemble“I’se de braying jack-ass of Georgia, an’ no nigger in Tickfall cain’t comb my mane.”
Drawn by E. W. Kemble
“I’se de braying jack-ass of Georgia, an’ no nigger in Tickfall cain’t comb my mane.”
“Time!” the referee shouted.
“Go fer his stomick, Conko!” Skeeter Butts squealed. “Hit an’ duck! It’s de best thing you kin do!”
Conko hit and ducked; and Hitch Diamond was jarred to the very marrow of his bones. A cold fury took the place of Hitch’s smile.
“Go atter him! Foller him up!” Skeeter squealed.
Conko shot a right hook at Hitch, who neatly side-stepped; then Hitch swung a terrible lefthand blow at the giant figure before him.
“Right cross—lef’ hook, Hitch—dat’ll fix him!” Prince Total barked.
Conko ducked and saved his jaw, but the blow landed on the side of his head. It was too high up to be vitally effective, but powerful enough to bring a black veil of unconsciousness across Conko’s mind. All faces vanished for a second; even Hitch Diamond disappeared; then when Hitch reappeared, Conko pecked savagely at his stomach.
Hitch panted like a winded dog; they clinched, and Hitch, with his gorilla reach, pounded his enemy over the kidneys.
“Hey, dar! Break ’em! No fair hittin’ in clinches!” the crowd of Conko backers yelled.
Vinegar Atts grinned, yanked the pair out of the clinch, and a wolflike howl rose from the crowd. Hitch Diamond had landed a mightyblow in Conko’s stomach, and the Georgia Cyclone had fallen to his knees!
Vinegar Atts began to count:
“Fo’—five—six—seben—eight——”
“Git up, Conko!” Skeeter Butts screamed in agony. “Fer Gawd’s sake——”
“Nine——”
Conko’s leap upward at this word carried him within striking distance of Hitch Diamond, and the crowd yelled wildly at a whirlwind rush which sent Hitch slipping and leaping like a flying shuttle to guard himself from the wild insurgence of that furious onslaught.
The end of the round found both combatants laughing.
Skeeter Butts, for his part, was alternately sweating cold and hot, and as nervous as a cat amid a pack of pop-crackers.
The two men sat down in their corners, lying back with outstretched legs, resting their arms outstretched upon the ropes, gulping in the air fanned at them from the towels of the seconds. Their eyes were closed, and the roar of the crowd was a mighty thunder in their ears.
The gong struck, and Conko Mukes stepped to the middle of the ring.
“I done got dis here Hitch Diamond’s number!” he bawled. “Hitch ain’t nothin’ but a big gob of meat, an’ I’s gwine fry him in his own grease! Ef you got any money to bet, bet it all on me. I’s de wild ole ram of de Georgia swamp, an’ no nigger cain’t pick de cockle-burs outen my wool!”
He bent his huge body, ducked his head in excellent imitation of a sheep, and bleated loud enough to be heard a mile.
Hitch Diamond sprang to his feet and whooped:
“I’s de swamp wildcat whut kin claw de cockle-burs outen dat ole buck’s wool!”
He screamed in perfect imitation of a Louisiana panther and met Conko Mukes in the middle of the ring.
Then Hitch Diamond presented a wonderful exhibition of skill and quickness, going in and out again, landing a blow to the eyes, to the jaw, to the ribs, ducking a counter, dancing lightly away, dancing lightly in, with quick, deft, dangerous blows, rushing things, and waiting for an opening left by that slow-moving man before him.
That opening came, and Hitch’s right arm flashed into it, a right hook with all the weight of his pouncing body behind it. Conko Mukes fell like the rotten trunk of a tree falls in the forest. The crowd sighed like a great furnace, and a ripple of awestricken applause began close to the ringside and rolled like a wave to the edge of the amphitheater.
As Conko took the count, a golden-brown girl with large, bold, black eyes and long, straight, coal-black hair which made her octoroon complexion appear almost white, walked up close to the ring. The hands clasped over her full bosom were trembling, and her eyes glowed like coals of fire.
It was Goldie, Hitch Diamond’s wife.
“Look out, Hitchey!” she exclaimed. “Don’tlet dat Conko Mukes git too close to you! Knock him out in dis round! I knows somepin ’bout him dat you don’t know!”
“He don’t look so awful dangersome now, Goldie,” Hitch replied, grinning at his wife, as she stood by the ropes.
Conko Mukes had rolled over and knelt on one knee, listening as Vinegar Atts stood over him counting in a loud voice. At the ninth he arose.
Springing across the ring with lightning quickness, Conko landed a blow on Hitch’s jaw just as he turned away from his wife; with a grunt, Hitch fell flat to the ground within reach of Goldie’s hand. But the blow had been too hastily delivered and missed the point of the jaw by an inch. In an instant Hitch was up and fighting like a panther.
The rest of the round was a nigger whirlwind finish. The darkies grappled like clumsy grizzlies, punching, biting, wrestling, growling ferociously. Around and around, they butted and pushed, bellowing and braying, striking any sort of blows, landing them everywhere they could, while the crowd cheered each man as he gained a slight advantage without partizanship.
When the men retired to their corners the crowd went mad, and the voices were yelling: “Go it, Hitch!” “Knock his block off, Conko!” “Kill him dead, Hitch!” “You’ll git him in de nex’ round, Conko!”
As for Skeeter Butts, he could have qualified for the lunatic asylum.
“Fer Gawd’s sake, Conko,” he chattered, “efyou got any hoodoo stunts to wuck on Hitch, you better wuck ’em. Dat nigger’s done had you down two times——”
“Aw, shut up!” Conko rumbled as he breathed in the air from Skeeter’s flapping towel. “I’s gwine pull dat stuff in de nex’ round. I’s savin’ it fer de third, because de third time is de charm.”
“De Lawd’ll shorely bless you fer sayin’ that, Conko,” Skeeter panted, with tears in his eyes. “My Gawd, ef us don’t win, I’ll sho’ wish I’d been borned a corn-field mule!”
The gong sounded for the third round.
Conko Mukes stepped in the middle of the ring and howled:
“In dis here nex’ roun’ I’s gwine win out. I’s gwine hypnertize dis here Hitch Diamond an’ put him to sleep. I’ll take one look at his ugly mug wid my right eye, an’ he’ll stan’ up in dis ring like a dead man on his foots——”
“My Gawd, Hitchey!” Goldie screamed as she pressed through the crowd and grabbed the ropes by Hitch. “Look out fer dat nigger! He’ll git you hypped, an’ he cain’t unhyp you!” Then she turned and ran toward Tickfall like a yellow streak.
“Dat’s right, sister!” Conko Mukes bellowed as he watched her departure. “You don’t ’pear to be anxious to stay an’ see it done, but dat’s yo’ Uncle Conko’s little game! Dis here Hitch Diamond is gwine to sleep, an’ I don’t keer ef he never wakes up!”
As Conko sat down Hitch arose and smiled at the crowd.
“I never goes to sleep till I wins!” he bawled. “Conko is done made a miscue ’bout who is gwine take a nap. I’s de real old fat mammy whut’ll sing li’l’ baby Conko to sleep!”
Thereupon Conko Mukes performed a stunt which had never before been witnessed in a pugilistic ring, and which Conko in his subsequent career never attempted to duplicate.
He sprang toward Hitch Diamond, sparred for a moment, clinched, and shrieked like a calliope:
“Sleep! Sleep! Sleep, Hitch Diamond—go to sleep!”
This wonderful performance scared Hitch Diamond nearly out of his wits.
He broke from the clinch, smashed Conko against the ropes, and then began hooking and driving all sorts of blows against him, tearing himself out of Conko’s frenzied clinches, punching him, shoving him against the ropes again and again until the cypress saplings to which the ropes were attached bowed beneath the storm and weight of human contestants.
Through it all, like some mighty chant, the stentorian voice of Conko rumbled the dreadful malediction:
“Sleep! Sleep! Go to sleep, Hitch Diamond—sleep!”
But Hitch never rested a moment, and Conko, looking for an opening to get in his hypnotic eyework,let Hitch chase him all around the ring a dozen times.
There were three minutes of this screaming farce, and when it ended, Hitch Diamond was reeling and staggering from his wild chase around the ring, and his legs were cramping under him and felt like lead.
Without knowing it, Hitch had spun around like a top for three minutes, and a natural dizziness was upon him, and before his bewildered eyes the crowd of faces sagged and swayed, disappeared and reappeared.
Again and again he had struck at Conko and missed. When the round had ended, Hitch found himself swinging on to Mukes with all his weight to keep from falling to the floor, while Conko’s bellowing was like the distant thunder of the surf in his ear, sounding afar off:
“Sleep! Sleep! Sleep, Hitch Diamond, go to sleep!”
When Conko Mukes walked to his corner he was jubilant. He faced the crowd of wondering coons, placed his gloved hands to the side of his face, and crowed like a rooster.
“I got him goin’, niggers!” he squalled. “He’s wabbly on his foots! One mo’ roundance, an’ dat big fat stiff will go to sleep an’ never wake up no mo’!”
He sank down upon his camp-stool, and his heaving chest and abdomen sucked in the air in great, hungry gulps.
Skeeter Butts worked like an engine, cacklinghis delight at his hero’s wonderful pugilistic ruse.
“You got him skeart, Conko,” Skeeter squawked in a voice hoarse with excitement. “One mo’ roun’ wid dat hypnertize-eye, an’ dat’ll be his finish. Don’t let him bat yo’ hoodoo-eyes out!”
At the beginning of the fourth round Conko Mukes proceeded to steal some of Professor Dodo Zodono’s thunder.
“Feller cit’zens,” he howled, “I’s gwine gib you a little demerstration of my powers.
“In dis nex’ roun’, you’ll see wonders whut no man cain’t account fer! You-all will hear noises whut defy all de laws of soundance! You gwine behold appearances whut fly in de face of scrutination! Us is gwine demerstrate effecks whut ain’t got no resomble cause—all free-fer-nothin’!”
He sat down with a happy grin on his horrible face, and Hitch Diamond stood up to proclaim:
“I ain’t never fit in de ring wid no lunatic befo’. I ain’t gwine waste no time gittin’ done wid dis fight, neither. While Conko Mukes is pullin’ all dem stunts he’s braggin’ ’bout, I’s gwine knock de stuffin’ outen his black hide!”
The two men advanced to the center of the ring, circled slowly around while Conko began his monotonous, bellowing chant:
“Sleep! Sleep! Sleep, Hitch Diamond—sleep!”
Still keeping well out of reach of Hitch’s punch, Conko waved his right hand slowly in front of his opponent’s face, as if he were stroking invisiblefur with his glove. Hitch followed him slowly, waiting for a chance to land a knock-out blow.
Then upon Hitch Diamond’s slow mind there slowly dawned the meaning of all this.
He had witnessed the hypnotic exhibition before the drug-store earlier in the day, and recognized portions of the speech which Conko had recited, and noticed a similarity between Conko’s gestures and the actions of Professor Dodo Zodono.
Then Hitch’s dull eyes began to glow with strange interior fires.
With the negro’s knack for imitation, Hitch’s gloved hands dropped, his giant arms dangled at his sides, and he began to move toward Conko Mukes with stiff legs, as if someone had him by the shoulders leading him forward, as if the hinge joints of his hips were rusty, and hurt him when he walked.
The crowd gasped and uttered awe-stricken exclamations.
Slowly Hitch advanced until he was well within reach of Conko Mukes’s protruding jaw.
Then the sleepy lion suddenly thrust out a raging paw—there was the sharp snap of leather against human bone—an electric globe burst in Conko Mukes’s puny brain, and darkness enveloped the great originator of the pugilistic hoodoo-eyes!
“I knows whut I done to dat big stiff!” Hitch grinned as he turned to walk back to his corner.
Then a loud shout arose from the crowd and Hitch whirled and looked behind him.
In spite of that terrific blow, Conko Mukes was on his feet again!
The ropes around the rudely constructed ring had been under such a strain during the fight that when Conko Mukes reeled back against them they broke, and the inert body of the pugilist rolled into the ice-cold waters of Dorfoche Lake!
At the moment, when Conko rose and stood waist-deep in the water of the little lake, he heard a woman’s voice, screaming like a swamp panther:
“Run, niggers, run! De white folks is comin’!”
Conko looked up and beheld a hundred white men following close behind Goldie Diamond, as the girl ran toward them like a yellow streak, proclaiming with a Gabriel-trumpet tone:
“Run, niggers, run! De white folks is comin’!”
For one tense moment the crowd of blacks huddled together like quails bunch before a windstorm. Then, with one voice, a squall of fear split the sky, and the mob whirled like Dervishes and bumped into each other like blind bugs in a tin can.
After that, with one accord, they went into the woods, leaping stumps and logs, tearing their garments to shreds upon the snags and vines, falling and rising again, miring themselves in the muck of the swamp, howling like a wolf-pack, their voices echoing through the forest with terrifying reverberations.
Conko Mukes dived back into the lake, swamacross it, and hid in the deep marsh-grass on the other side until after dark.
The next morning, Sheriff John Flournoy met Skeeter Butts and inquired:
“Skeeter, what made you niggers run off yesterday when we came out to see the fight?”
“Dunno, Marse John,” Skeeter grinned. “You know how niggers is. We figgered mebbe you white folks didn’t favor prize-fights.”
“That’s what I don’t understand,” Flournoy replied. “Goldie Diamond came running to town and told us the niggers were having a prize-fight, and when we went out to see it, she raised a whoop and scared all the niggers away.”
“Yes, suh,” Skeeter grinned. “Dat’s whut she done.”
“Why did she do it?” Flournoy persisted.
“Well, suh, I s’pose Goldie thought Hitch wus gwine git knocked out. Anyways, I’s powerful glad it happened, Marse John. Ef dat hadn’t come to pass, Skeeter Butts would be bankbust by dis time in de mawnin’.”
Flournoy turned away by no means satisfied, but confident that there was some nigger secret in the matter which the darkies would never reveal.
Skeeter left him and hastened down to the Hen-Scratch saloon where he found Hitch Diamond and Conko Mukes waiting for him.
The two pugilists and their seconds had spent nearly all night straightening out their financesafter the bets had been declared off, and the fight had run off.
Conko Mukes had been drinking heavily and was in a bad humor.
“I got jes’ one thing ag’in’ you, Hitch,” he growled, “an’ dat is dat las’ punch you gib me on de jaw. You acked like you wus hypnertized, an’ I wusn’t lookin’ fer no punch. I don’t think dat wus plum’ fair.”
“Dat shore wus a jolter, Conko,” Hitch grinned. “Lawd, I’ll remember dat after I’m done dead!”
Conko Mukes’s eyes glowed with evil intent as he listened to Hitch’s delighted chuckles. Finally Conko said:
“But I fooled you ’bout dat hypnertize, Hitch. You thought it wus my eyes, an’ I didn’t hyp you wid my eyes.”
“Dat’s a fack,” Hitch chuckled. “Whut did you aim to use on me?”
“I hypnertized you wid my wavin’ hand, like dis—” Conko explained as he rose to his feet to illustrate. His right hand began a slow chopping motion in front of Hitch’s face, and he continued: “You gotter git up real close and wave slow—slow—slow——”
Suddenly Conko’s fist shot out with a blow like a trip-hammer.
The punch would have broken his jaw—only the jaw was not there.
Hitch ducked with lightning quickness and rose to his feet ready for business.
Conko sprang toward the door, but tripped overHitch’s extended foot, and fell on his head with a jar which shook two bottles off the shelf behind the bar.
Hitch stooped and raised Conko to his feet, backed him to the far end of the saloon away from the door, and shoved him against the wall with such force that a picture of Abraham “Lincum” was dislodged from its nail and fell clattering to the floor.
“Ef you wasn’t drunk, I’d kill you!” Hitch bawled, while Conko stood looking around him like a man in a dream. “As ’tis, I’s only gwine put yo’ hoodoo eyes on de bum!”
The job was quickly, neatly done—two slight taps on each side of Conko’s nose.
“Now git!” Hitch commanded, pointing toward the door.
Conko Mukes did not linger. When the swinging doors of the Hen-Scratch saloon closed behind him, Hitch and Skeeter walked out to the street.
Far down the road a streak of flying dust marked the route Conko had chosen as he left Tickfall forever.
“What are you doing here, nigger?”
Colonel Tom Gaitskill’s voice cracked like a whip beside the ear of Pap Curtain.
Pap had three baseballs in his hand for which he had paid a nickel, and which he intended to throw at a row of nigger babies about forty feet away. The tall baboon-faced negro, with shifty eyes, furtive manner, and lips that sneered, started like a frightened animal. The balls dropped from his nerveless hands and he turned away.
“Fer Gawd’s sake, Marse Tom,” he chattered, speaking under a visible strain, his eyeballs nearly popping out of his head. “I shore didn’t soupspicion dat you wus snoopin’ aroun’ here nowheres.”
Gaitskill’s face grew red with annoyance. The veins in his neck swelled and his eyes snapped.
“Where are all those other coons?” he demanded. “Did they run off too?”
“Yes, suh; dey said dar wus plenty time to pick dat cotton an’ de trouts wus bitin’ fine down in de bayou, so dey all hauled off and went fishin’. Dey sont me to town fer some mo’ fishin’ lines, an’ I jes’ stopped here a minute to throw at dem rag dolls——”
“I’m going out there and beat some sense into those niggers with a black-snake whip,” Gaitskill told him in a dangerously cool voice. “If you don’t want some of it you’d better stay away, understand? And if you ever put your foot in my cotton-field again I’ll break your dashed neck! Hear me?”
Pap Curtain stepped back and his voice became a pleading whine. He glanced behind him to assure himself that the road was clear for flight, and began:
“Don’t do dat, Marse Tom. You know how niggers is. Eve’y day is restin’ time an’ Sunday fer a nigger; an’ when de trouts is bitin’ a nigger jes’ nachelly cain’t wuck. It’s ag’in nature——”
“Aw, shut up!” Gaitskill snarled in a savage tone. “If a rain should come it would beat every bit of my cotton off the stalks and bury it in the mud, and you know it——”
“I tell you whut I’ll do, boss,” Pap interrupted. “You know I is always done jes’ whut you tole me—because why? You is a powerful good white man, an’ I ain’t nothin’ but a poor igernunt nigger. Yes, suh, dat’s right.
“Now, ef you says de word, I’ll hike back to de Niggerheel an’ tell dem niggers dat deir lives ain’t fitten to last no time onless dey draps dem fish-poles an’ drags dem cotton-sacks down de row like de debbil wus bossin’ de job. Dar’s fawty of ’em, Marse Tom—fawty, wuthless, no-’count, good-fer-nothin’ coons done laid down deir wuck an’ gone fishin’—dat’s whut dey done——”
Pap stopped. Keenly watching the tense lips and the white, angry face of Gaitskill, he saw that no nigger talk would placate the owner of the Niggerheel. He stood shuffling his feet in the dirt for a full minute before Gaitskill spoke.
“Now, Pap, I want you to get this: I have trouble every year to get hands to pick my cotton. The worthless niggers loaf on the banks of the bayou until winter catches them with nothing to eat, nothing to wear, and not a dollar. Then the white folks in Tickfall have to support them.”
“Yes, suh, dat’s a shore, certain fack——”
“Shut up, you crazy buck!” Gaitskill snarled. “When I talk—you listen. You are the worst idler and loafer in this town, and I tell you right now that you had better leave this town. Hear me? Pack up your rags right now and leave Tickfall, and don’t ever come back again. If you do I’ll have you arrested for vagrancy. Hurry now! Get out before night!”
“Oh, Lawdy, Marse Tom, I been livin’ in dis here town fer sixty year—I’s dug all de water-wells fer de livin’ an’ all de graves fer de dead—you an’ me is always got along peaceable ’thout no hard feelin’——”
“Go on off!” Gaitskill commanded in hoarse tones. “Hike!”
Gaitskill turned away, walked rapidly up the street, and stepped into his automobile. There was an explosive sound, a cloud of white smoke hid the rear wheels for a moment, then the bigcar swept into a side street, going toward the Niggerheel plantation.
“Lawdymussy!” Pap Curtain sighed, as he walked slowly down the street toward his cabin. “De kunnel done gimme my good-riddunce papers an’ axed me good-by!”
Pap sat down on the rickety porch of his cabin and gazed for a long time with unseeing vision straight before him. Half an hour passed, an hour, and still he looked into the thick branches of an umbrella china-tree without seeing it.
No white man can equal the absolute absorption in thought, the intense concentration of attention and interest which a negro displays when he comes face to face with a crisis in his career. And no white man can foretell a negro’s mental conclusions in that hour of stress and need.
Pap did not want to leave Tickfall, yet he knew he had to go. Marse Tom’s word was law just as much so as if the big, red-brick court-house had suddenly formed a mouth and had spoken.
Pap rose from his chair, gave his shoulders a vigorous shake, lit a vile-smelling corn-cob pipe, changed the location of his chair from the porch to the shade of the chinaberry tree, and began to talk aloud to himself:
“Dat white man shore knifed me right under de fifteenth rib! Treated me jes’ like I wus a houn’-dawg—‘git outen dis town!’ Mebbe it’s all a play-like an’ he didn’t mean nothin’——”
But the more he thought about the manner and the speech of Colonel Gaitskill, the more the facts compelled the conviction that it was his move. Then the thought occurred to him:
“I wonder if dese here town niggers tipped Marse Tom off ’bout me? A whole passel of ’em hates me—I beats ’em gamblin’, an’ I beats ’em tradin’, an’ dey all knows dey ain’t vigorous in deir mind like me——”
Pap pondered for many minutes, his thick lips pouting, his protruding eyes half closed, great drops of sweat rolling down his face. His pipe went out, the bowl became loosened and fell from the stem, but he took no notice.
“Mebbe dem niggers is wucked a buzzo on me, an’ mebbe dey ain’t,” he declared at last. “I cain’t seem to make up my remembrance ’bout dat. But I done decided on one fack: ef ole Pap Curtain is gotter leave dis town, he’s gwine gib dese here nigger bad-wishers of his’n a whole lot to remember him by!”
He rose and walked down the street to the Hen-Scratch saloon.
In the rear of the building he found Figger Bush. Walking up to him with an air of great secrecy and importance, Pap inquired:
“Figger, is you de proud persesser of a silber dollar?”
“Sho’ is!” Figger grinned. “I gwine keep on persessin’ it, too!”
“I sells tips!” Pap announced, taking a chair beside Figger. “One dollar per tip per each!”
“It muss be wuth somepin’ ef it comes dat high!” Figger exclaimed with popping eyeballs.
“Yes, suh; Marse Tom Gaitskill gimme de word dis mawnin’, an’ tole me I could pass it on to a choosen few—ef dey had a dollar!”
Figger Bush puffed nervously at his cigarette and waited anxiously. Colonel Tom Gaitskill’s name was one to conjure with, and Figger knew that Curtain had been working on the Niggerheel plantation.
“Whut’s de tip about, Pap?” Figger asked eagerly, fumbling with the lonesome silver dollar in his pocket.
“Dat would be tellin’,” Pap grinned, as he leaned back and watched a tiny tree-spider floating in the breeze on the end of its web.
Figger puffed unconsciously on his cigarette until it burned down to his lips and scorched them; he snatched it out of his mouth and blistered his fingers; he slapped his foot upon it as it lay on the ground, then sprang up with an exclamation and nursed a bare spot on the side of his sockless foot where the stub had burned him through a hole in his shoe.
“Good gosh, set down!” Pap Curtain howled as he watched Figger’s gyrations. “You gib me de fidgets cuttin’ up dat way!”
Figger sank back in his seat, and Pap again directed his attention to the operations of the little spider, and waited.
“Cain’t you gimme no hint about de tip, Pap?” Figger asked at last. “I wants to git inon somepin good, but I cain’t affode to waste no money.”
“Cross yo’ heart an’ body dat you won’t tell nobody an’ gimme de dollar. Den, when I tells you de secret, ef it ’tain’t wuth a dollar, I’ll hand you de loose change back.”
“Dat sounds resomble,” Figger declared, and the silver dollar changed hands.
“Now, Figger, you listen,” Pap began in a mysterious tone. “Don’t you tell nobody, fer Marse Tom swore me dat he didn’t want nobody to know but a choosen few. Marse Tom is gwine gib a great, big, cotton-pickin’ festerble out at de Niggerheel. He pays de best wages, an’ he wants de bes’ pickers in de parish. De tickets is one dollar, whut I collecks when I gibs de tip. All de niggers is to meet Marse Tom at de bank dis atternoon at three o’clock.”
“Huh!” Figger grunted. “Dat shore sounds good to me. Plenty grub, plenty wages, a barrel of cider at de eend of de cotton-row, an’ all de coons on a cotton-pickin’ picnic! Keep de dollar, Pap. Me an’ Marse Tom is done made a trade.”
Enthusiastic over the idea, Figger sprang to his feet and started away.
“You kin succulate de repote dat somepin’s doin’, Figger,” Pap grinned. “But don’t you gib dat tip away. Marse Tom spoke me special ’bout dat, an’ say he gwine bust de head open of de nigger whut told de secret!”
Pap Curtain stepped into the rear of the Hen-Scratch saloon, invested a part of Figger’s dollarin a long, strong Perique stogy, and came out again. He sat for half an hour humming to himself, chewing the end of the stogy, smoking slowly, leisurely, and with profound meditation.
He was giving Figger time to circulate the report. He knew that the grape-vine telephone was already at work, and that the news of a big profitable deal would trickle and ooze into every negro cabin in all the negro settlements of Tickfall.
Prince Total was the first darky to make his appearance.
“Whar’s yo’ silber dollar, Prince?” Pap exclaimed with a broad grin before Prince had time to state his business. “No busted niggers needn’t apply—tickets is one dollar—Marse Tom’s own price.”
“Whut is dis doin’s?” Prince inquired. “Is Marse Tom gittin’ up a nigger excussion?”
“Dat’s de very game!” Pap snickered. “One dollar per each ticket. Marse Tom leaves me to pick de winners. Plenty brass-band music, plenty ice-water on de way; dancin’ on de deck eve’y night—all de real good arrangements whut niggers likes. You-all knows how Marse Tom fixes things up. Cross yo’ heart an’ body dat you won’t tell an’ gimme one round silber dollar fer de tip!”
Prince crossed Pap’s palm with silver and listened to his instructions:
“Go see Marse Tom at de bank at three o’clock dis atternoon!”
“Excussion!” Prince panted. “My, dat’s a shore ’nough word to ketch a nigger by de year.Gib ’em somewhar to trabbel an’ a crowd to go wid—Lawd, dat’s real good luck! I’s gwine out an’ succulate dem repote!”
By high noon Pap Curtain’s pockets were weighted with silver and he had revealed the magical tip to over one hundred negroes.
“Dis here is suttinly a good joke,” he snickered; “but ef I keeps it up too long I’s skeart I’ll laugh myself to death. I got a hunch dat I better mosey along todes de depot. Marse Tom done advise me to leave dis town.”
When the slow accommodation train pulled into the depot, Pap Curtain boarded it from the side farthest from the station, took an obscure seat in the negro coach, and did his best to attract no attention as the train conveyed him away from Tickfall.
Only one negro saw him go.
At three o’clock one of the clerks closed the big glass doors of the Tickfall National Bank and went back to his desk.
Ten minutes later there was a loud knock upon the glass door, and the clerk looked up. What he saw caused him to spring from his stool, overturning it with a loud clatter upon the marble floor, and go running down the corridor to the president’s office.
“Come out here quick, Colonel!” the clerk exclaimed, his hair standing on end and cold sweat dampening his forehead. “God only knows what has got into the heads of our negro depositors!Every nigger buck in Tickfall is lined up in front of the bank, and the leader is knocking on the door, trying to get in!”
Gaitskill jerked open a drawer, slipped a heavy revolver in his side coat pocket, and stepped toward the front.
Figger Bush’s shoe-brush mustache was pressed close to the glass, his hands were cupped around his eyes, and he was peering in to catch the first glimpse of Marse Tom as he came out of his office.
“Here he am, niggers!” he bawled as the colonel fumbled with the fastening of the door.
“Howdy, Marse Tom!” the greeting ran down the line with every variation of tone like a child playing a scale on the piano with one finger.
“Well?” Gaitskill demanded in a loud tone. “What in the name of mud is the matter now?”
“Us is all come to git in on de picnic, Marse Tom,” Figger Bush announced as spokesman. “We all paid our dollar an’ Pap tipped us off to come to de bank at closin’ time!”
“Pap did what?” Gaitskill snapped.
“He sold us a ticket to de excussion, Marse Tom,” Figger informed him. “Yes, suh, we is powerful glad you is gittin’ one up—peanuts an’ ice-water, an’ plenty brass-band music—all us niggers favors it fine!”
“What in the devil are you talking about?” Gaitskill bawled.
“Dunno, Marse Tom,” Prince Total spoke up. “Pap Curtain—he say you would tell us—it’s a plum’ secret.”
“It certainly is!” Gaitskill howled, glaring at the negroes with eyes blood-shot and apoplectic. “It’s a deep, dark, impenetrable secret! Where is that fool, Pap Curtain?”
“He went away on de dinner-time train, Marse Tom,” a voice informed him. “I seed him!”
Gaitskill stood in the door of the bank in absolute ignorance of the whole business, wondering what to do. Finally he went back to Figger Bush’s first statement:
“What did you say about a dollar?” he demanded.
“Us paid a dollar fer de tip, Marse Tom,” Figger replied.
Gaitskill’s eyes ran down the line as he counted the negroes.
“Did all you darkies give Pap Curtain a dollar?” he asked in a loud voice.
“Yes, suh!” one hundred and eighteen voices answered in a mighty chorus.
“Good Lord!” Gaitskill snorted, as he gazed into their simple faces, marveling at their credulity.
Every merchant in town had closed his store to see the fun. Nearly every white male inhabitant of Tickfall was lined up across the street. The crowd grinned its delight, and watched with breathless interest while Gaitskill fumbled with his problem in confusion and perplexity, and an ignorance which the negroes would not enlighten.
Nothing tickles a Southern white man more than to see another white man all snarled up and in a jam of negro inanities. A fly in a barrel ofmolasses has about as good a chance of getting out of the mess.
“What did Pap Curtain tell you bucks?” Gaitskill bellowed.
There was a mighty clash of voices:
“He specify excussion——”
“Dancin’ on de deck eve’y night——”
“Music an’ free vittles——”
“Festerbul an’ juberlo——”
“Picnic——”
Then a loud voice inquired in a wailing whine:
“Marse Tom, ef us don’t git all dem things Pap promised us, does us git our dollars back?”
Gaitskill did not reply. Instead he took out his watch and studied it carefully.
He was thinking: the old combination freight and passenger train had left Tickfall at noon; it had traveled for three hours and twenty minutes at a speed of fifteen miles an hour. The train was not yet out of Tickfall parish. Then Gaitskill spoke:
“All you niggers listen to me: Go down to the old cotton-shed back of my house and wait until I come. Hurry, now!”