All afternoon fast-moving banks of dark threatening clouds were hovering over the East Green, and with the coming of evening the rain began falling in torrents. Gussie had just finished his supper of cornbread and coffee before the open fireplace, and was sitting watching the puffs of smoke the wind blew down the chimney, and listening to the pelting sound of the rain on the old shingle roof. He wondered how he would be able to go out if the rain continued; remembering that it was the night he had to help old man Hooblitz with his sausage-making. Rain or no rain, he had to go. Because his word was his bond; and he knew that the old man would expect him.
All afternoon fast-moving banks of dark threatening clouds were hovering over the East Green, and with the coming of evening the rain began falling in torrents. Gussie had just finished his supper of cornbread and coffee before the open fireplace, and was sitting watching the puffs of smoke the wind blew down the chimney, and listening to the pelting sound of the rain on the old shingle roof. He wondered how he would be able to go out if the rain continued; remembering that it was the night he had to help old man Hooblitz with his sausage-making. Rain or no rain, he had to go. Because his word was his bond; and he knew that the old man would expect him.
Aunt Fisky was sitting by the table, patching one of Gussie’s old cottonade shirts by the dim light of a flickering candle. She saw him get up and go to the door and look out, and knew by his manner that he was impatient to get away. She felt that it would be useless to try and hinder him. It would only make him cross.
Putting on his hat and coat, he told her good night and started off in the rain. He would go to Mr. Cholly Groos’s and get a cup of lemon-gin first, he told himself; then go down to old man Hooblitz’s and hurry and get through; and after that “go by an’ peep in at Carmelite’s raffle for a w’ile.” And after that, go to the church and sing over Tempe till he got tired. Then, after a full night of varied pleasures, he would go home to Aunt Fisky, and “lay down, an’ sleep de sleep o’ de sattafied.”
This singular old German with the effervescent name, was a woodcutter by day; who, requiring extra funds for the desired supply of beer and whiskey for selfish consumption, against swamp-fever, snake-bites and such-like evils, managed to overcome the need by following the craft ofsausage-making at night. His retired laboratory was a small shanty on the edge of Ziffle’s Wood, adjoining the cemetery. Hooblitz cut down the trees for Mr. Ziffle, who furnished the villagers with cord wood for their cook stoves and fireplaces.
Owing to a series of harsh disagreements with his married daughter who thought not highly of her father’s spectacular inebriety; old Hooblitz lived alone at his sausage factory on Mr. Ziffle’s property. Occasionally Gussie went to help him with the sausage-making; often spending the night with him, and taking part in his deep potations and raucous revelling; when only the owls in the cypress trees and the bullfrogs in the near-by canal would be annoyed by the seeming rivalry.
Strictly speaking, the place where the sausage was made could not be called a room. It was nothing more than a tin roof supported by four posts, young cypress trees with the bark on. The floor was of mud, baked hard from the fire that burned in the center three nights of each week. Over the fire was a large three-legged cauldron, with a brick under each foot. In it was boiled the mixture he peddled in a basket, going about in the evening from door to door; no distinction being made between his white and colored patrons.
Adjoining the place where he worked,—fastened on like a casual after-thought, was the room in which he slept. Its furnishings consisted of a rude bunk nailed to the wall; a long cypress tool chest resting on a pair of tressels; a soap box and a beer keg, to serve the purpose of chairs for any chance visitors. By way of decoration, the walls were hung with old hats, coats and trousers; here and there, odd pieces of red flannel shirts and underwear adding a redeeming note of cheer to the dull squalor of the place. The most striking thing, however, was an array of empty flasks and bottles (eloquent reminders of the revels of the past) hanging by strings from the rafters overhead.
For a long time Mr. Ziffle had the feeling that his woodpiles were being rifled, gently but systematically. He discussed the fact with old Hooblitz, who, not only gave vent to friendly indignation; but expressed his willingness to act as night-watchman and shoot the unworthy rogue, regardless of caste or color.
But his enthusiasm did not succeed in removing suspicion from Mr. Ziffle’s mind. He was convinced that Hooblitz was the crafty pilferer. So he determined to put the matter to a test. Whereupon he took a dozen or more sticks of wood and boredthem full of gimlet holes; into which he poured a small quantity of gunpowder, plugging them up afterward. Then he placed the loaded cord sticks on the tops of the various woodpiles, and sat down patiently to wait results.
The night set in with a driving rain, just as old Hooblitz lighted his fire and filled the big iron pot with the ingredients for the unsanitary brew he would peddle as sausage. Looking at his supply of wood, he saw there was not enough to finish the boiling, and that he would have to pay a secret visit to Mr. Ziffle’s woodpile to get a few sticks to last the night. He was just about to go out, when the door flew open suddenly, and Gussie lunged into the room, dripping wet and blowing like a porpoise.
Displeased with the untimely interruption, and not wanting Gussie to find out the secret of his wood supply, knowing that he would speak of it in the village and Mr. Ziffle would hear it eventually; old Hooblitz stood looking at the unwelcome visitor, leering at his discomfort with a sort of malicious delight. Gussie sat down dejectedly on the beer keg, beating his wet cap against its side. The old man continued to laugh, wondering at the same time how long he would have to wait before goingabout his work. Getting up slowly, Gussie shook himself several times, like a wet dog trying to dry himself.
“Gawd knows, Mr. Hooblitz,” he began to complain, “I ain’ see w’at you got to laugh at. If I had knowed ’twas goin’ rain like dis, I sho would ’a stayed ’way from hyuh tonight.... You ain’ goin’ make no sausage, bad weather like dis, is you?”
’Twasn’t raining on the inside; the old man told him curtly. He didn’t have to stay, if he wanted to go back home; the old man went on. He got along without help before; he could get along without it again. Little bit of rain didn’t make him afraid to work for an honest living. The house had a roof over it. And there was a good fire, in the bargain.
“Li’l bit o’ rain!” Gussie exclaimed; surprised at his disagreeable manner of talking. “Man, you ain’ seen de water fallin’ out-do’as, if you wan’ call dat a li’l bit o’ rain.... Look how I’m soaked clean thoo to de skin, if you ain’ b’lieve w’at I’m tellin’ you.”
“Well, w’at you want me to do?” The old man asked indifferently, with a flat harsh drawl.
“Gimme li’l somh’n to drink,” Gussie told him frankly. “Li’l somh’n to warm me up befo’ I start ’way from hyuh. ’Cause I ain’ goin’ stay wid youan’ do no work tonight.... I done already seen whah you too cross an’ crabby for me to stay hyuh an’ play ’roun’ dis sausage pot. Wet as I done got comin’ ’way down hyuh in de woods for nothin’.... An’ inny-way, I got to go yonder to Carmelite raffle an’ see’f I can’ win’ one dem quilts for Aun’ Fisky.... An’ got to go yonder to Tempe wake, too.... So gimme a drink o’ somh’n-nother, Mr. Hooblitz, so I kin leave hyuh w’en it slack-up rainin’ a li’l bit out-do’as.”
The old man took a flask from his pocket, and holding it out to Gussie, said roughly:
“Here. Take a drink. An’ I hope it lands you in Hell before morning.... An’ hurry on back to your damn niggers; if that’s what you want to do. I reckon I kin git along good enough by myself.”
Gussie looked at the flask; then contemplated the old man’s face for a second before answering.
“But no, Mr. Hooblitz. You sho is cross tonight.... W’as de matter? You begrudge me a li’l bit o’ licker to keep me from ketchin’ col’, wet as I’m is? An’ come hyuh to help you, too?... Hyuh, take yo’ licker back,” he went on, holding out the flask to the old man. “I ain’ got to drink it, if da’s de way you wan’ talk. Frien’ly as me an’ you bin for so long.”
Old Hooblitz took the flask, and after helping himselfto a long swig, he handed it back to Gussie, saying:
“Don’t be so damn touchy about your niggers. Take your drink, an’ go on back to ’um. You might miss the excitement if you stay here too long.”
Gussie put the flask to his mouth and took a long pull. He handed it back and the old man put it in his pocket and sat down sullenly. Gussie shook himself in his wet clothes, put on his cap, buttoned his coat well about his neck, and started for the door. He looked out to see if the rain had abated.
“’Tain drappin’ so hard like it ’twas,” he said, turning to the old man. “But ’tain no use stay’n hyuh no longer. So Mr. Hooblitz, I’m goin’ tell you good-night.”
The old man made an inarticulate grunt as Gussie left, calling to him as the door closed:
“Damn you an’ your good-night! I don’t care if I never see you no more.”
Going over to the bunk, he lifted the straw mattress and brought out a quart bottle of whiskey. He filled the empty flask he had in his pocket, took a generous gulp, put the flask back, and looked out at the weather.
The rain was falling in torrents.
He would have to go out after the wood, as the fire was burning very low. Going over to the array ofclothing on the wall, he took an old coat from the peg, threw it over his shoulders and started out in search of the woodpile. After stumbling through the dark, he came back after a while with four sticks of wood, his clothing thoroughly drenched.
“A good dram’ll warm up the inside, an’ I’ll be dry in no time,” he said to reassure himself, lifting his flask and drinking heartily. Then he raked the fire together and put on two sticks of wood, and went into his room to lie down until the cooking required further attention.
The rain pelted on the tin roof of the shed and the ringing sound went echoing through the room like a savage serenade. The malodorous fumes of the boiling pot also went into the room, bringing him visions of profitable sales and more comforting flasks for the lonely nights to follow. The thought made him happy, so he took another long drink of thankfulness; closing his eyes so as not to be shocked by the dismal aspect of an empty bottle.
The rain rattled and the fire cracked, but nothing disturbed the pleasure of his dreaming. The pot gurgled and the fire cracked louder than before, but the rude noise failed to penetrate the chaotic lethargy that wrapped his maudlin mind.
Suddenly the gunpowder exploded, sending the loaded cord sticks flying in every direction; theseething pot soaring into the air against the tin roof, rattling like a charge of light artillery; the heterogeneous contents, scattered to the four winds like the spoils of battle.
But old Hooblitz heard no sound. No hint of the loud catastrophe. He lay unmoved on his dingy bed, wrapped in a fringe of bibulous ecstasy; half-hidden in the reek of steam that filled the room; oblivious to all mundane things; until the coming of morning confronted him with the cruel truth, and the accusing presence of Mr. Ziffle, asking if he was ready to deliver the culprit to justice.