When Gussie recovered from his dull bewilderment and found himself out on the street, alone in the mud and darkness; he tried to collect his wits and see if he could explain what everything was about. He remembered his long walk in the storm down to the old man Hooblitz’s place at the edge of the woods; recalling more vividly than anything else, the unfriendly greeting of the old man, his cross ugly humor, and the mean way that old Hooblitz hurried him out into the driving rain.
When Gussie recovered from his dull bewilderment and found himself out on the street, alone in the mud and darkness; he tried to collect his wits and see if he could explain what everything was about. He remembered his long walk in the storm down to the old man Hooblitz’s place at the edge of the woods; recalling more vividly than anything else, the unfriendly greeting of the old man, his cross ugly humor, and the mean way that old Hooblitz hurried him out into the driving rain.
He also had a faint remembrance of a welcome drink with Chicken-Volsin, somewhere along the road. But it was somewhat hazy. Not near as clear as the recollection of himself hurrying on through the rain to see about winning the quilt at Carmelite’s raffle, so he could take it home to Aunt Fisky and make the old lady feel pleased.
Then he remembered Carmelite’s kitchen, and the nice warm fire in the stove; and how good he felt when his clothes began to get dry; and the good cup of hot coffee Carmelite gave him just before he fell asleep. But after that, he could recall nothing more until the time he woke up and found Carmelite shaking him and calling him names, and talking so loud that Pinkey and Soongy came out and pitched into him, before he could get his right presence of mind and keep them from over-coming him, the same as if he was chillun.
Why they carried him out-doors and dumped him in the street, he couldn’t understand to save his soul. Carmelite must have some grudge against him, and was mad because he came to the raffle. She didn’twant him to win the quilt; and that’s the way she fixed it up to git rid of him. But didn’t he have as much right to be there as anybody else? Wasn’t his dime just as good as anybody else’s money?... But maybe it was a good thing. He had no business going. It served him right,—running with niggers all the time and expecting them to treat him like their own kind.... But old man Hooblitz waswhite. Look howhetreated him?... What difference did it make after all? White or colored,—nobody gave a damn for him. All Gritny knew who Gussie Fisky was; but that didn’t make them act no kinder, and try to show him how to better his poor condition....
Suddenly realizing that his troubled meditation was growing into a feeling of stupid self-pity and morbid resentment, he looked up nervously at the few faint glimmering stars in the murky sky, wondering where he would go to rid himself of his unhappy mood and forget his utter loneliness.
Remembering Tempe’s wake, he started off down the quiet street to the New Hope church. He went stumbling along aimlessly over the muddy street-crossings and puddles of water on the low uneven banquettes, not caring whether the road was wet or dry, or how splashed and bedraggled his clothes became.
When he reached the church corner he was greeted by the blinking lights from the church windows and the wistful singing of the members inside; and the thought of human contact, however casual or momentary it might be, caused him to smile and hurry on; knowing how glad he would be to hear the sound of some friendly voice and feel the warm touch of a sympathetic hand.
As he started up the rickety steps of the church, he stopped half way to listen to the wave of melancholy song that came flowing out into the darkness. It made him shiver with a strange feeling of sadness as he caught a few words of the mournful wail and thought of their portentous meaning....
“Death’s goin’-a lay his cold, icy han’ on me....”
He heard their full rich voices repeat the somber message over and over. The slow, majestic movement of the chant rising and surging over them like a flood of melody, lifting their emotional souls to heights of poignant ecstasy.
But what made them keep on telling Tempe about what Death was going to do? Gussie asked himself; deliberating whether he would go in or wait until the song was finished.
Tempe didn’t need to know anything more about Death.... Tempe was sitting up in the house of death now. And she could tell a heap more aboutwhat was going on yonder than anybody sitting up in the church, singing about it.... But maybe they were trying to tell their own self something about Death.... The way Death was going to come up on them when their time came for crossing over....
“Hell! I don’ feel like goin’ up in yonder an’ lissen at dat kind o’ thing,” he suddenly concluded. “I’m goin’ set hyuh on de step till dey raise some yuther ballet mo’ sattafyin’ to de feelin’s,” he went on, looking about for a dry spot to sit down. “Dey oughta try an’ sing somh’n mo’ pleasin’ over Tempe. ’Stead o’ keep tellin’ ’uh w’at Death goin’ do; after Gawd done seen fit to snatch ’uh away from hyuh so haphazzud.”
After a while the melodious flowing wave began to recede; growing fainter and fainter, until the subdued lament faded away into a low murmuring hum. It was soothing and pleasant, Gussie thought; and he sat listening indolently.
Very soon he heard the velvety sound of a woman’s vibrant contralto voice intone a line of another ballet. One by one the members took up the somber burden, proclaiming the simple words with full-voiced exultation.
Getting up to go in, Gussie stopped suddenly, as the last lines came to him....
“Sinner, don’t let this harves’ pass,An’ die an’ go to Hell at las’....”
“Sinner, don’t let this harves’ pass,An’ die an’ go to Hell at las’....”
“Sinner, don’t let this harves’ pass,An’ die an’ go to Hell at las’....”
“Sinner, don’t let this harves’ pass,
An’ die an’ go to Hell at las’....”
The singing irritated him. It made him uncomfortable to think of the unwelcome message. Why did it disturb him, he asked himself. Was it the slow, sad minor tune? Or the cold, direct words of the song?
“Great Gawd A’mighty!” He said to himself, starting to go down the steps. “If da’s de onles’ kind o’ singin’ dey goin’ do hyuh tonight; ’tain no pleasure for me to linger hyuh.... Shucks! I’m goin’ yonder ’cross de Green an’ lay down an’ sleep.”
Trying to forget his disappointment, he began to whistle a cheerful tune and started down the street in the direction of the East Green. The rain was over, but the air was damp and chilly; and long fringes of clouds were passing across the moon in slow-moving rifts. The houses along the road were all closed, and everything was dark and still.
What would he tell Aunt Fisky about the quilt, he asked himself. Poor old soul;—he sho counted on bringing it home to her for a nice surprise.... Look like out of five chances, one number sho oughta made him win the thing.... Maybe Carmelite didn’t pick him five numbers for the four-bits he gave her.... And Aunt Fisky needed a good warm quilt, too.... And needed it morethan anybody they had sittin’ up in Carmelite’s house....
His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a bell floating across the Green, not very far away. Looking up, he saw the reflection of a head-light on the switch engine coming towards him.
“Mus’ be close on to twelve o’clock,” he remarked casually. “Da’s ’bout de time dat switchin’ engine come up hyuh evvy night to pull freight off Morgan W’arf.... Lemme hurry up; an’ I kin see my way thoo de mud, clean home, w’ile dat light shinin’ ’cross de Green. ’Cause dat ole crawfish pon’ sho is a nasty place for mud an’ slush, aft’ a hard rain like we bin had tonight.... Ole switch engine, you sho struck it right for Gussie dis time....” He went on talking aloud; quickening his pace in order to get over the track before the engine reached him.
Hurrying on, he looked again to see how far away the engine was.... He could make it across the track easy enough.... The engine wasn’t moving very fast.... A few steps more, and he would be over the switch before the engine reached the corner.
The reflection from the head-light showed nearly half-way across the Green. He could see the water from the duck pond all over the road, clean up tothe front gate of his house. He recognized the old house by the thin little piece of light he saw blinking through the leaves of the castor oil bushes growing by the window.... Aunt Fisky must be up yet.... She didn’t leave no candle burning when she went to bed.... She couldn’t be sick?... Maybe she was waiting to see if he had the quilt.... Poor ole soul,—she sho would be sorry to know he didn’t win the thing....
Seeing the engine still a few feet away, he started to run; impatient to get over the track before the long line of box cars blocked the way and kept him waiting in the mud and dark. He felt confident that he would be able to clear the track with perfect safety, just as he had done it many a night.
But a sinister, opposing fate decreed that Gussie’s final hour had come. A secret snare lay in his path, half-buried in the hard, unyielding mud.
There it lay hidden in the dark, sticking up like a waiting noose to catch his hurrying foot: a treacherous loop of rusty wire discarded from a bale of hay, dropped on the road by a passing wagon; or thrown there by some careless hand,—how long ago, no one could tell.
A running jump, and he’d clear the track!... But tripping on the wire, he was thrown headlong across the rail; his unloved, unregarded body fallingan instant victim to the murderous wheels of the heedless engine.