Shin Bone pocketed his dollar and his copper and sat down at the table. There was a wild flurry as Prince Total pushed through the crowd to go out and dig an earth-worm. Hitch Diamond sat down in the middle of the sand-covered barroom floor, laid a copper cent down, placed an immense middle finger upon it and began to scour it up and down until the penny shone like new. Pap Curtain dropped a silver dollar upon the floor, placed his boot upon it and scraped it up and down in the sand. When he placed it upon the table it looked like a new-minted dollar.
A moment later Prince Total appeared with a fat red earth-worm.
“Put yo’ money on de table, niggers,” Shin Bone announced as he rose to his feet. “I takes eve’y bet up to fo’ hunderd dollars. I bought aeatin’-house from Marse Tom Gaitskill fer fo’ hunderd dollars, an’ dat house covers all my bets!”
“I keeps de books!” Skeeter Butts squealed, flourishing a pencil and a sheet of paper. “Bellow yo’ bets in a loud voice!”
“Pap Curtain, twenty dollars!” Pap proclaimed.
“Hitch Diamond, twenty!”
“Prince Total, twenty!”
“Figger Bush, twenty!”
All of this was perfectly familiar to the negroes for this reason: in the negro churches when a collection is taken up a table is placed, a secretary is appointed, and each donor marches to the front of the congregation, places his gift upon the table, announces the amount in a loud voice and retires.
In ten minutes the table contained a goodly amount of currency and silver, and Shin Bone swept the contribution from the top of the table into his hat.
“Two hundred an’ fo’ dollars is bet, niggers!” Shin announced. “Now, Prince Total, advance an’ produce de worm!”
Pap Curtain laid his shiny silver dollar in the center of the table. Hitch Diamond placed his shiny copper cent in the center of the dollar. Prince Total placed his fat, shiny, squirmy earth-worm in the center of the cent.
Shin Bone walked over close to the exit, climbed upon the end of the bar so he could see by looking over the heads of the negroes, and began to pocket the money contained in his hat.
There was the most intense and overwhelmingsilence as the crowd watched the worm. It started off the cent, but it never stayed off. The penny was small and the worm was large, and sometimes it overflowed and touched the silver. When that happened the worm displayed the most intense discomfort, and the most eager desire to readjust its folds and scramble back upon the copper.
A loud groan arose from the watching negroes.
Shin Bone stood up on the end of the bar and squealed:
“Good-bye, niggers! Ef dat worm ever gits offen dat copper cent I’ll pay de money back an’ eat de worm raw!”
He turned and walked out of the saloon a happy and wealthy man!
Ten minutes later Pap Curtain, Hitch Diamond, and Prince Total appeared at the home of Colonel Tom Gaitskill.
“Kunnel,” Hitch said earnestly, “us niggers wants to show you somepin an’ ax you how come!”
“What is it?” Gaitskill smiled.
Pap laid a silver dollar on the floor of the porch, Hitch Diamond placed a copper cent on top of it, and Prince Total laid a worm on top of the cent.
“Now, Kunnel, fer Gawd’s sake, tell us how come dat worm cain’t crawl offen dat cent?”
Gaitskill laughed.
“That is a simple demonstration in experimental electricity, men,” he said. “When the worm’s damp body which is in contact with the copper touches the silver it starts a current of electricitythat gives it a shock. Of course the current thus produced is very slight, but it is quite enough for the worm, and the worm finds it more comfortable to stay on the copper coin.”
“Dat shore is a strange an’ expensive fack, Marse Tom,” Hitch Diamond remarked gloomily.
“De nigger whut bets his dollars on dat exper’ment ain’t gwine git no slight shock,” Pap Curtain declared.
“An’ he ain’t gwine hab even a copper cent to stan’ on!” Prince Total concluded.
All of Shin Bone’s victims were sitting in the grandstand when Shin rode on the track that afternoon to exhibit his newly purchased horse.
“Hello, Shinny!” Hitch Diamond yelled. “Whar you git dat plug?”
“Marse Tom sold him to me fer fawty dollars,” Shin grinned. “You all he’ped me to pay fer him when you bit like suckers at dat fishin’ worm!”
“Is you gwine race him?” Pap whooped.
“Suttinly. He goes in de las’ race.”
“Is you gwine bet on him?” Prince Total squealed.
“I bets eve’y cent I’m got,” Shin grinned. “Dis hoss’s name is Rattlesnake, an’ he’s pure p’ison.”
Shin trotted his horse down the track, and thenegroes watched the stiff hind leg of the animal and noticed that the horse never raised it far enough above the ground to prevent it making a long mark upon the turf. Shin galloped back in front of his friends, and the crippled horse awkwardly dragged his stiff leg, making a longer and deeper mark upon the track.
“I wonder ef dat nigger really means whut he say?” Pap remarked as he sat back in his seat.
“Whut race is you in, Pap?” Hitch Diamond asked.
“I starts Nigger Blackie in de las’ race,” Pap told him. “I bet Doodlebug yistiddy an’ lost him, but I speck he’s gwine in dat race, too. Of co’se Nigger Blackie kin beat Doodlebug—he done it yistiddy.”
“I thought Nigger Blackie b’longed to Skeeter Butts,” Hitch said.
“Naw, suh. I winned Nigger offen Skeeter yistiddy.”
“How many hosses in dat las’ race?” Prince Total asked.
“Gawd knows,” Pap sighed. “It’s de las’ race of de fair. It’s a free-fer-all scramble, an’ eve’y nigger in dis parish kin git in wid a race-hoss ef he wants to.”
“I tells you whut, niggers,” Hitch Diamond suggested. “Shin Bone is done robbed us of a heap of money; now less go down an’ bet agin him an’ his hoss an’ rob him of all de chink he’s got. Dat stiff-leg Rattlesnake cain’t run—any hoss kin beat him as fur as you kin shoot a gun.”
“I favors dat!” Pap exclaimed. “Dis is de las’ race of de las’ day of de fair. I favors makin’ it de las’ of Shin Bone. I’s done got plum’ nauseated wid dat nigger anyhow.”
They waited on Shin in a body and proposed to take all his money away from him.
“I bets dollar fer dollar, niggers,” Shin replied smilingly. “I is got one hunderd an’ sixty dollars, an’ I lets it go easy.”
“Who holds de stakes?” Pap Curtain asked.
“I dunno,” Shin answered. “I ain’t figgered on dat.”
“How will Whiffle Boone suit?” Pap inquired:
“She suits,” Shin said indifferently. “Less hunt her up.”
They found Whiffle in the grandstand and explained what they wanted her to do. She gladly consented and accepted their money, keeping a record of the amount of their bets.
When the men left her Whiffle sat for a long time in deep meditation, then she started on a search for Shin Bone.
Shin was busy at the stable plaiting Rattlesnake’s mane and tail into long, hard braids, a half dozen on the mane and as many on the tail. He was working eagerly, confidently, with the manner of a man who knew what he was doing.
“Shinny,” Whiffle asked, “who is gwine ride yo’ hoss?”
“I’m is.”
“Is you shore you is gwine win, Shin?”
“Suttinly.”
“I don’t see how dat cripple hoss kin run,” Whiffle remarked in troubled tones.
“It do ’pear like dat stiff leg hinders him some,” Shin grinned. “But I done found out somepin ’bout dis hoss: he ain’t skeart of nothin’ but a rattlesnake.”
“Dat discover don’t make him run no faster,” Whiffle replied.
“No’m. But ef I was to tie a rattlesnake to his tail I ’speck he would run some.”
“Huh!” Whiffle snorted disgustedly. “You ain’t gwine tie no snake to dat hoss’s tail.”
“Dat’s a fack,” Shin snickered. “I’s skeart of snakes. But I tells you dis honest, Whiffle: ef you got any money to bet, you bet it on Rattlesnake. I wouldn’t tell you dis ef I didn’t love you more’n anybody!”
“I owns one hunderd dollars, Shin. Me an’ Pap winned in de race whut busted you up yistiddy. I’s gwine bet on Rattlesnake fer yo’ sake, because I loves you.”
It seemed a long time to Shin Bone before the last race. A good hour before that contest of speed Shin had Rattlesnake saddled and waiting.
When at last the bell rang for the final racing event of the fair Shin mounted his stiff-legged steed and rode slowly out upon the track. He counted and found that fifteen other horses were entered, the only formidable rivals to Rattlesnake being Doodlebug and Nigger Blackie.
There are various methods in use among horsemen to extract speed from their race-horses.
Sometimes a jockey carries an electric battery in one of his riding boots, and the battery is connected with copper wire to his spurs; sometimes the battery is hidden in the saddle and the saddle is stitched and lined with copper wire; sometimes the battery is concealed in the butt end of the riding whip. These methods often lead to the detection of dishonesty. A better way is to carry a hand buzzer and apply the juice until the race is won; then the jockey can toss the hand buzzer over the fence and defy the inspection of the judges. Sometimes a groom or rubber pours a bottle of liquid called “High Life” over the horse’s back, or administers a dose of dope; in that case the jockey has the struggle of his life to prevent his horse from climbing into the judges’ stand before he can get a start.
But Shin Bone pulled the most unique stunt ever attempted on a race-track.
The best speed extractor in the world for white flesh, colored flesh, or horse flesh is Fright. Fear will make a lame man walk, a crippled horse run, and a paralyzed negro sprout wings and fly.
Shin rode Rattlesnake without spurs, or whip, or dope, or high life, or electricity. All in the world that he had to induce his horse to run was a handful of toy baby rattles which he had swiped from the nursery of Colonel Tom Gaitskill’s grandchild. Woven in Rattlesnake’s plaited mane were half a dozen celluloid balls, containing two or three buckshot each and marks outside of a baby’s tiny teeth.
As Rattlesnake stumped about on his stiff leg they made no disturbing sound; but Shin had learned by experiment that a little burst of speed started the rattling, and the big horse did the rest!
The fifteen horses trotted down toward the starter’s stand in a pretty fair alignment. Vinegar Atts, the starter, was tired of his week’s work and easy to please.
“Go!” he whooped.
Rattlesnake broke into an awkward gallop. Then Shin Bone reached back and pulled a string in the rear of his saddle.
Four noisy celluloid baby rattles, each suspended from a strong string, dropped down around the legs of Rattlesnake.
The horse heard that deadly, venomous rattle, and felt something touch his flanks and drop further and tap him on the legs; right behind his ears he heard a dreadful whirring sound, as if a snake were entwined in his mane!
He uttered a scream so shrill, so horrible, that every negro in the grandstand shuddered.
Then he leaped forward, and the pop-eyed negroes had never seen such running in their lives!
Rattlesnake’s body lay out in a level line, nose, shoulder, back, and his flying legs were a yellow blur beneath his straining body. But not all the thunder of his going could deaden the sound of that fearful rattle, which whirred like the wind in his ears, stirring the remembrance of suffering and sickness and the agony of the cauterizing iron!
Faster, faster, faster Rattlesnake ran, his feet spurning the brown carpet of turf beneath him, his crippled hind leg limbering up for the last time in his life and shooting his body forward like the piston rod of an engine.
The race was won in an incredible time.
As the terrified horse shot under the wire Shin reached behind his saddle and tore loose the cords which held the rattles flapping around the animal’s flanks; then he ran his hands through the plaited mane and pulled off the rattles which whirred behind Rattlesnake’s ears, and the horse slowly slackened his speed and stopped, his sides heaving, his breath coming and going like a giant bellows.
When the other horses came in Shin rode slowly back and held up his hand.
“Judges?” he called.
Vinegar Atts nodded his head and waved his hand toward the stable.
When Shin Bone dismounted at the stall Whiffle Boone ran forward with the tears running down her laughing face.
She jerked Shin’s hat from his head, turned it upside down on the ground and filled it with money. Then she threw her arms around the graceful, throbbing, sweating neck of the big sorrel horse.
“We win!” she sobbed. “Bless Gawd! We win!”
All this happened three years ago, and there has never been another race at any Tickfall Negro Fair.
For three years Shin Bone’s wife has been in charge of the restaurant which she bought with her winnings in the last great race. For three years Shin Bone has met every train with a light wagon drawn by a pie-faced, stiff-legged sorrel horse. His owner “wrastles trunks an’ gripsacks fer de white folks.” His horse is as fat as butter, but he runs away every time he hears a rattling sound.
Last fall Shin and Whiffle drove Rattlesnake out to the fairground and entered a two-year-old negro boy in the Better Babies’ contest. Colonel Tom Gaitskill had offered handsome prizes in this contest and was in charge.
“This is your son, Shin?” Gaitskill smiled as he entered the piccaninny’s name and age in a large book.
“Yes, suh.”
“I presume it is a eugenic, hygienic baby?” Gaitskill laughed.
“Yes, suh,” Shin replied, wondering at the same time what Gaitskill meant. “Yes, suh. He gits de you-jeans from his maw an’ de high-jeans from his paw. He’s a shore winner!”
Dinner Gaze bore the air of a man who was perfectly satisfied with his personal appearance and sure of making a good impression upon all who beheld him.
He leaned back in his seat in the negro coach of the New Orleans accommodation, using the seat in front of him as a footstool. His legs were crossed with a display of glorious silk hosiery, his thumbs were anchored in the armholes of his gold and purple vest, his bright green cravat contained a bright yellow diamond, and his cigarette-stained fingers beat a happy tattoo upon the bosom of his shirt.
The face of Dinner Gaze was black, and as expressionless as the ugly mug of a dough man. There was a long mark upon his cheek where a bullet had missed the center of his face about two inches. There was a long knife-scar on the back and side of his neck. A bit of the upper part of his left ear was missing, sliced off smoothly witha sharp knife or razor. The end of one of his front teeth was broken off. His eyes were as steady and unwinking and shiny as two glass beads, his voice was low and soft and confidential in tone, and his heavy lips carried an habitual sneer.
Hitch Diamond, who sat beside him, was similarly satisfied.
Hitch’s appearance cried aloud his profession of pugilist. His face was a scarred ruin, battered and bruised in many a fistic battle until it resembled the face of the Sphinx since it has been pecked at and damaged by the souvenir hunters and sandstorms of the centuries. His ponderous hands looked like the gnarled and twisted roots of a scrub-oak tree, while his legs were like the Corinthian columns supporting the portico of a temple.
Hitch had made a trip to New Orleans for pugilistic purposes. At the end of the second round, Hitch had looked down at his opponent, then waved his gloved fist at the whooping crowd and remarked: “I know whut I done to dat coon! He’s gwine sleep a long time!” After which Hitch had collected a hatful of money and remained in New Orleans long enough to get it all nicely spent except a puny wad in one pocket of his shiny new pantaloons.
Every rag of clothes on Hitch’s giant body was entirely new. He was swathed in a Prince Albert coat, choked and tortured by a high collar and a stiff-bosomed shirt; a glorious silk hat, all white silk lining on the inside, and smooth, shiny,imitation beaver on the outside, rode on his head; while on his feet were a pair of patent-leather shoes which had caused him a world of trouble in the city.
He had walked for miles, in and out of the stores, seeking a pair of shiny shoes which would fit his immense feet. Shoe clerks had taken one look at those pedal extremities and had thrown up their hands in despair. But Hitch had persisted in his search, and now it was plainly apparent to all that Solomon in all his glory was not shod like such as he.
Dinner Gaze was listening with great interest to Hitch’s talk.
“I ain’t went to N’Awleens befo’ fer mighty nigh five year,” said Hitch as he extracted a long Perique stogie from the side-pocket of his gorgeous yellow waistcoat.
Dinner Gaze reached out, took the stogie from Hitch’s giant hand, and tossed it out of the window. He handed the pugilist a big, fat cigar with a broad gold band, and grinned in a friendly way. Then he said in his low, gentle voice:
“Ef you wants me to set by you, don’t smoke no roll of rags an’ garbage. Take a real seegar!”
“Thank ’e, suh,” Hitch murmured gratefully, removing the gold band and fitting it carefully upon his little finger where he admired it as a maiden admires her engagement ring. “I’s powerful sorry dar ain’t no lady folks in dis car to see me smoke dis. I ain’t never feel like I had enough money to ack liberal an’ buy real smokes.”
“Ain’t you spek dat you got a wad to tote home from de city wid you?” Gaze inquired carelessly, as he tore a page from a newspaper and began idly to roll it tightly.
“Shore!” Hitch chuckled. “I totes it in my behime hip-pocket next to my heart, whar unpious niggers totes dey gun. But most of dat is jes’ show money—’tain’t much, an’ I got it wropped up in a roll to make it look like a plenty. Fawty dollars is all whut is lef’ of my trip to de city—excusin’ de mem’ry of a dam’ good time, an’ dese clothes!”
“Whar you gwine now?” Dinner asked as he fumbled with his paper.
“I’s gittin’ off at Sawtown,” Hitch replied. “I been livin’ aroun’ in dis part of de worl’ all my life, an’ I ain’t never seed dat big saw-mill town yit. ’Tain’t been but ’bout fo’ year ago dat Sawtown started off—when dey sot dat big mill dar in de woods.”
“I’s proud I met up wid you, Revun,” Dinner Gaze said. “I lives in Sawtown, an’ I’ll show you all de good p’ints in de place.”
Hitch opened his mouth to deny that he was a preacher, but the negro’s natural love of the game of make-believe prevented him. His slow mind evolved the humor of the situation, and he bestowed a pious smile upon the man beside him.
“Thank ’e, suh. I ain’t gwine let nothin’ git past me. I’s gwine to all de shows, an’ drink all de ice-water I kin git, an’ chaw peanuts, an’ git right in de middle of de cullud high life.”
“Dat picayune way of seein’ Sawtown won’t gityou nothin’,” Dinner Gaze grunted disgustedly. “Bust her wide open, Revun!”
“How is dat did?” Hitch wanted to know.
“I’ll show you!” Gaze told him.
“Whut job does you wuck at in Sawtown?” Hitch asked.
“I’m gittin’ ready to sot up a little nigger gamblin’-house in Sawtown now,” Dinner replied cautiously, after a moment’s hesitation. “Befo’ dat, I managed a string of nigger prize-fighters in N’Awleens.”
Hitch raised his battered head like an old, scarred war-horse when he hears the bugle-call for charge. Then he remembered that Gaze thought he was talking to a clergyman.
“Dat shore sounds familious to me,” Hitch laughed. “I used to be a prize-fighter my own se’f!”
“Hear dat, now!” Dinner Gaze exclaimed. “I knowed you an’ me wus kinnery when I fust cotch you wid my eye. How come you left de great perfesh?”
“A nigger put a chunk of lead in his glove an’ battered me clean acrost a wharf-boat,” Hitch narrated, drawing upon his imagination, and recalling an incident in the career of his friend, the Reverend Vinegar Atts. “Atter dat I felt a call to preach.”
“Mebbe you could come back,” Gaze suggested.
“Naw, suh,” Hitch grinned, quoting a remark he had heard Vinegar make. “Preachin’ is a plum’ sight safer. I kin git up befo’ a lot ofChristyums an’ knock noses an’ pull hair an’ skin shins all I’m got a mind to, an’ all dey kin do is to turn aroun’ de yuther cheek. Ef dey hits back, dey ain’t pious!”
The odor of wet, sawed, sun-scorched lumber entered the car window. The suction of the moving train threw sawdust upon the seat where the feet of the two men rested. They were drawing near to the station at Sawtown.
“Revun,” Dinner asked, as he rose, “is you ever read up on dat Bible text whut says ‘I wus a stranger an’ I got took in’?”
“Suttinly,” Hitch prevaricated.
“My last advices to you is to keep a eye on de people in dis here Sawtown. Dey takes a stranger in good an’ plenty!”
Dinner dusted off his patent-leather shoes, adjusted his immaculate cuffs, felt of his green tie and his yellow diamond, lifted his Panama hat out of the rack, and brushed the cigar ashes off his gold and purple vest.
“Drap in de Hot-dog Club an’ gimme a look-on, Revun!” Gaze invited as he stepped into the aisle. “I handles a pretty peart gamblin’ game ef I do say it myse’f!”
The train stopped.
Dinner Gaze waited in the aisle, courteously permitting Hitch Diamond to precede him.
As Hitch passed out, Dinner Gaze cautiously elevated the tail of the pugilist’s Prince Albert coat, carefully thrust two scissors-like fingers into Hitch’s hip-pocket and drew out a small roll ofmoney. In its place he thrust a wad of newspaper of about the same size. When the train had gone on, Hitch looked for his friend and could not find him.
“Dar now!” he exclaimed. “Dat wus a fine nigger man an’ I done loss him complete, an’ I even fergot to ax him whut wus his name!”
“De fust thing I needs is a sack of peanuts an’ a awange to cut de dust outen my throat,” Hitch said to himself, as he walked slowly down the village street.
He entered a small grocery, made his purchases, and thrust his fingers into his hip-pocket to bring forth his money.
Instead he extracted a wad of newspapers.
Hitch stupidly unfolded the paper, gazed at it with hypnotic fascination, searched all his pockets for his lost money, then searched them again, hunting for loose change.
The disgusted clerk tossed the bag of peanuts back into the roaster, laid the orange back on the shelf, walked over to a chair and sat down, his mind spluttering like wet fireworks with his unspoken comments on the colored race in general and Hitch in particular.
Hitch stumbled stupidly out of the store, broke and broken-hearted.
He looked around him uncertainly, then dragged his ponderous feet back toward the depot, hoping to find his lost money. After half an hour’s search he gave it up and started aimlessly toward the river.
Half-way down the block he met a tall negro whose face was slightly disfigured by a broken nose. The man wore a checkerboard suit of clothes, a cowboy hat, and a sport shirt. Hitch’s eyes fell first upon the emblem of a negro lodge which the man wore on the lapel of his coat.
Hitch eagerly laid hold upon his lodge brother, “I’s in powerful bad trouble, brudder,” he moaned. “I ain’t know nobody in dis town an’ I done loss all my money on my way to dis place. Whut kin be did?”
“De next best thing is to go down to de big mill an’ set on de buzz-saw,” the brother advised.
“Whut good will dat do me?” Hitch inquired.
“It’ll fix you so trouble won’t trouble you no more,” Checkerboard grinned, patting Hitch on his powerful back. “Atter you takes yo’ seat you won’t need no money—de Nights of Darkness lodge will bury yo’ remainders free fer nothin’ an’ sot you up a real nice tombstone.”
“I got plenty white folks in my own home town,” Hitch continued, paying no attention to his companion’s foolishness. “I mought could git some he’p mebbe ef I had somewhar to wait at ontil dey sont me de money.”
The checkerboard negro looked Hitch over; then his eyes narrowed and he smiled.
“As a lodge brudder in good standin’, I could lead you to my own house an’ keep you a little while,” Checkerboard remarked. “Whar is yo’ lodge pin?”
Hitch glanced down at the lapel of his coat.
“My gosh!” he mourned. “I done loss my money an’ my lodge breastpin too. Dat breastpin wus jes’ perzackly like de one you is got on an’ wus gib me by Skeeter Butts.”
“Suttinly,” Checkerboard laughed. “Dey is all made alike an’ look jes’ de same. Mebbe de feller whut touched yo’ wad frisked yo’ pin, too.”
“Dat’s whut happened,” Hitch sighed. “But it don’t he’p me none to know dat news.”
“You’se too blame young to be trabbelin’ alone,” Checkerboard snickered. “You needs a fust-rate gardeen. Foller atter me!”
He conducted Hitch to the rear of the big sawmill, led him through a maze of immense lumber piles, and brought him around the big mill-pond to a cluster of houses built by the owners of the mill for the occupancy of their negro employees.
There was one two-story house which looked like a barracks, and was intended for use by men who had no families. Into this Checkerboard led his companion.
“Set down, Revun,” he smiled. “Dis here is my boardin’-house. I keeps it fer de ’commodation of de nigger workers in de mill whut ain’t got no wifes an’ no home. Dey eats in dat eatin’-house down dar by de mill-pond an’ sleeps here.”
“It’s powerful hot in dis place,” Hitch complained as he seated himself.
“We keeps de winders down in de daytime because eve’ybody whut stays here is busy in de mill,” Checkerboard explained, as he pulled off his coat and hung it across his arm. “Pull off dat coat of yourn, an’ I’ll take yo’ stove-pipe hat an’ coat an’ hang ’em up wid mine.”
Hitch gratefully removed his hat and coat and sat down. He took a stogie from his vest-pocket and felt for a match.
“Don’t you wanter take off dat vest, too?” Checkerboard inquired. “You might git seegar ash all over it.”
“Dat’s right,” Hitch said, as he handed his friend the vest.
“Make yo’se’f at home, Revun,” Checkerboard said graciously. “Smoke all you please to—spit on de flo’—ack like you wus at yo’ own house! I got to hump aroun’ a leetle on bizzness befo’ de mill blows de whistle fer closin’ time. But I tells you in eggsvance, dat as fur’s I’m concerned, you kin stay in dis house fer a mont’.”
“You is a true lodge brudder,” Hitch rumbled in real gratitude. “I won’t never fergit you!”
Checkerboard left the room, walked through the hallway, passed out of the rear door, clambered down into a gulley, and carried Hitch’s clothes through a labyrinth of lumber piles to a place far, far away!
Hitch waited for nearly an hour for Checkerboard to return. Feeling the lack of companionship,he walked down to the mill-pond and accosted the slouchy negro woman in the kitchen of the eating-house.
To his surprise he learned that she had never seen nor heard of the man in the checkerboard suit.
“It ’pears to me like dese here folks ain’t plum’ honest,” Hitch mourned as he walked disconsolately around the mill-pond trying to find his way back to the village.
He spent a long time looking for the man who had his clothes, mumbling complainingly to himself the while. At last he wandered to the wharf on the Mississippi River and sat down with his back resting against a post.
His feet were unaccustomed to the wear of patent-leather shoes, and they felt swollen and tired. He took off his shoes, set them side by side in front of him, waved his feet in the cool river breeze, and gazed upon his footwear lovingly.
“I kin git me anodder hat an’ coat,” he muttered. “But dem shoes would be a powerful loss. Dar ain’t no more shoes in N’Awleens dat’ll fit my foots!”
Half a block away two little white boys were cutting monkey-shines on the sidewalk. In the dusty gutter one boy picked up a long, black stocking.
The two considered this find for a moment, then they gathered small sticks and thrust them into the stocking. One youth produced a ball of kite twine and tied an end of the twine around the openend of the stocking. After that, they dropped the stocking upon the pavement and pulled it along by the string, observing the effect.
“It wiggles all right,” they chuckled.
They looked around for a victim and spotted Hitch Diamond.
One of the boys held the stocking and concealed himself behind a pile of lumber on the wharf. The other boy, playing out the ball of twine, walked along the wharf, his bare feet making no sound. He passed close behind Hitch Diamond and stopped and concealed himself on the other side of some shipping about one hundred feet beyond the point where Hitch Diamond sat.
Then the boy with the ball began to wind the twine in. The long black stocking crawled up closer and closer to the inert form of Hitch Diamond.
Finally, when the stocking had wriggled grotesquely to within ten feet of Hitch Diamond, there was a loud whoop—a white boy ran from behind some lumber and shrieked:
“Look at that sna-a-a-ke, nigger! Jump!”
Hitch jumped.
He sprinted down the wharf a hundred yards, pattering along in his sock feet, leaving his precious shoes behind him.
The little white boy shrieked with laughter, picked up the wriggling stocking, and jumped next for Hitch’s shoes.
For a moment he paused, filled with awe when he beheld their monstrous and incredible size;then, doubtless reflecting upon their resemblance to a big mudscow, he put each shoe where a mudscow properly belongs—in the river!
“Hey, you nigger!” a wharf watchman called sharply, as Hitch, looking behind him, ran full tilt into the watchman’s portly form.
“’Scuse me, boss!” Hitch grunted.
The watchman hung three strong fingers in the collar of Hitch’s white shirt. Hitch didn’t like that. He pulled away. The watchman pulled too. The inevitable happened.
Hitch’s shirt tore half in two and hung limply in the watchman’s hands as Hitch raced down the wharf clad in socks, pants, and a red undershirt!
The watchman disgustedly tossed his spoils on top of a lumber pile and gave himself up to the placid contemplation of the flight of some gulls on the river.
“Lawd,” Hitch sighed, when he had dodged around the distant end of the wharf and had time to look down at his deficient apparel. “Dis here town shore is hard on clothes!”
Keeping the river levee between himself and the town so that no one could see him in his half-dressed condition, Hitch departed from the vicinity of Sawtown with expedition. When he reached the edge of the woods about a mile fromthe mill, he sat down to think a way out of his difficulties.
“My head is jes’ like a mule’s head,” he announced to himself. “I cain’t hold but only one notion at a time. I been thinkin’ so heavy all de time about my lost money dat I done loss all my good clothes, too. I oughter knowed better. Now I’s gwine git active an’ sot myse’f up in bizzness agin.”
He sat for a long time in deep, silent meditation, trying to extract an idea from his slow brain. Then he concluded:
“I drunk too much dram in N’Awleens. My head ain’t right. Ef I could git me a good dram now, mebbe I could think up a notion whut to do.”
In his impoverished condition he saw no way of buying a drink. He cast about to see what he possessed which he might exchange for one, and pulled out of his hip-pocket his silk socks, the joy and pride of his life in their glorious coloring—purple, striped with yellow!
“Dey costed me two dollars,” Hitch sighed as he gazed upon them fondly. “I could swap ’em off in Sawtown, but I ain’t gwine back dar no more. Ef I does, some nigger will steal my pants an’ my socks, too. Plenty of country niggers is got dram.”
He walked barefooted through the woods and came out at a level plantation some distance back from the river. In the middle of a cow-pasture, a tall, brown, bright-eyed negro watched Hitch approach with impassive curiosity.
“Howdy, my brudder!” Hitch boomed. “How am yo’ soul an’ spirit dis day?”
“De spirit is pretty low, elder,” the farmer replied. “De ole woman am got de dram all locked up tight.”
“How come you choose de lily-pad route an’ live on water?” Hitch asked in a disappointed tone.
“I got married,” the young negro responded with a grin.
Suddenly a big Jersey bull broke through the underbrush and came toward the two men, snorting, bellowing, pawing the ground, tossing the dirt upon his shoulders, and shaking his powerful head.
“Dat’s mine, stranger,” the young man remarked proudly, removing the top from a bucket on his arm and tossing a handful of salt at the animal’s feet. “He don’t like dat red undershirt of your’n. Ain’t him a dandy?”
“Shore is,” Hitch said meditatively. After a moment, he added: “Ef dat ole bull wus to hook one of us, I ’speck yo’ bride would affode us a little dram to stimulate us up.”
“I resigns in yo’ favor, elder,” the owner grinned. “Ef dis here beast wus to butt me, he’d jolt all my kinnery plum’ back to Afriky.”
There was a period of silent and fruitless meditation. Then, sorrowfully, Hitch Diamond reached to his hip-pocket and brought forth his purple socks with the yellow stripes—all, except his trousers, that remained of his former glory.
“Whut’s yo’ name?” Hitch asked.
“Dey calls me Dude Blackum because I got a gold tooth,” the other informed him.
“Whut is yo’ wife called?” Hitch asked next.
“Dainty.”
“I wants to make a little trade, Dude,” Hitch remarked, after he had told his own name. “Dese here socks costed me two dollars. My head ain’t thinkin’ right to-day. You is a heavy thinker. Ef you kin think up a sketch of how I kin git a dram right now, I’ll bestow dese here socks on you.”
“De trade is did!” Dude grinned, showing his gold tooth. “Lemme think!”
“Bawl out, nigger!” Hitch grumbled after a little wait. “Don’t keep me waitin’ here in expense no longer.”
“I wus studyin’ ’bout dis,” Dude said. “I’s got a little touch of lumbago in my legs. An’ mebbe, ef dat bull would jes’ butt me real easy like, an’ I’d kinder drap off in dat bayou an’ git wet, an’ den walk back home in drippy clothes wid dis mis’ry gnawin’ at my legs——”
Hitch’s face was so expressive of contempt that Dude stopped speaking.
“Is dat whut you call heavy thinkin’?” Hitch inquired in sarcastic tones. “Dat high-brow plan might steal you a nubbin of corn from a blind pig’s slop-trough. But Dainty ain’t no blind pig—dese here brides gits awful wise on deir husbunts atter dey marries ’em.”
“Wait till I finish, Hitch,” Dude begged.“Now, my view is dis: you go up to de house an’ cornverse Dainty till I comes in all wet an’ mournin’ ’bout how hurt I is. Atter I come in, you say to Dainty dat she better gimme a dram because I’s so crippled up. Of co’se, she will hab to be manners an’ gib you some, too.”
“Dar, now!” Hitch boomed. “You shore is a smart boy, Dude. Dat plan is accawdin’ to de Bible, wise as suppents an’ harmless as ducks. But”——
Here Hitch broke off and looked down at his clothes.
“It ’pears to me it ain’t proper to call on a lady when I is barefooted an’ ain’t got nothin’ on but a pair of pants an’ a red undershirt,” he mourned.
“Dat won’t make no diffunce,” Dude assured him. “All de niggers wucks in de big mill dresses jes’ like you is now. Dainty will figger dat you is a sawmill hand. Talk right up to her, Revun”——
“I ain’t no preacher!” Hitch interrupted, growling like an angry bear. “I’s a prize-fighter.”
“Dat won’t do,” Dude chuckled, as he looked at the giant’s mighty arms and shoulders. “Dainty is powerful sot on preachers. I ’speck you better be one as long as you is hangin’ aroun’ her.”
“All right,” Hitch said reluctantly, as he started away. “I ain’t none too good or too proud to piddle wid dat job—ef I got to.”
“Hol’ on, Hitch!” Dude exclaimed. “You ain’t gimme dem silk socks yit!”
Hitch’s experience in Sawtown had made him cautious. After a man has parted with a certainamount of his wearing apparel, he becomes reluctant to separate himself from the rest in a civilized community unless he contemplates becoming a he-mermaid and living in the river.
Hitch held out one sock.
“I’ll gib you one sock now, Dude,” he said cunningly. “Dat’ll keep yo’ mind int’rusted. Atter I git de dram, I’ll leave de yuther sock on de flo’ or de mantlepiece, kinder keerless like.”
Dude accepted the partial payment and stuck the gaudy sock into his derby hat and placed the hat on his head.
On his way to the cabin, which lay across the pasture, Hitch Diamond also did some heavy thinking.
“I wonder how much dram dat nigger woman is got,” he muttered to himself. “I bet dar ain’t enough for two. Ef she ain’t nothin’ but one of dese here soft, giggly, gal-wifes, mebbe I kin bamboozle her outen a dram befo’ Dude comes in.”
Dainty met Hitch at the door.
“My name am Hitch Diamond, Dainty,” he rumbled. “I met Dude out in de cow pasture an’ he tole me he done cormitted mattermony. I felt powerful bad because he didn’t send fer his ole preacher frien’ to come ’n’ marrify him. He sont me up here to take a look at you.”
“Come in, elder,” Dainty giggled. “How is you feelin’ to-day?”
“Lawd, honey, I feels a whole passel better since I sot my eyes on you. You’s prettier’n a little pig. But I been feelin’ powerful sick.”
“Whut ails you?” the girl asked with instant sympathy.
“I’s got a wo-begone spasm in my stomick an’ a empty feelin’ in my head.”
“Dat’s too bad,” Dainty said. “Would a little drap——”
“Yes’m,” Hitch responded promptly. “Dat’s jes’ de med’cine I needs. De dorctor obscribes brandy fer all my ailments.”
Dainty extracted a key from the pocket of her dress and opened the door of a little storeroom which contained a little trunk. Drawing forth another key, she opened the trunk and brought out a jug.
“I’s glad Dude didn’t come to de house wid you,” Dainty remarked. “I don’t let him hab no more booze. He come home ’bout two weeks ago an’ couldn’t git past dat oak tree out dar in dat yard. He seed two trees whar dar wusn’t but jes’ only one, an’ he mighty nigh butted his fool head off tryin’ to walk between dem trees.”
She set the jug and the drinking glass beside Hitch Diamond and took her seat in a rickety hide-bottomed chair.
Hitch looked at the glass, picked it up and fumbled it, and set it down apologetically.
“Sister Dainty,” he murmured, “ef you ain’t got no objections, I’ll drink outen dis jug de way I wus raised.”
Catching the handle with his left hand, he gave the jug a quick turn, rested it upon the crook of his uplifted elbow, and applied his lips to the spout. Dainty watched him with fascinated eyes.
When at last he set the jug upon the table and seated himself beside it, she said with a chuckle:
“Elder, when I wus a little gal I wus always countin’—I used to count de cobs in de feed-trough, an’ de beans in a hull, an’ de number of swallers a cow tuck when she drunk water.”
“Jes’ so,” Hitch responded, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his red undershirt.
“Seben swallers is a big drink fer a cow, elder,” Dainty continued.
“Dat’s right,” Hitch agreed.
“Elder,” Dainty chuckled, “when you wus drinkin’ outen my jug, you swallered fo’teen times!”
“Yes’m,” Hitch replied solemnly. “I tole you I wus feelin’ powerful sick!”
Suddenly he remembered that he was playing the part of a preacher. He decided he ought to say something religious. So he began:
“Sister Dainty, dis am de Bible law about de imbibin’ of awjus liquors: de amount of booze a man oughter drink depen’s on how much he kin hold inside hisse’f an’ at de same time resist de effecks; but, neverdeless an’ howsumever, eve’y man oughter take a little dram fer his stomick’s ache in case of powerful sickness.”
“Yes, suh,” Dainty agreed.
“Now you notify de case of yo’ husbunt tryin’ to make a goat of hisse’f an’ butt down all de timber in de yard. I feels like I oughter tell you dat dat nigger is plum’ full of guile. Right dis minute, he’s figgerin’ to fall in de bayou an’ come to dehouse all wet, an’ say de bull done butted him, an’ ax fer a leetle drap.”
“Am—dat—so?” Dainty inquired with popping eyes.
“Yes’m,” Hitch assured her. “Of co’se, a man in my perfesh don’t harmonize wis no sech plans like dat. Hit’s a sin ag’in’ de conscience.”
Dainty stood up and laid her hand upon the handle of the jug.
“I’s gwine put dis jug back in de storeroom. Dude don’t git none. He is a fraudful nigger!” She set the jug on the top of the trunk, locked the storeroom, and went to the kitchen.
Hitch heard her chopping kindling wood and rattling the stove-lids. He heard the roar of the fire as the flame from the rich pine-knots soared up the chimney.
Ten minutes later Dainty entered and sat down with Hitch again, her eyes gleaming with wifely resolution.
“Dar he comes now!” Hitch snickered, pointing through the window. “Look at him—wet as a b’iled owl an’ walkin’ lame in bofe behime legs like a stringhalt mule. Lawd, Lawd!”
The gate opened and Dude Blackum stumbled in, walking to the door with every manifestation of suffering his imagination could devise.
Hitch, standing behind Dainty so she could not see, encouraged Dude’s painful progress by waving the other silk purple-and-yellow sock at him.
“My Lawd, Dainty,” Dude wailed, “whut you reckin dat ole bull went an’ done to me?”
“Butted you in de bayou!” Dainty answered promptly.
“Yes’m, dat’s it! I’s cripple in bofe behime legs fer life!” Dude told her as he clasped his back with both hands and groaned. “I couldn’t swim a lick because I couldn’t kick. Ef I hadn’t paddled out wid my hands I’d ’a’ been drownded.”
He looked appealingly toward Hitch Diamond, waiting for the bogus elder to suggest the booze. But Hitch merely wiped his hand across his mouth and grinned.
“Dainty, honey,” Dude said pleadingly, “I’s powerful hurted, an’ I feel like I’s gwine hab a rigger. Ain’t you got a leetle——”
“I shore has,” Dainty replied eagerly, without waiting for the question. “Git in de yuther room an’ take off dem wet clothes, an’ by dat time I’ll hab you a good dram ready.”
With a beatific grin at Hitch Diamond, to which Hitch responded, Dude retired to change his clothes. A moment later he came out and said to Hitch:
“Gimme dat yuther silk sock!”
“A trade am a trade,” Hitch grinned as he handed it over. “Ain’t one sock wet?”
“Naw!” Dude whispered. “I laid it on degroun’ till I jumped in de bayou, an’ I fotch it home under my hat.”
When Dude reappeared he was clothed in his best suit and wore the gaudiest socks he had ever owned.
“Set down by dis table, Dude,” Dainty said.
She went to the kitchen, and returned carrying a bowl, the rank odor of its contents permeating the room.
“My gawsh, Dainty!” Dude howled as she set the bowl of steaming liquid before him. “Whut is dis mess—a b’iled rat?”
“Naw,” Dainty said in her sweetest tones. “It’s a bowl of hot sass’fras tea!”
Dude howled his disgust.
“It’s mighty good fer a nigger whut’s had a accidunt, Dude,” Dainty told him with suspicious gentleness.
Dude glanced at Hitch Diamond. That gentleman’s face was set in a monstrous, mouth-stretching grin, and his eyes danced with unholy glee.
“Huh!” Dude grunted. He sheepishly bent his head over the bowl of sassafras tea and sipped its last drop without saying a word.
“Dat fake preacher prize-fighter is done scratched me out,” he reasoned. “I’ll git even, or die!”
Finishing his tea, Dude rose to his feet. “I’s gwine out to feed de pigs fer de night, Dainty,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Dude sat down in the door of the corncrib and meditated deeply upon a proper method of retaliation.
“Dat Hitch Diamond thinks he’s purty blamepeart in his head,” he announced to himself. “He thinks dat he’s got so much sense dat his eyes looks red.”
He ran his hands deep into his pockets and meditated some more. Then he shook his head hopelessly.
“I ain’t got nothin’ in my head but squash-seed. When I tries to ponder, it gibs me blind-staggers in my brains. I hope, some day, dat nigger will hab to swaller a whole sassafras-tree!”
He stood up and started slowly back toward the house. He looked tired and worn. He had most certainly never heard of Ralph Waldo Emerson, but he would have agreed with that philosopher in the statement that “thinking is the hardest work in the world.”
“I reckin I’ll hab to take dese new socks fer my pay an’ call it even,” he sighed. “Dar ain’t no revengeunce comin’ to me. Dainty an’ Hitch is too much team to pull ag’in.”
He walked into the room where the two sat, nursing a grouch and by no means disposed to be courteous to his guest. He took a corn-cob pipe from his pocket, scratched in the bottom of another pocket for some crumbs of smoking tobacco, and lighted up.
“Dude is got anodder pipe, elder. Would you wish to smoke?” Dainty inquired.
“Yes’m,” Hitch responded. “It’ll kinder sottle my stomick fer my supper vittles.”
Dude arose grumpily, walked to the mantle shelf, and picked up a pipe. Out of one pockethe brought a few crumbs of smoking tobacco, then scraped the bottom of another pocket for a few more crumbs. He emptied some papers and matches and pieces of string out of a mug on the mantle, and poured out a few more crumbs. Then, behind a picture, his eyes caught the gleam of metal, and he brought out something which looked like a flask. He poured a few crumbs out of this into his hand, finished filling the pipe as he turned his back, and reached for a match. Passing them to Hitch, Dude took his chair on the far side of the room near the open door.
Hitch struck the match and sucked the flame into the bowl of his pipe.
Pow!
The pipe burst into fragments, the room filled with smoke, Dainty screamed, and Hitch Diamond performed a number of interesting circus stunts and tumbled over in a squalling, bellowing heap upon the floor.
“Git de booze, Dainty!” Dude screamed. “Fotch out de jug! De elder is done cormitted death!”
Dainty sprang to the storeroom door, opened it, and handed Dude the jug.
“Oo-oo-ee!” Hitch whooped. “I’s dyin’ dead!”
“Go in de kitchen an’ fotch a drinkin’ cup!” Dude howled to his wife.
Dainty bounced into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. Dude quickly latched the door so that Dainty could not enter the room again without going entirely around the house.
“Oo-oo-ee!” Hitch Diamond howled. “He’p!”
“Shut up, you ole fool!” Dude commanded as he walked over and bestowed upon the giant prize-fighter a most earnest and soul-satisfying kick. “Me an’ dis jug ain’t gwine ’socheate wid you no more. You ain’t fitten comp’ny!”
“Don’t leave me, Dude!” Hitch begged. “I’s all collapsed down!”
Dude picked up his derby hat, stopped at the door, and looked back:
“Sass’fras tea is mighty good fer a nigger whut’s had a accidunt, Hitch. Dainty makes it fine! Atter she fixes you a bowl I advises you to fill anodder pipe wid gunpowder outen dat flask behime dat picture an’ take anodder smoke. Good-bye!”
Dainty came running around the house and entered the door. She was mad.
“Whut made you lock me out, elder?” she demanded.
“Dude done it,” Hitch mourned, sitting upon the floor and feeling much better after learning what had caused his pipe to explode. “Dude is went!”
“Oh, Lawdy!” Dainty exclaimed. “Go an’ fotch him back, elder! He’ll be so drunk in no time dat he won’t know whut end of hisse’f is straight up! Go!”
Hitch went. His intentions were good. He really desired to find Dude, because Dude had the jug. He purposed to hunt for him. But a man who has had fourteen swallows out of a jug of free whisky twenty minutes before cannot be expected to maintain a given purpose very long.
By the time Hitch had crossed the pasture, he needed all the woods along the river for walking room. The entire width of the levee was not too much to accommodate his devious journey back toward Sawtown.
On the edge of the town, near the commissary store of the big sawmill, he found a most interesting ditch. It was about ten feet wide and fifteen feet deep, and was hard and dry at the bottom.
He leaned over to examine that ditch with great care. He seemed to want to remember it, to impress it on his mind. It may fairly be presumed that he did impress it on his mind. He fell into it on his head.
At midnight he was sleeping in it undisturbed. A little after midnight something happened. A man walking down the deep gulley stepped on Hitch Diamond and woke him up.
Hitch did not know how long he lay in the ditch after he had been awakened. He tried to remember where he was and how he got there, but he was half asleep and wholly confused, and the task was too great for him.
What woke him up completely was a long, shrill whistle, followed by four pistol-shots in rapid succession.
Hitch sprang to his feet and started runningdown the gulley, but he stumbled in the dark and fell headlong.
Three more pistol-shots cracked in the still night air, a man screamed, and Hitch sprang up and started again. He stumbled and fell a second time.
Over in the far end of the big lumber yard a second whistle shrilled, the call of a night watchman, followed by thecrack! crack! crack!of an automatic pistol. Then the big mill whistle roared its warning through the town and reverberated down the river and echoed from the woods, and deafened and terrified Hitch Diamond by its sinister call to the people of Sawtown to rouse themselves.
From the great number of little houses where the employees of the mill lived men issued forth, brandishing firearms and calling to each other as they ran. The electric lights in the mill flashed up, and in a brief time an immense crowd had congregated.
Hitch could hear their excited questions and answers.
“What’s the matter?”
“Commissary store has been robbed and night watchman killed!”
“Who did it?”
“A nigger!”
“No! Two niggers!”
There was a moment of silence while the crowd considered this. Then a roar:
“Find them niggers and mob ’em! Come on!”
“Spread out, men! Cover the yard! Look everywhere!”
Hitch Diamond turned his back on that crowd and started in the opposite direction at full speed, running in the dark, with no notion where he was going. He got an idea when he plunged into the mill-pond up to his neck.
“Dis here is sloppy wuck!” he grunted as he climbed out of there.
He began to skirt the edge of the pond, and found to his alarm that he was following the curve which led him back to the lighted mill. He heard the sound of running feet; a flash-light shot its rays across the mill-pond, and Hitch departed from the water’s edge with all possible speed.
He found one of the long alleys between the lumber piles in the yard and sprinted down the sawdust trail at a lively gait.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he found the entrance of the alley filled with men who were coming toward him with incredible swiftness. The employees of the mill were familiar with all the main thoroughfares and by-paths of the yard, while Hitch had to feel his way to some extent, and his progress was necessarily slow.
A revolver spat fire and lead at him, a fusillade followed, a big lumber-stack rose like a mountain before the frightened negro, and he fell against it with both hands outspread.
He found something that he had never noticed in a lumber yard before—that strips of wood were thrust between the layers of lumber to give acirculation of air and prevent the lumber from rotting.
These little gaps made it possible for him to climb, and he scrambled up the pile like a big baboon and lay on the top, panting like the exhaust of an engine.
His pursuers passed the pile on the path below, and Hitch began to breathe easier.
In a moment a light flashed from a big lumber-pile fifty feet away and several feet higher than the pile he was on. A watchman was whipping about him with a dark lantern, searching the top of the lumber.
Hitch Diamond dropped over the side and hit the sawdust trail again. He ran down a little by-path, skinning his elbows upon the projecting planks and stubbing his bare toes against all kinds of obstacles, until he fell over something and tumbled onto something with a clatter like the roll of a snare-drum.
A man loomed up before him not twenty feet away and said “Ho!” in a frightened voice.
Hitch got up and went away from that place with astonishing speed.
Then the watchman on the lumber-pile threw the rays of his dark lantern down into the runway just as Hitch passed, and the terrified negro ran full into the glare.
Three pistol-shots splintered the wood around him as he ran on; the watchman’s sharp voice called to the man-hunters, and in a second, hundreds of men had turned and were convergingtoward the spot where Hitch Diamond was running around a lumber-pile like a trapped rabbit.
“Guard the runways, men!” the watchman’s voice ordered sharply. “I’ll flash the light into the alleys for you!”
The watchman began to leap from pile to pile, throwing the rays of his dark lantern down into each corridor, and coming constantly closer to where Hitch Diamond was hiding.
“My Gawd!” Hitch chattered as he looked up at the fantastic, mountainous pile beside which he was crouched.
Salvation came with the thought that the pile he stood beside was higher than the one on which the watchman stood. He began to climb, hand over hand, praying that the light would not reach him before he could attain the summit.
By the mercy of Heaven he rolled onto the top of the lumber just as the watchman, on a pile twenty feet below him, flashed the glare into the corridor where Hitch had stood a moment before.
Hitch was blowing like a bellows, streams of perspiration poured down his body, and his giant frame shook like the body of a man with an ague.
Days of dissipation in New Orleans, a drunken spree just a few hours before, nothing to eat since breakfast, half an hour of violent exercise running and climbing lumber, and a fright which clutched at his heart, weakening and almost suffocating him—all of these things were handicaps for Hitch Diamond in the effort he was making to escape.
He knew that capture meant certain death.Capture was not even necessary—a flash of light, a well-directed pistol-shot, and his career was ended.
Suddenly his soul was filled with terror.
Twenty men had mounted the lumber-piles and were moving across the tops, lashing the lumber with their lights, driving everything before them as a woman shoos a lot of chickens. Below him, on the ground, men were standing at the end of each main thoroughfare, and were lashing them with light, while one man was walking down each by-path!
The searching party had organized, and was moving with perfect precision to cover the entire yard.
“Good-by, fair worl’!” Hitch Diamond mourned as he crawled to the edge of the lumber and looked down. “’Tain’t no hope fer pore old Hitchie onless I kin hop offen dis lumber atter dat man is done passed down in de alley.”
But the men on the ground had foreseen that possibility, and were measuring their progress down the by-paths by the progress of the men on the lumber-piles.
Seeing this, Hitch Diamond’s heart turned to lead, his blood to water, and his giant frame seemed to crumble like chalk. Already he felt himself mortally stricken and dying.
He caught himself trying to speak, to utter words of encouragement to himself, but his teeth clicked together like castanets, and his whispered words fell upon terror-deafened ears.
He sprang to his feet and stood glaring at theapproaching lights like some great beast trapped in a jungle. Unconsciously he shut his fingers tight, his hands forming two immense iron fists.
That unconscious action made a man of him again! Those iron fists were the fists of a prize-fighter—Hitch Diamond, the Tickfall Tiger! Courage flowed through his veins like some magic liquor.
“Hitch never th’ows up de sponge!” he growled. “I fights to de eend!”