"I eats when I kin git it,I sleeps mos' all de time.I don't give a doggoneIf the sun don't neveh shine."
"I eats when I kin git it,I sleeps mos' all de time.I don't give a doggoneIf the sun don't neveh shine."
"I eats when I kin git it,
I sleeps mos' all de time.
I don't give a doggone
If the sun don't neveh shine."
CHAPTER XV
The Wildcat slept until the first grey light of dawn announced the day. He got up and stretched himself and drank five or six slugs of free ice water. "Lemme see," he yawned, "whah at is us." His mind covered the events of his immediate past and collided heavily with the battle which had been fought in the night. "Wondeh how ol' Mud Turtle is? I betteh git him fo' de passengers gets up. Wid all dat hoof oil in 'im, 'spec' he'll crave mo' wateh dan a mule."
He opened the door of the linen closet. In the far corner, propped against the wall, sat the Mud Turtle. The dazed expression on his face was completely surrounded by brunet skin and surmounted by a pair of owl-like eyes which blinked at the sudden light.
The Wildcat whispered at him, "Is you pacified? Dast I leave you loose?"
The Mud Turtle replied with a question, "Was many folks hurt in de wreck?"
"Ain't been no wreck, 'ceptin' you like to wrecked me. Come out heah till I helps you 'membeh yo' sinful past."
He hauled the Mud Turtle into the passage way and resurrected him from the interior of the blanket cocoon.
"Come on back heah," the Wildcat directed. "Stretch yo' laigs an' come on back heah whilst I 'splains about you. Take 'at ol' coat off an' put on dis white coat."
The Mud Turtle removed his mud-caked blue coat and donned a crisp white jacket. For a while he sat quiet on the leather seat of the smoking car. Finally he turned to the Wildcat.
"All I 'members is takin' one drink."
"All I 'members pusson'ly is what you did after you took 'at one drink. Thought you said you could handle yo' licker. I neveh seed such a wild man. Boy, you started single, but when you an' 'at drink got confidential you sho' was a' army. Handle yo' licker! Huh! You couldn' handle de bottle, let alone what was in it. How come you lie such a big lie? Start out gentle nex' time."
"Must a bin some new kin' o' licker."
"Sho' acted new. Wid one drink like dat in me when I was fightin' in France, de ole guv'ment wouldn't need no mo' soldiers. I seed de night ob de big wind what blowed New Awl'uns clean up de Mississippi River. I know'd a mule what couldn't live in de mountains 'count o' kickin' 'em over, but las' night when you was goin' good, I says, 'If a mule married a cyclone an' had a boy, he'd be you.' 'Hoof oil,' dey calls it. 'At niggah what chefs in de dinin' car an rabbis when he lays over in Oaklan' give it to me."
The Mud Turtle looked at the broken window beside him. "Did I bus' 'at window?"
"Bust 'at window—you sho' did. All you did was blow yo' breaf at it. I tell you you was bad. I's seed folks what was plastered wid luck. You thinks you's plastered wid mud, but it ain't mud; it's real ol' luck. You had all de luck in de worl' gettin' out ob de claws ob that rabbi juice. Dat stuff is tiger blood. You had enough wild time las' night to last you all de res' ob your life does you live fo' evah."
"Wilecat, you sounds right. When us gits to Oaklan' I craves to settle down. Mebbe I shows you a business I aims to 'vest in."
"You don't show me no business, boy. Only business I craves is to find Lily and Lady Luck. Lily's ramblin' loose somewhere in San F'mcisco wid dem Blue Fezant boys. Does I meet up wid dat goat I'll sho' bust him in de haid fo' leavin' me. Every time me an' Lily gits a divo'ce ol' man Hard Luck camps on my trail. Business sounds good, but me, I 'cumulates Lily an' den I takes dem Blue Fezant boys back to Chicago. Mebbe when I comes back heah nex' time us starts some business. Not now. Naw, suh—not me!"
"Wilecat, some business ain't so bad. All you does is set dere an' take in de money."
"All you does is set dere, you mean, an' listen' to some triflin' niggah wantin' groceries or mebbe wantin' to eat whilst you supplies free grub, does you run a restaurant. Dem boys what buys easy never is got money. Naw, suh, I don't want no business, Mud Turtle. All I want is Lady Luck an' mah mascot goat."
The Mud Turtle continued his business dream without paying much attention to the Wildcat's arguments. "Dere's de anti-hair-kink business; all a boy does is buy some things at the drugsto' an' mix 'em up an' sells 'em at fifty cents a bottle. All de niggahs in de worl' craves to buy anti-kink juice. I's seed some remedies what took off de scalp an' some what removes de brain, but it don't make no diff'unce—niggahs keep on buyin', no matteh how deep de remedy digs in."
"Dat business is ol'," the Wildcat objected. "Dat's too ol' to ketch folks any mo'."
"So's kinky hair ol'," answered the Mud Turtle. "Dat business still ketches 'em. While de kinky hair las', so does de anti-kink business. Dat ain't de only business I knows. You an' me had luck wid fish—part bad luck an' part good luck. Here's de ocean an' here's San F'mcisco bay crowded wid fish. 'Spose us gits a wagon an' some hooks fo' ketchin' fish an' comes home eve'y day wid a wagon load."
"Don' say fish to me, boy! All de bad luck I'se had lately come f'm fish. See kin you talk 'bout some good-luck business does yo' crave to. Ah ain't got oveh mah fish luck yit."
"How 'bout de boot-leggin' business, Wilecat? Dey sho' is big money in dat."
"Nobody to sell to no mo'. Eve'ybody's boot-leggin' now. You steps up to a man on de street an' says 'How 'bout it?' an' he thinks you's tryin' to buy. Eve'ybody's boot-leggin'! See kin you think ob some business what's got some customers, instead ob eve'ybody runnin' de business deyself. Naw, suh, I aims not to let no business 'flooence me. I rounds me up Lily an' meets up wid Lady Luck, an' someday I sees ol' Cap'n Jack agin', an' den I quits worryin'. What I craves mos' is to ketch Lily an' den git some regulah run where I sleeps mos' all de time. 'Less I fin's mah mascot I aims to quit de whole Pullman business an' let 'em git on de bes' dey can widout me."
"Boy, how come you so tame? When we lef' Poteland all you talked about was startin' a sinful life an' bustin' all de speed records on de road to hell. Now all you craves is to settle down. Has de itch got you? 'Pears like you needs quinine."
"I don' need nuthin' 'ceptin' Lily an' Lady Luck—an' mebbe a slug o' gin."
"Cain't git no gin now days."
"Mud Turtle, when us gits to Oaklan' you follow me. I'll bet dat rabbi boy what chefs on dis train knows whah at is some gin. Any man what kin throw a dose ob hoof oil together on short notice what makes a nigger look like a cyclone sho' can dig up a drink o' gin. Quick as us gits to Oakland I trails 'at boy down. Chances is he starts de rabbi business soon as he gits his apron off. I depends on him fo' gin. I's jined up wid de chu'ch when I was sixteen, but now I aims to git backslid back enough to take de road what leads into dis rabbi place. You goes in an' takes off yo' hat, an' as quick as you gits baptized, the ol' preacheh says, 'Boys, what'll it be?' I says, 'Make mine gin.' Ol' Mud Turtle say, 'Make mine gin.' We says 'at 'bout six times, an' away us goes lookin' fo' Lily. At's better'n any business talk you'se talkin'."
"I'll say so, Wilecat—fo'get de business. Us has money, anyhow. There's that fo' hund'ed dollahs you give me an' whatever you'se got left off de Spindlin' Spider boy you cleaned in Poteland. I agrees wid you—fo'get de business."
With the arrival of the train in Oakland, about four minutes sufficed to clear up the Mud Turtle's official obligations to the company. Immediately thereafter he and the Wildcat set out to overtake the dining car chef, whom they had seen leaving the terminal. The Wildcat edged up beside the rabbi. "Boy," he said, "how 'bout some licker? Me an' the Mud Turtle here craves to git baptized wid a couple o' slugs o' gin. Is de gin included in de rabbi business?"
The chef looked at the Wildcat. "Us rabbis handles some gin, but it sho' comes high."
"Boy, us aims to pay high. You ain't talkin' to no busted steamboat niggahs. Us ain't fiel' han's. Me an' my podneh got money; all we craves is gin."
The chef's gaze left the Wildcat's face for a moment and seemed to travel to some more distant point. The Wildcat's statement of his finances had aroused the rabbi's cupidity. "Come on heah," he said briefly.
The three made their way up town and presently entered the door of a ramshackle structure standing midway of a block lined by similar buildings. They walked into a darkened room, and the Wildcat saw a fresco of gleaming white eyeballs ranged about him.
"Whah at is us?" he asked the rabbi.
"Dis heah's de Oaklan' Pleasure Club, sort of a social off-shot f'm de chu'ch."
"What chu'ch?"
"Chu'ch is called Banded Brothehs ob de Loose Barrel Hoop. I rabbis fo' dem when I's in town. When I'se away dey's got another boy what does de rabbi work."
The chef turned to the assemblage. "Boys, meet up wid de Mud Turtle. I 'spec' some o' you all knows him. Dis heah other boy travels under de name ob de Wilecat."
A voice from a corner of the room bellered into the midst of the assemblage. "What'll it be, boys? Dis is on de Wilecat."
The Wildcat put on the financial brakes. "How come?"
"Dis heah's de initiation drink. Eve'ybody what joins de Banded Brothehs buys a drink fo' de congregation."
The Wildcat's eyes had become more accustomed to the darkness. "'Pears like I gits lifted fo' goin' on fo'ty drinks."
Presently half a dozen bottles were mingling around with the congregation, and the Wildcat's words to the Mud Turtle beside him were drowned in a chorus of gurgling throats. The gulping ceased. Out of an obscure corner of the room came the Auditor's tones. "Eighty-two dollars. Wilecat, pay me befo' de long green gits wilted."
The Wildcat was no piker, but the bill hit him pretty hard. "I's seen saloons you could buy complete fo' half de money," he remonstrated. He walked over to where a narrow square of light broke through the wall. He fished out a big roll of bills from which he proceeded to count ninety dollars. He replaced the money in his pocket. As he did so a yellow electric light flashed in another part of the room and burned steadily above a small table upon which was stretched a green cloth. A man beside the table called to the newcomer. "Wilecat, de pleasure part ob de entertainment now starts. Now you gits action."
"How come action? Action what wid?"
"Action wid de freckled bones what knows 'rithmetic."
The Wildcat accepted the invitation. Here was a chance to retrieve the price of the drinks. He walked over to the corner. "Whah at's de bones?"
In allowing his opponent to supply the weapons he had committed a serious technical error, but the only other dice in the crowd were the taper cubes belonging to the Mud Turtle, and the Wildcat knew that the production of these dice in that congregation would probably result in his immediate disintegration under the blades of some hungry social razors.
The boy on the opposite side of the table spoke. "Shoots fifty dollahs!"
"You sho' starts blooded." The Wildcat peeled fifty dollars from his roll. "You'se faded. Roll 'em."
The boy rolled them, and an ace-dooce bloomed under the electric light.
A grunt of disappointment went up from several interested veterans of the Banded Brothers gathered around the table, and the rabbi plunged his way into the crowd. He used a few words not commonly included in a rabbi's vocabulary. "Git out o' de way. Gimme dem dice. How come you makes dis mistake?" He took the dice from the loser. "Wilecat, Ah shoots fifty dollars!"
The Wildcat divided his winnings and laid fifty dollars on the table. "Rabbi, roll 'em."
The rabbi breathed a fervent prayer upon the speckled cubes and cast them away from him into the outer darkness. "Freckle tops, git right! Bam! I reads seven. Lets it lay. Shoots a hund'ed!"
"Roll 'em, you'se faded." The Wildcat trimmed himself for another hundred.
The rabbi made another throw. "Luck dice, ketch dat Wilecat. Whuff! An' dey says five an' a six. Dey sho' is lucky."
The Wildcat grunted. "Lucky fo' you."
"Pussonel luck is de luck I likes best," the rabbi returned. "I lets it lay. You has yo' chance. Shoots two hund'ed."
The Wildcat skinned his roll for two hundred dollars. "Dese heah frog skins sho' has got de quick dwindles. You'se faded. Roll 'em."
The rabbi abandoned his ecclesiastical lingo and fell into the vernacular. "Tiger dice, claw me! Turtle dice, off de log! Soap dice, git slick. Clean dat Wilecat. Gun dice, pull de triggah—wham! An' I reads six-ace."
The Wildcat's fingers began to itch for the possession of the bones. He turned to the Mud Turtle, who was close beside him. "Hot dam, boy, dat talk sho' sounds nat'chul! Dat boy growed up someplace else befo' he started de rabbi business."
The rabbi raked in his winnings. He slipped half the roll and laid it on the green cloth. "Shoots two hund'ed. Fade me is you reckless!"
The Wildcat was in too deep to back out. He pared two hundred dollars from his roll and laid it beside the rabbi's stake. "Boy, yo' luck's got to bus' sometime, even is you a rabbi. Roll 'em an' see kin you roll to de po' house."
The rabbi spoke confidentially to the dice for a few moments and then his voice lifted above the murmur of the congregation. "Snow babies, let de soot specs read seven. Rooster dice, crow de pay call! Hen dice, hatch de money eggs. Mule dice, kick dat boy into de rivah! Bam! An' I reads five-dooce."
This triumph of the rabbi was a signal for a revolt on the part of the Wildcat. "I quits. I craves to handle dem bones pussonal. Does you own 'em all de time I quits."
The rabbi handed a pair of dice to the Wildcat. "Roll 'em does you crave to," he said. The concession was made only after he had switched the dice. The Wildcat got hold of twin dice which were loaded to come out dooce, trey, or twelve on the first throw. He warmed the dice to a functioning temperature in the palm of his right hand. In his left he held the remainder of his roll. He laid the money on the centre of the table. "Shoots it all. Two hund'ed dollars. Fade me, boy."
The rabbi counted out two hundred dollars, but before the Wildcat threw the dice the Mud Turtle beside him spoke up. "I shoots fo' hund'ed on the Wildcat's luck. Shoot's fo' hund'ed. Fade me, boy."
The rabbi grunted and dug into his roll for another four hundred.
The Wildcat turned to the Mud Turtle. "Boy, us is bust does I lose!"
"I been bust befo', Wilecat. So is you. Roll 'em see kin you git double or nuthin'."
The Wildcat said a few words to the dice, and an instant later they rattled across the green cloth. "Cyclone babies, blow dat rabbi to hell! Whuff! An' I reads—ace-dooce. Doggone, Lady Luck, whah at is you?"
The Mud Turtle grabbed the Wildcat by the arm. "Come on heah befo' dey gits yo' clothes."
The Wildcat turned away from the table. "Us sho' needs 'at mascot goat. Was hard luck a minny us done ketched a whale. Trouble wid luck, it's always changin'. Don' stay on de good side long enough fo' a boy to git settled down." He bade farewell to the rabbi. "You sho' was right. I'll say gin comes high. Fo' hund'ed dollars a drink!"
The rabbi laughed a hollow laugh. "Come on back sometime an' try de thousan' dollah gin when you feels strongeh."
"Does I find Lily an' Lady Luck I comes back an' shows you some million-dollar gin—mebbe."
"On your way, boy—at's de quinine talkin'!"
CHAPTER XVI
Launched by the rabbi's parting taunt, the Wildcat and the Mud Turtle made their way out of the ginagogue. On the street the Wildcat set the course toward Twelfth Street. His companion pounded along as best he could for a while and then voiced a protest. "What for is you got such a hot foot?"
"Come on heah, ol' Mud Turtle. I craves to meet up wid dat Lily goat befo' any mo' calamity ketches up wid me."
"Whah you spec' to fin' dat doggone goat?"
"San F'mcisco some place. Ah tol' you once. De Blue Fezant boys went to San F'mcisco on de train, an' de las' I seed ob Lily she was penned up along wid 'bout nine ob dem boys. 'At goat's in San F'mcisco."
"How long you spec' it take you to fin' 'at mascot in San F'mcisco? You know how big 'at town is?"
"Boy, I been dere. I been clear from downtown out to de Presidio whah at dey keeps de ahmy boys an' de gin'rals. I seed 'at town befo'."
The Mud Turtle grunted. "You ain't seed nuthin'. 'At town's ten times 'at big. Was Lily fo' years ol' when you started lookin' she'd be eight hund'ed fo' you foun' her, 'less you had luck."
"Does I fin' her I gits all de luck I needs. Us wins bofe ways, 'cause all de bad luck I could git wouldn't be no worse'n what us has now. I'se plum busted. How is you?"
The Mud Turtle audited the depths of his pocket. "Nuthin' but some ravelin' lint an' fo' bits."
"'At's enough. Don' look so mean, ol' Mud Turtle. Does us see another rabbi walkin' down de main street us better take de alley fo' he sees us. Dem rabbi boys is just like a ticket to de po' house. Dem ginagogue gin rabbis is de wust of all."
At eleven o'clock the pair landed at the ferry building in San Francisco. As a precaution against lunch money, they saved the change from Mud Turtle's half dollar and walked towards the centre of the town.
They landed finally in Union Square.
The Wildcat flopped down on the grass, and the Mud Turtle joined him. "Mud Turtle, what's dat big house oveh there?" He pointed at the St. Francis Hotel.
"Boy, thought you told me you was here once befo'. Dat's de St. Frantic Hotel."
"How come de boy frantic what dey named de hotel fo'?"
"'Spec' he drunk some hoof oil, o' mebbe met a gin rabbi. Sho' is a fine day."
"All de days I seen in de town was fine days, 'ceptin' some evenin's when de fog gits heavy."
"Ol' fog comes in mighty handy does you owe money. Boy kin lose hisself f'm a bloodhoun' easy in de fog."
The Wildcat stretched himself out and prepared to go to sleep, but before he had accomplished his purpose he was interrupted by his companion.
"Wilecat, look at dem two boys on de hotel steps. Dey sho' looks like dem Blue Fezant Nobles you was speakin' 'bout."
The Wildcat rose to his knees and looked across Powell Street. Sure enough, there before his eyes stood two of the Blue Fezant gentlemen. He lost no time in going towards them. "Come on heah, Mud Turtle! I knowed we'd meet some o' dem Blue Fezant boys. Come on heah!"
A moment later the Wildcat and the Mud Turtle confronted the two Nobles of the Mysterious Mecca. Each of the nobles was festooned with a golf bag. The pair were headed for Lincoln Park. The Wildcat spoke to the larger of the two gentlemen. "Cap'n, suh," he said, "I was de po'tah on a special car f'm Chicago what hauled some of you Blue Fezant gen'men out heah. Kin you tell me whah at Lily mah mascot goat is?"
The Blue Fezant gentleman looked at the Wildcat for a moment. "Seems to me I heard about that goat. Some of the boys got him some place."
The second man interposed some additional information. "You mean the white goat? He's out with Jim and Frank on the golf links."
The first Potent Noble turned toward the Wildcat. "He's out where we're going now. Come with us and maybe you'll find him. Is he your goat?'
"Cap'n, suh, you sho' soun' good! Does I meet up wid dat Lily I beats 'at goat to death—mebbe. Lily sho' is mah goat. I raised him clean f'm France." He turned to his companion. "Mud Turtle, take 'at bag fo' de gen'men. Cap'n, suh, we carry dis stuff."
The Potent Nobles smiled at each other. "These boys can caddy for us. Do you boys want to caddy for us?"
Without knowing exactly what it was, the Wildcat signed quite a contract. "Cap'n, yessuh. Whatever you wants, us does. How come dis caddy business?"
"You carry the bag around while we go golf hunting."
The Wildcat spoke lowly to the Mud Turtle. "Golf hunting? What's dis heah golfs? Neveh seed one pussonally."
"Boy, don't you know what golfs is? Sumpin' like a dog, only smaller. Born wild. Dey gin'ally gits wilder when dey grows up."
"How big does dey git?"
"Dog size—some bigger, sometimes."
"Neveh seed none in Memphis."
"Dey's tame down dere; out heah dey grows wild. Some parts, de wild golfs run 'roun' so thick a man hardly kin plough his fiel', 'thout carryin' six or eight shotguns on de plow. Dis country was 'fested wid golfs till de Indians got heah."
"'Fested wid Indians till white folks got heah, too. I guess could de Indians kill a golf us is safe."
He turned to one of the Potent Nobles. "Cap'n, suh, what does you kill dese here golfs wid?"
The Noble was quick to take up the deception. "We beat 'em to death with those clubs. If you get a small blue golf, you beat him with an iron club. For the savage red ones you use that club with the piece of brass on it. The whisky golf is the worst, though; he sort of sneaks up on you. You use those little clubs for them. They're called putters. They're shorter so you can use 'em in close places. Short and deadly."
The quartette were presently seated in an automobile which was retrieved from Powell Street. On the way to the Lincoln Park golf course the party detoured through Golden Gate Park. The car drove past the enclosure wherein leaped a dozen full grown kangaroos. One of the Potent Nobles pointed to the awkward animals. "There's some golfs now if you boys never seen any."
A restless kangaroo made a thirty-foot leap. "Lawd Gawd, Cap'n, does you kill dem debbils wid clubs? I craves a cannon an' forty miles' range, or else one o' them airplane flyin' things."
"All you have to do is to stand right close behind me and you'll be safe."
The Wildcat's training had taught him to trust the word of a white man. "Cap'n, yes, suh." As far as he was concerned, the conversation was ended, but in spite of the Potent Noble's reassuring words, a feeling of uneasiness seemed to undermine him.
At the hunting preserves in Lincoln Park it became evident that luck was not with the two golf-killing Nobles of the Mysterious Mecca, because about all these two gentlemen did was to continue the monotonous business of knocking a couple of innocent looking white balls across the landscape. Every now and then they would come upon a grass lawn with an iron cup in the centre of it, and then each Potent Noble would waste a lot of time urging his ball into the cup with the short and deadly putter which was normally used for slaughtering whisky golfs which sneaked up on you.
After the first mile or two the zest of the chase was dulled by the Wildcat's habitual languor. He edged over towards the Mud Turtle. "Mud Turtle, 'spec' dese gen'men gwine to give us fo' bits, mebbe, fo' he'pin 'em hunt dese golfs what we ain't seed. Ah feels dismal. Every time dey shoots 'at ball, s'posin' you an' me shoots ten cents?"
"How come, Wilecat? You knows us cain't monkey wid dis huntin' game."
"I don't mean monkey wid de huntin'," the Wildcat returned. "Is you got a lead pencil? 'Sposin' us marks de li'l white balls wid de dice freckles an' reads 'em when dey drops. Fust you take one time, den I takes anotheh. Us plays some mountain dominoes. Got to do sumpin', else us goes to sleep. Den like as not some ragin' golf sneak up an' eat yo' innards fo' you has a chance to wake up. Le's try shootin' some sevens at de scenery."
Action followed the Wildcat's words, and presently the two golf balls then in use were marked with a pattern of black dots running from the gentle ace to the belligerent six spot. Thereafter the two Potent Nobles had reason to wonder at the sudden industry exhibited by their caddies, who leaped after each ball almost before the club had touched it.
"Bam! Look at that boy go, Jim! I wish we could get caddies like that in Chicago; the lazy devils never would go after a ball. These fellows are bears."
"They're all good,—the best caddies I ever had were niggers in the south,—after you get 'em woke up, that is."
Meanwhile, out at the destination of the golf ball the Wildcat and the Mud Turtle were inspecting it where it lay. "Three up." The pair raced to the point where the other ball had fallen. "She reads fo'. Fo' an' three is seven. Wilecat, doggone you, you wins again."
"Sho' I wins! Didn' dem Blue Fezant boys say dis heah mascot goat ob mine was roustin' roun' out heah? Whaheveh dat goat is, so is Lady Luck. Fo' long I meets up wid Lily, an' den I shows you some winnin' what is."
The two Potent Nobles holed out at the ninth, and the party crossed the road under the trees to the tenth tee. "Cap'n, suh," the Wildcat asked, "what's 'at rock oveh dah, widout no roof an' de rock wall?"
The Potent Noble looked over at the Chinese tomb. "That's where some Chinaman is buried," he said. "That's a Chinese tomb."
"Tomb! Some dead boy layin' in it?"
"I'll say so—maybe a dozen of 'em. This whole golf pasture is built over a graveyard."
The Wildcat stiffened and looked at the Mud Turtle. "Lawd Gawd, Mud Turtle! Us cravin' to meet Lady Luck an' walkin' 'roun' in a graveyard! Sho' makes me dwindle up inside! No wondeh dem man-eatin' golfs is so ragin' out heah. Wish I could fin' dat doggone Lily Goat." He turned to one of the Potent Nobles. "Ain't we startin' down town, Cap'n, fo' it gits dark?"
"It'll be two hours yet before it gets dark. We've got time to hunt another golf or two. Shut up while I drive."
"Cap'n, yessuh."
At the sixteenth tee the Potent Noble looked down at the heavy fog which was rolling in through the Golden Gate. He addressed the ball. He jumbled around on his feet and took a couple of practice swings. Perfection was in every movement. Then, as he drove, the Wildcat sneezed. There followed a blast of profanity whose equal the Wildcat had not heard since his army days. He edged over towards the Mud Turtle. "Neveh seed a boy change so quick. Heah he is, pleasant one minnit, an' den he hits dat ball an' goes hog wild. Seems like—"
He was interrupted by the Potent Noble, who had calmed down. "Git the hell out in the rough there and find that ball I sliced."
"Yes, suh." The Wildcat started out through the fog to find the freckled white sphere. He threshed around in the trees and underbrush for a while, and then to his mind came a memory of the horrible words which the Potent Noble had spoken. "This place was a graveyard!" The Wildcat shuddered extensively and abandoned the search for the golf ball.
He looked up, and there before him was a tombstone!
"Lawd Gawd, Lady Luck, whah is you?" Automatically his feet began to work, and they were aided an instant later by his racing legs. He went away from there through the fog. The next thing he knew, he had made a forty-foot dive over a sand bank. He rolled for a moment in the shifting sand before he brought up against a stunted cedar.
"Whah at is I?"
The fog cleared, and the Wildcat saw the sand dunes stretching below him. At the edge of the slope were the waves of the Golden Gate. Then the fog closed in again, and everything about him faded out of the picture. Above his head, out of the drifting fog, a flight of sea gulls started a little gossip. To the Wildcat's ears came their shrieking remarks. He stopped his wild shuddering and began to moan.
"'At's dem ghost boys! I know 'em! Lady Luck, take dem boys away. I ain't talkin' wid no ghosts." He turned and started up the bank. He began throwing sand out from under his feet like a record-busting rotary snow plough. His legs ran for ten minutes, but his wind was crippled, and in the shifting sand he covered a space of less than twenty feet. Exhausted with his effort, he flopped down on the sloping bank. "Dey's got me," he moaned, "dey's got me! I knowed it. I knowed dem graveyard ghosts would git me, once I gits divo'ced f'um dat mascot goat. Lady Luck, here I is!" The Wildcat curled up and covered his head with his arms.
He lay in repose for less than ten seconds; for suddenly, out of the fog in mid channel, came the booming siren whistle of a liner, heading out of the Golden Gate. "Whoom! Wha-om!"
The Wildcat moaned. "I heahs you, Gabriel, I heahs you! Heah I is, Lawd—heah I is."
"Whooom! We-ow-oom!"
"It's me. It's ol' Wilecat. What fo' you askin' who? You knows who! Ghosts got me, Gabriel! Here I is! Lady Luck—Good-bye!"
Then from Fort Miley crashed the report of the evening gun that marked retreat, and a moment later the clear notes of a bugle floated out of the fog. For a moment life on earth again claimed the Wildcat, and instinctively he responded to his army training. He got to his feet and stood rigidly at attention. Into the fog to an unseen company he yelled a series of commands. "Come to 'tenshun! Silence in de ranks! Shut up an' stan' up! 'Tenshun! Lily, come to 'tenshun! Cap'n Jack, suh, de company is fo'med."
He saluted and made an about-face as perfectly as he could in the shifting sand beneath his feet.
As he did so he felt his brain rattle. Ten feet above him, tangible as iron, real as gold, festooned with hair and horns, stood Lily the mascot goat.
The Wildcat stood fixed for an instant looking with incredulous eyes at the mascot. Then he made an excess demand on the motor muscles of his legs, and in six wild leaps he had gained the goat's side.
"Lily, is you back? Goat, hot dam! Lady Luck sho' heard me!" The Wildcat grabbed the leading string which dangled from the mascot's neck. "Come heah—I aims to git me some han'-cuffs an' lock one end 'roun yo' neck an' de otheh roun' mah laig. Goat, us sho' is proud to meet up wid you! Does you leave me once mo' nex' time I knocks yo' hawns down yo' throat."
Lily evidently approved the arrangement. She looked at the Wildcat, and then from her skinny throat a faint bleat sounded.
"Say dat again! You sounds noble!"
"Blaaa," answered Lily.
The Wildcat looked around him. His fear of the shrieking ghostly voices from the sky overhead had melted into the fog. No longer did the howling devils of mid channel disturb him. No longer did he fear the raging golf. With his mascot goat at his side, no evil luck could touch him. Courage returned, and with it extravagant language. "Lily, no doggone ghos' better git uppity wid me. I'd bus' a ol' ghos' in de haid did I ketch one."
With Lily beside him, he gained the level ground of the fairway. Then, over a wide expanse of golf links, the fog had lifted clear. The Wildcat saw the two Blue Fezant Nobles poking around near the Chinese tomb in search of the ball which had been lost a little while before.
"Come on heah, Lily." He dragged the mascot to the Chinese tomb, near which the Mud Turtle was halted.
"Ain't you foun' 'at little white ball yit, Mud Turtle?"
"Not me, Wilecat. Dat ball landed inside dis heah graveyard tomb. You don't git me in dere fo' a million dollahs. What's 'at! You foun' yo' goat!"
"Boy, out o' mah way!" The Wildcat walked toward the Chinese tomb as fast as Lily could cover the ground. "Git out o' mah way. Me an' Lily looks in dat tomb place. Us ain't scared o' no ol' ghosts no mo'."
One of the Blue Fezant gentleman called to the Wildcat. "Son, where in hell have you been?"
Something in the Potent Noble's tone made the Wildcat think of Captain Jack and the gone-away days in France. "Cap'n, suh, no place. I was jes' 'cumulatin' mah mascot goat."
He entered the roofless Chinese tomb, and there on the stone floor lay the golf ball. "Cap'n, suh," he yelled, "heah's yo' freckled pill." He called less loudly to the Mud Turtle. "Otheh ball read three. Dis one heah's got de fo' spot up. 'At's seven! Mud Turtle, you loses. Come in heah an' look at it."
The Mud Turtle's dread of the Chinese tomb was still with him. "I 'cepts yo' word fo' it, Wilecat. Doggone you. Boy, you wins fo' times runnin'."
"Boy, f'm now on I wins steady. Lady Luck done sent back mah mascot goat. I cain't lose!"
He turned to his four-legged companion. "Kin us, Lily, whilst you's wid me?"
"Blaaa!" answered Lily. "I should say not."
CHAPTER XVII
1.
"Lead me to de woods whah de luck trees grow,Han' me de axe when it's time to chop.Lead me kinda gentle,—git me started slow;When I gits to goin', watch de luck trees drop."
"Lead me to de woods whah de luck trees grow,Han' me de axe when it's time to chop.Lead me kinda gentle,—git me started slow;When I gits to goin', watch de luck trees drop."
"Lead me to de woods whah de luck trees grow,
Han' me de axe when it's time to chop.
Lead me kinda gentle,—git me started slow;
When I gits to goin', watch de luck trees drop."
While the Wildcat was doing his best to forget the cares that nominally infested his official day as porter on the Blue Fezant special car, sidetracked in San Francisco, Honey Tone Boone, the brunet uplifteh, languished in the Memphis jail.
There were two sides to every jail. To the Wildcat, the loser in the law's game generally occupied the inside. Honey Tone was different. The inside of a jail for Honey Tone was often a place of sanctuary from which the occupant might sneer serenely at the disappointed female perils who gnashed their teeth outside the bars.
In San Francisco the days were warm, and Lily the mascot goat had returned to her master's side.
The Wildcat was playing even in the matter of daily rations. Trailing along in the wake of a pair of the golf-playing Nobles of the Mysterious Mecca at the Lincoln Park Golf course provided a cash surplus which enabled the Wildcat to discard his winter-weight Prince Albert and to adorn his person with a retiring suit of clothes three shades lighter than a sunburned pumpkin and embellished with six-inch checks. Life wasn't so bad. Ol' railroad sleepin' car was probably doin' all right. Reasonably sure that tomorrow would lug in new brands of trouble to pester a boy with, the Wildcat steered his somnolent mentality clear of the shoals of surmise and let tomorrow take care of itself.
A boy never could tell about Lady Luck. Every time the Wildcat did something that clearly entitled him to free board in some permanent jail, like as not next day he would wake up all festooned with gold watches. Take a preacher's advice and head down the straight and narrow path, and the chances were that some deppity sherriff with a shotgun, or else a bear, would be waiting in the path right where the heaviest canebrakes discouraged detours.
2.
"One man's pizen is anotheh man's meat,—Mah troubles neveh botheh you.Hog needs wings like a snake needs feet:De question ain't why, but who."
"One man's pizen is anotheh man's meat,—Mah troubles neveh botheh you.Hog needs wings like a snake needs feet:De question ain't why, but who."
"One man's pizen is anotheh man's meat,—
Mah troubles neveh botheh you.
Hog needs wings like a snake needs feet:
De question ain't why, but who."
Honey Tone Boone's downfall had been accomplished in Memphis immediately subsequent to a Konk'rin' Heroes' parade. There had been some talk about the ownership of the mule which Honey Tone rode. The line of march headed straight for Honey Tone's wife and his potential soul mate and culminated in a ruckus from which Honey Tone emerged, safe in the talons of a policeman. The two women, comparing notes, had gummed up the leader's grand entry to a degree which left Honey Tone thankful for the mule-stealing charge that had landed him safe in the jail and out of the clutches of his wife and Cuspidora Lee. He enjoyed sanctuary in jail for two months and then, threatened with an embarrassing and abrupt release, he concentrated on a hurried mental incubation. Hard pressed, he sought to hatch from the bad egg of circumstance some new enterprise which would take him away, sudden and safe, from where his memorizing wife awaited him.
His mind roamed wild through the fields of questionable enterprises opened to him by a combination of easy conscience and the flashy part of a "college" education. On the day of his release he half regretted his education. Ignorance cursed the individual with work, but it left him free of the higher responsibilities and the more acute penalties of transgressions, and just then Honey Tone wished devoutly that he was a field hand. He craved a black complexion instead of the halfway colour that barred him from the unquestioning comradeship of white and black alike.
On the night of his release from jail he beat the barrier, and by morning he was well on his way to St. Louis, resolved to explore the Pacific coast for fields wherein his peculiar abilities might enable him to reap the harvest of cash without which life to him was naught.
En route West, Honey Tone managed to keep one state ahead of his reputation. Thus he avoided the iron impedimenta which the laws of the land drape around the ankles and feet that stray from the straight and narrow trail—around wrists and hands whose idleness affords the devil welcome opportunity to function as a labour agent.
Honey Tone's first week in Oakland found him preaching to a small congregation. On the following Sunday he announced to his flock that subscriptions for a church building fund would be accepted, beginning forthwith.
"Temp'rary an' perm'nent." The announcement followed a long prayer during which the uplifter's face wore the same holy expression as that which adorns the first stages of a sneeze. "Rev'und" Honey Tone Boone opened his eyes and tamed his vocabulary to the vernacular current among his hearers. "Temp'rary an' perm'nent. Weekly refun's on all temp'rary subscriptions, togetheh with int'res' at a hund'ed per cent. You doubles yo' 'vestment, like de boy wid de ten talents."
The dangling bait was presently engulfed.
The subscription books were kept open throughout the week. Facilities for subscribing were offered through agencies established in the pastor's quarters, in two barber shops and three pool rooms.
On the following Sunday, after a service devoted largely to discussion of temporal problems which afflict the flesh here in this vale of tears, Honey Tone paid his subscribers their original contributions and added an equal sum for interest at a hund'ed per cent.
The books were flooded with new subscriptions within the next fifteen minutes. The six agencies did a rushing business all during the week. On Friday Honey Tone counted his cash and decided that another week could be managed. Then—exit.
After the next Sunday services, owing to an eight that looked like a three, he was short five hundred dollars in the item of interest.
Explanations led to retreat, and Honey Tone retreated to a hotel in San Francisco. His flight therefrom was interrupted by a delegation from a mob which visited him on the following night. He beat the delegation out of the lobby of the hotel because, in the emergency, his feet acted more quickly than his head. He went away from there leading his flock.
Mentally he shipped his remains to his next of kin four times in the next fifty yards. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the gleam of a piece of light-coloured steel swung by a dark-coloured investor who craved to collect his investment, plus interest, one way or another.
Honey Tone's racing legs, impelled by an acute ambition, functioned successfully in their owner's single endeavour to lead the flying wedge of razor-bearing blood hunters by at least two jumps more than a slashin' reach. The fugitive turned into Mission Street; and here in the long stretch the saddle-coloured financier saw a chance to do some thinking. Galloping was his main business just then, but he carried a side line of quick thoughts.
With members of his own race Honey Tone asked no greater odds in the money game than those which served from the theory that mind was superior to matter. But in this, too, time was the essence. Just then he needed time. Ten minutes were worth a million dollars and lots of other important things like health and strength and blood. Time was that without which the best laid plans died in the egg.
For the next five blocks, running something less than a mile a minute, the uplifter's brain functioned with the cunning which enables the fragrant fox to overcome the handicap with which nature has equipped him, when the hounds begin the cross country obesity cure. During this time a plan had flowered in Honey Tone's brain whereby victory might be snatched from what had looked like a total loss of all the blood that would run out of where a razor had nestled.
In a shadowed area midway between two street lights Honey Tone stopped. He stopped abruptly, like a golf ball hitting the north side of Gibraltar. He bounced back, absorbing his momentum in a twisting motion which left him squarely facing the oncoming pack. Now it was, or never!
When they were upon him he raised his arms.
He orated. "Hush! Git calm! Now us kin talk! Money! Cash! Rest easy!"
His voice lifted one notch higher than the undertone which welled about him. The peak load of peril was confronted and passed, but still his speech ranged over the bait words most potent as verbal sedatives. "Easy money—lissen—gin—seven dice—fancy clothes—chicken an' gin fo' one an' all soopreem members."
He discarded his college-bred dialect and adopted the vernacular of the majority about him. "Lissen heavy! Git calm. Len' me yo' ears. Men an' brethren, you knows me. Fo'gettin' de peril o' de tar bar'l an' de p'cessions at night wid blazin' pitch knots an' de chokin' rope whut folks uses when dey uprises, an' chosin' fo' ouah guide de lives ob de ol'-time martyrs, safe an' serene in de circle ob fate cast 'roun' mah fragile form by dis yere rabbit's foot—Ah tells you—lissen!"
The speaker waved his rabbit's foot. He beckoned at the loose fringe of sceptics which milled on the margin of the group. "Gether together, dat ye can hear de words ob wisdom. De prophet knowed whut he said when he perdicted dat somebody was comin' to lead his chillun f'm darkness into light. 'At's me! Somebody. I leads you out ob darkness into de promised lan' whah flows de milk an' honey. In passin' lemme add dat milk is f'm de ol' language used by de Sanskrits, meanin' gin. Honey f'm de ancient Check-Slowfat word 'Honito.' Dat's de word fo' chicken—fried chicken, to be mo' preciser.... Men, you is sons ob Kings f'm Africa. How come you all redoosted to de state ob slaves? How come bird shot cain't pester a cinnamon bear? Because yo' brains and yo' brawns is all spread out, desiccated on triflin' things like cotton crops an' cawn, sweatin' undeh heavy loads 'stid of rulin' at de seat of guv'ment an' dictatin' whut's whut."
The orator dragged in another lungful of midnight fog and broke into the stretch. "Heah's de answeh, graved on de gol' tablets an' dug up in de midnight moon wid a luck spade. Gran' oaks f'm li'l acorns grow. Heah in San F'mcisco wid de aid of you all we starts de new movement towards de Canaan land. Fust off, us o'ganizes de Temple o' Luck. Den de fust annex is de Swamick Chu'ch, based on de mystic teachin' of Swami de Indian Budda. Nex' do' in de Temple de Soopreem Faith Healer thrives an' collects money f'm folks whut only thinks dey's sick. 'Cross de hall is de Chief Palm Readin' Magi, predictin' pas', present, an' future fo' a dollah. In de Temple Annex is de offices ob de 'Filiated Culled Union ob de worl'. Dis Union is mitigated into th'ee gran' divisions—de Bullshevik, de P'litical, an' de Social. De Social has de Ladies' Annex."
Honey Tone's eyes played steadily across his audience, horizontally, and his voice shot straight at the ears of the assemblage, but his imagination started up, and now it made its final flight. "Dat's all I tells you, 'ceptin' my own humble efforts will be directed at organizin' a New World Af'ican Colony in de free country of Barzil. Dat's all. Fo' each an' ev'ry project us needs a Deppity Soopreem Leadeh. Dese will be 'pointed f'm amongst you. Each Deppity Soopreem Leadeh adorns hisself wid de gilt-edge robes ob de 'propriate responsibility an' collects de cash. Deppity Collector fo' each Deppity Leadeh likewise weahs de robes whut de ritual describes. Ritual c'mmittee gits a percentage ob de receipts. Deppities gits one dollah fo' ev'ry three whut's took in. Any income oveh twenty dollahs a day goes to de Social an' Festive departments."
The orator pulled a little book out of his pocket. "Hopin' you elects steady an' reliable frien's fo' de 'sponsible offices, us now opens de 'scription books fo' de Temple Fund, payin' int'rest a hund'ed per cent ev'y week. Pussonally, I donates a hund'ed dollars to staht de ball rollin'—"
Honey Tone knew his crowd.
"How much, brotheh? Sign yo' name. Cash. C'tificate in green an' yaller wid de gol' seal will be conferred at de Fust Conclave ob de Soopreem Leadehs of Departments an' de Gran' Deppities.... Gimme dat bill; I has change, brotheh...."
Late that night, escorted by a committee a little more soopreem than the body of the mob, Honey Tone walked back to his hotel room. Everything was organized to a degree which had deprived the mob of blood hunters of all of their ready cash.
On his way to the hotel the uplifter pondered the question of conduct affecting his immediate future. "To blow or not to blow"—that was the question. He reviewed the hills and valleys of the land of promise over which his galloping vocal organs had hauled the hopes of his hearers. He decided that the business of making good would involve considerable work. The work part failed to attract him. He decided to bid the committee a long farewell at the hotel, without their knowing it, but his decision suffered a veto in the persistence with which the three Soopreem Deppities stuck to their walking treasury department.
In his room Honey Tone made a final effort to side-step the escort. He removed his coat and hung it on a chair. "Now wid de cares whut infests de day relegated to de bosom ob de past, I lays me down an' sleeps. Brothehs, I hopes you all enjoys de boon ob ol' lady nature's sweet restorer, an' I sees you tomorr' at—"
"You sees us now." A heavy-set deppity grunted a verdict. "Gimme 'at quilt, an' I makes down mah pallet on de flo'."
Without implying anything pussonal, another of the soopreem trio laid himself down close against the door.
The uplifter knew a bear trap when he saw it. He pillowed his rangy jaw on the comforting outlines of the lumpy treasure in the pocket of his vest, folded beneath his head. "Talk sure is cheap," he reflected. "Talk is cheap, but sometimes you can trade big words for big money."
A violent snore answered him, and again hope mounted to his heart, but presently he realized that only one of his associates was sleeping.
With the sleepers changing shifts every hour or so, the long night passed.
By dawn Honey Tone was resolved to give his schemes a run for their money. You never could tell how a scheme might turn out; and the colonization business sounded pretty good, even to its overstressed inventor.
CHAPTER XVIII
1.
The convention of the Nobles of the Mysterious Mecca dwindled into the final stage that attends all conventions. Golf was eliminated, and business was the order of the day. The Mud Turtle left him; and thereafter the Wildcat suffered indirectly, being threatened with a resumption of his responsibility as porter on the special car that had brought the Chicago contingent west to San Francisco. A sense of restraint gradually killed off the wild free business of roaming the Lincoln Park golf course at so much per roam, eating heavy on the proceeds, and sleeping twelve hours a day.
Arrayed in his yaller raiment, he sought the offices of the Pullman company and got confidential with the office boy. "I's de po'teh fo' de blue fezant boys—dis heah Mysterious Mecca business. Dey tells me us leaves fo' Chicago real soon. Ah jus' been down at de deepo lookin' fo' de cah. Whah at is dat cah? Me 'an Lily aims to git it swep' out befo' de gen'men comes."
The office boy took the Wildcat's message to an inner office. Two minutes later the answer came back in the person of a gentleman who was trying to hold his temper. "You're fired! You started with your car in Chicago, left it in Wyoming, and here you are! Git out of here before I—"
"Cap'n, yessuh!" The Wildcat knew a gesture when he saw it. He retreated, dragging his mascot goat a little too fast for Lily's comfort.
"Goat, doggone you, whut fo' did you go A.W.O.L. an' git us bofe loose f'm dat railroad job? Heah us is wid only fo' bits, an' all yo' fault."
Lily admitted the charge in a plaintive bleat which softened the harsh language which her master was bellowing at his mascot in the din of Market Street. Presently the Wildcat forgot the acute misery of not having any hard work staring him in the face. "Us has fo' bits. 'Ats mo' money dan mos' folks has. Lily, us eats.