I’s as crazy as a loon,Fer I gib a silber spoonTo a yeller she-coon,On dis here Chris’mus day.But a white woman owned it,An’ said she never loaned it,An’ de cotehouse kotch me right away!
I’s as crazy as a loon,Fer I gib a silber spoonTo a yeller she-coon,On dis here Chris’mus day.But a white woman owned it,An’ said she never loaned it,An’ de cotehouse kotch me right away!
Vinegar Atts pushed through the crowd, shaking hands cordially, smiling like a big, fat baby, and bellowing his congratulations:
“Merry Chris’mus, niggers! Us is done fell from amazin’ grace to a floatin’ opportunity!”
“Bless Gawd!” Skeeter Butts squealed. “I’s shore glad us ain’t refawmed no more! Less all j’ine hands in a circuous-ring an’ sing dat good ole favoryte toon, ‘De Star-Spangled Banana’!”
“Naw!” Vinegar Atts bawled. “We is done loss all our good sense! Less go an’ pay our manners to de white folks!”
“Lead de way! Lead de way!” a chorus of voices answered. “Us follers right at yo’ hip!”
Weep and howl, ye dwellers in the East and West and North, because ye were not in Tickfall on that Christmas night! Your negroes have cast aside the supreme gifts which make us love them in the South—humor, pathos, laughter, and music!
You listen to your phonographs and try to imagine what real music is like; you go to grand opera and think you hear it; but reserve your judgment until you hear a marching column of negro men, each of their throats having the range and capacity of a pipe-organ, and all of their songs set to a sweet minor, which is characteristic of the music of all enslaved people since that far distant day when the whip-driven Israelites “hung their harps on the willows.”
On the Christmas following the close of the Civil War, the impoverished white people of Tickfall sent Christmas baskets to their ex-slaves, who were as poor and hungry as themselves. That night thoseex-slaves, as an expression of their gratitude to their old masters, formed in a body and walked from house to house, singing the songs of the old plantation days. White women came out upon the porticoes, leaned their quivering shoulders against the big columns, and wept uncontrollably in memory of other and happier days.
White men stumped out upon those same porches with crutches and canes, or with wooden legs, and listening, visualized the smoke-fogged battlefields, the blood-drenched ground, the clash and onsets of the great war, and beyond the acrid smoke of that holocaust they beheld a magnificent civilization which rose in beauty like a dream, and then vanished forever more. For over half a century this custom had been observed every Christmas. It survived the horrors of the Reconstruction Era when Northern carpet-baggers sought to lead the black race astray and turn them against their former masters.
And now that marching column had formed again, two hundred strong, two abreast, with Vinegar Atts and Hitch Diamond in the lead.
All over Tickfall the white people were waiting for this, the day’s supreme event. The negroes knew the favorite songs of all the older citizens. Rev. Dr. Sentelle listened to “Dixie,” and “Jesus Lover of my Soul.” Bowing his acknowledgments, Dr. Sentelle said:
“Boys, when I die, I want you to sing both of those songs at my funeral!”
And a few years later they did it!
Marse Tom Gaitskill, being a Kentuckian, listenedto “My Old Kentucky Home,” and to “Darling Nellie Gray”——
Oh, my eyes are getting blinded, and I cannot see my way;Hark! There’s somebody knocking at the door.I hear the angels calling, and I see my Nellie Gray,Farewell to my old Kentucky shore!
Oh, my eyes are getting blinded, and I cannot see my way;Hark! There’s somebody knocking at the door.I hear the angels calling, and I see my Nellie Gray,Farewell to my old Kentucky shore!
Leaving one house to go to another, the negroes always broke into some rollicking plantation melody, singing it on the way, so that their pilgrimage was a pilgrimage of song. At the end of the town, remote from all the negro settlements, was the home of the sheriff, Mr. John Flournoy, so that the negroes came to his residence last.
They marched melodiously into his yard, spread out over the lawn, taking care to trample down none of the flowers and shrubs, and their mighty voices reverberated through the valleys and from the hilltops, and could literally be heard for miles.
Mr. John Flournoy and his gracious wife stood upon the portico, sometimes smiling, sometimes with serious faces and moist eyes, as they listened to the old melodies which had colored the very fiber of their souls.
Finally a hush fell upon the crowd, and Mr. Flournoy thought the time for his speech had come. But not so.
Vinegar Atts stepped forward within a few feet of the porch steps, removed his battered slouch hat, and began:
“Marse John, all us niggers is been singing to youallwhite folks ever sense we warn’t more’n hawn-high to a billy-goat. We remembers all dem happy Chris’mus times of yuther years, an’ we wish we could keep up dis music eve’y Chris’mus till ole Gabriel blows his hawn. But de time is done come when us muss tell you good-by, an’ you won’t never hear our singin’ no more!”
“Lawd hab mussy!” a chorus of men’s voices sounded like a prayer.
“You is done been a good frien’ to all us po’ niggers, Marse John,” Vinegar went on earnestly. “We hates to go away an’ leave you——”
The negroes had begun to “weave,” and a moaning sound issued from every throat like a great organ tone, and the light of the full moon casting the shadows of the trees upon the upturned faces of the men, made an effect funereal and impressive indeed.
“What the devil are you talking about?” Flournoy demanded in a voice which was almost a scream.
“Us is gittin’ ready to die, Marse John,” Vinegar told him. “De paper is done printed de word about all de niggers havin’ dat new kind of epizootic, an’ you rickoleck when de yeller fever kotch us niggers all of us fell right down in de middle of de big road an’ died!”
Vinegar took a worn and ragged newspaper out of his pocket, unfolded it carefully, and handed it to Sheriff Flournoy. It was one of the copies of the TickfallWhoopwhich Flournoy had given to old Isaiah Gaitskill several days before.
“You kin read whut de paper says yo’se’f, Marse John,” Vinegar said.
That was one time in Mr. John Flournoy’s life when he wished himself to be somewhere else immediately. He was an inveterate practical joker, but he was as tender-hearted as a woman, and it appalled him that he had administered this wound to his negro friends on this happiest day of the year.
“Boys,” he said painfully, “this article is not true—it is a joke! Somebody has been trying to scare you!”
“Who played dat joke on us, Marse John?” Vinegar Atts asked.
Flournoy took thirty seconds to consider his answer to that question, realizing as never before how very much the truth hurts, when you have to tell it!
“I did it!” he answered, and the words strangled in his throat.
There was one minute of perfect silence.
Then Vinegar Atts replied with just two words: “Ye-es, suh!”
Slowly he turned and started toward the street, Hitch Diamond walking beside him. Two and two, the crowd of negroes silently fell into line and marched out.
Skeeter Butts was the last to leave.
As Skeeter started through the gate he felt Flournoy’s heavy hand upon his shoulder and winced.
“Tell me the truth, you little yeller devil!” Flournoy drawled. “Didn’t you niggers know all the time that that was a joke?”
Skeeter chuckled evasively. He had no intention of revealing a secret of the most secretive race in the world; least of all did he intend to make troublebetween the white folks by revealing the fact that Dr. Sentelle, pitying the fright and ignorance of the negroes, had investigated, learned the facts, and informed them.
But the sheriff’s hand upon his shoulder was suggestive of the majesty and might of the law, and Skeeter had a mortal fear of getting, as he would have expressed it, “into a lawsuit wid de cotehouse.”
“Yes, suh,” Skeeter chuckled. “We did learn a leetle about dat befo’ Chris’mus. We borrowed a lot of papers from de white folks an’ didn’t see nothin’ about it in deir papers, so us soupspicioned dat you had done got up a buzzo on us. But us is all Christians, Marse John—we don’t bear you no grudge!”
Then he slipped from the hand of the law and ran laughing down the street.
“Dis here cullud lady is gwine be my wife. I make you ’quainted wid Coco Ferret!”
Love had flushed the saddle-colored face of Skeeter Butts to a brownish-crimson, and the gorgeous splendor of his clothes reflected the sunburst of affection in his heart.
Hitch Diamond held out his hand to a fat, dumpy, simple-faced country negro girl, and grinned.
“Huh,” he chuckled, as Coco Ferret shook hands, “dis here gal is all soft and puffed-up an’ squeezy like a big balloom.”
“Dat’s right,” Skeeter grinned, eying the girl with a prideful gaze. “I likes ’em dat way. Edgecated niggers is too slim an’ active. Dey gits biggity an’ bumptious. Dey axes ’terrogations an’ is bawn to trouble.”
“Dis lady oughter make a good-pervidin’ cook an’ housekeeper,” Hitch suggested, looking her over as if she were a horse which Skeeter had bought.
“I shore is bofe dem things,” the girl responded. “Skeeter ain’t gittin’ no set-easy gal.”
“I hopes you’ll bofe be as happy as married niggers ever is,” Hitch remarked politely.
“Happy is our name, Hitch,” Skeeter declaredconfidently. “Dis here gal is already fotch me luck, an’ I’s gwine use her fer our mascop in de ball game to-day.”
“Whut is de word about de game, Skeeter?” Hitch grunted. “Is us gwine win?”
“Suttinly,” Skeeter declared. “I done bet fawty dollars. Coco is bet ten dollars. I b’lieves in bettin’ all I kin git.”
“Dem Sawtown niggers is powerful pert players, Skeeter,” Hitch warned him. “Dey wucks reg’lar in de big sawmill, an’ dey got plenty muscle an’ wind. Dey plays baseball all day on eve’y Sunday, an’ dey keeps in fine practice. Dey all ’pears like new-issue niggers to me—slick-heads, plum’ full of tricks, an’ dangersome.”
Skeeter turned and looked over the picnic grounds where a number of husky blacks were prancing around with the women. They all wore their baseball suits, and these uniforms drew the women like a barrel of sugar attracts flies.
“Yes, suh, I admits dem facks,” Skeeter said. “But look at de baseball team us is got—Figger Bush is de best pitcher in Loozanny; Prince Total ketches; Mustard Prophet straddles fust base—us is been playin’ all summer, an’ we is winned eve’y game up to now!”
“Dat’s so,” Hitch remarked, with less uneasiness in his voice. “I reckin I’ll bet eve’y dollar dat I’m got.”
“Dat’s de talk,” Skeeter applauded. “I been pussuadin’ all de players on de Tickfall team to bet all de money dey had.”
“Dat ain’t good bizziness,” Hitch declared. “Ef players bets deir own dollars an’ de team is losin’, dey all gits rattled.”
“Mebbe so, wid white folks,” Skeeter replied. “But ’tain’t so wid niggers. You know how niggers is—ef dey think de yuther man is gwine lose money on deir wuck, dey don’t pay no mind, an’ de Lawd’s will kin be did. But ef a nigger figgers dat he’s gwine lose money on his own se’f—Lawdy, he shore do scratch gravel!”
Their conversation was brought to a close by a long blast upon a fox-horn.
“Dat means de picnic dinner is sot,” Skeeter interpreted. “Us better hurry or all dem yuther niggers will wollop up de grub.”
As they took their places at the long table where the food was piled up in an appalling and unappetizing mass, Vinegar Atts bellowed:
“Who is de she-queen you is armin’ aroun’, Skeeter?”
“Dis here is my gwine-be wife,” Skeeter grinned. “Her name’s Coco.”
“It’s ’bout time you wus gittin’ married an’ sottled down,” Rev. Vinegar Atts proclaimed, scenting a wedding fee. “Den you’ll be king of de coconut tree. Ef you puts off gettin’ married too long, you gits outen de habit of wantin’ to be.”
“Me an’ Coco is got de same mind now,” Skeeter snickered, proud of the attention they were attracting. “Coco is de mascop at de ball game dis afternoon.”
At the far end of the table the manager of theSawtown team heard this last remark and uttered an exclamation. Stepping over to one of his players he asked:
“Buff’lo, how come us fergot to fetch a mascop along wid us?”
“Dunno, cap,” Buffalo replied. “I got my rabbit’s foot.”
“Dem Tickfall coons is got a woman fer a mascop,” the manager said. “An dey got Figger Bush fer a pitcher, an’ Prince Total ketches. Dat powerful arrangement shore looks bad to me.”
“Why don’t us hoodoo Figger?” Buffalo inquired.
“How is dat did?” Manager Star asked eagerly.
“Make a cross on Figger’s head wid a rabbit foot,” Buffalo informed him.
“Dat’s easy,” Star grinned. “Gimme yo’ foot, Buff’lo.”
Ten minutes later the Sawtown manager sidled up to Figger Bush and remarked:
“You gotter pitch hard dis atternoon, Figger. I thinks you needs some nourishment. I gives you dis big, yeller awange as a peace-off’rin’.”
As Figger, grinning, reached out for the orange, Star let it fall from his hand and roll under the table. Figger went down on his hands and knees, crawled under the table for his gift, and when he came out felt some sharp object scraped across his woolly scalp. When he stood up he beheld Manager Star grinning at him, holding up a mangy rabbit foot.
“Sawtown wins de game to-day, Figger,” Star snickered. “I done cross yo’ head wid a rabbit foot, an’ luck ain’t wid yo’ no mo’.”
Figger Bush turned almost white.
As Star walked away, Figger turned every pocket in his clothes wrong side out, found every cent of money he had in his possession, and crammed it into his mouth. Stooping down, he made a cross in the sand with his middle finger, drew a large ring around the cross, and dropped the money out of his mouth into the center of the ring. Then from under each coin he gathered a tiny pinch of dirt, placed it in the palm of his left hand, turned around three times with his eyes closed, and tossed the grains of dirt over his head.
Thus he hoped to break the hoodoo. But uneasiness filled his soul.
“My Gawd,” he sighed. “I shore feels powerful bad.”
At two o’clock that afternoon four hundred negroes stood around the baseball diamond and cheered the Tickfall team as they went to the field and the Sawtown visitors went to bat.
Figger Bush, the famous Tickfall pitcher, rubbed his hands with dirt, tightened his belt, took a chew of tobacco, waved one foot in the air, and pitched his first ball. Kerplunk! It landed in the stomach of the Sawtown batter, doubled him up, and dropped him in a heap on top of the plate.
Two delighted, grinning, Sawtown teammates caught the injured man by the arms, lifted him, and escorted him to first base, enlivening their progress down the line by directing to Figger Bush certain remarks which were calculated to reduce his self-esteem to the minimum.
The second batter hit the first ball, sent it far over in the high weeds back of center field; then he and the injured teammate loped leisurely into home.
“Git yo’ eye steady, Figger!” Butts squealed. “Don’t let ’em rattle you up!”
“Figger, Figger, he’s de nigger!” the Sawtown men bawled. “We done got dat nigger’s figger!”
Once more Bush wound up to pitch the ball, but the moment he brought his arm back for the whiplike throw, the ball slipped out of his fingers, rolled weakly across the diamond, and was retrieved by the third-baseman.
Every member of the Sawtown team sprang into the air, emitted ecstatic whoops, and plastered the helpless Figger with every name in their vocabulary which they thought would stick.
When Bush finally threw the ball it went over the plate ten feet in the air, and a giggling batboy chased it until it struck against a stump on the edge of the bayou and stopped.
“Oh, Figger!” Skeeter screamed, with a sob in his voice. “Whut’s de matter, pardner? Whut ails ye? I got my dollars on ye, Figger; buck up, fer Gawd’s sake——”
Bush’s answer was a pitched ball which struck the ground three feet in front of the plate, bounced waist-high to the batter, and was slugged far over in the left field, where it fell in a slough, and the fielder had to wade in the muck to his knees to get it.
“You’re all right, Figger!” the Sawtown players shrieked. “You suits us fine! Don’t let Skeeter Butts git yo’ goat!”
Figger’s eyes twitched, his jaws worked on his tobacco quid like a mill, his knees grew weak and wabbly. He wound up to throw the ball, then suddenly stopped his operations, straightened up, and felt at the top of his head as if something had hit him.
He threw four balls in rapid succession, not one of which came within ten feet of the plate, and the batter walked to the first.
He threw another ball, hit the batter on the elbow, and he walked to first.
He threw another ball, the batter tapped it, and it dropped at the feet of Figger Bush.
Figger wiped the bitter sweat out of both eyes, stooped down with great deliberation, picked up the ball, wiped the dust off of it on his ragged shirt, and threw it to first just as the three Sawtown men came over the home plate!
“Keep it up, ole boy!” the Sawtown men screamed. “You kin do it—you got us all guessin’—make us run de bases—dat’s de right boy!”
“Oh, fer de Lawd’s sake, Figger,” Skeeter squealed, “see ef you cain’t pitch jes’ one straight ball! Don’t put nothin’ on it—jes’ throw it straight an’ easy!”
Figger threw it straight and easy. A child could have hit it with a lead-pencil. What the batter did to that ball will never be known. It sailed over the top of the highest trees like a bird, and is lying hidden in the Dorfoche woods yet. Then this colored Ty Cobb walked around the bases and sat down on the home plate, conversing in the meantime with Figger Bush with choice language.
Prince Total threw aside his mask and chest-protectorand walked down to the pitcher’s box just as the umpire tossed out a new ball.
“Figger, you is de wust pitcher I ever seen!” Prince howled. “You git up dar an’ ketch, an’ lemme see kin I fan dese niggers out. My Gawd, you muss be crippled under yo’ hat to play ball like you is doin’!”
“I is,” Figger replied, rubbing his woolly scalp like a man in a dream.
Skeeter Butts left the coaching line, ran into the crowd, and seized Coco Ferret by a fat arm.
“Come on outen dis crowd, honey!” he squeaked. “Oh, Lawdy, ef you never done no mascoppin’ before, you git to doin’ it now! Dis is awful!”
“How is mascoppin’ done, Skeeter?” she inquired as the little darky dragged her out of the crowd.
“Gawd knows!” Skeeter panted as he led her out to where all the Tickfall team could see her from the field. “You jes’ nachelly be it—like a luck charm.”
Then he turned to the players and howled:
“I done got yo’ mascop out in front, Prince! Look at dis pretty nigger gal an’ pick up a brave heart! Set yo’ eye on Coco and do yo’ durndest! Don’t let nothin’ skeer you, Prince, fer good luck’s done busted right in yo’ face!”
Prince Total, thus admonished, retired the Sawtown nine with only three pitched balls. Each batter knocked a fly which was caught in the field.
The Tickfall nine was suddenly jubilant. Four hundred Tickfall fans bellowed with joy. Skeeter Butts ran to Coco Ferret, threw his arms around her, an’ giggled:
“Oh, you little, fat mascop! You done bust de bad luck! Eve’y nigger in dis town loves you like a brudder—an’ me, you done winned my heart ferever an’ ever!”
When the Tickfall team came in to bat, Hitch Diamond puffed through the crowd like a steam-engine and started a row.
“Whut de debbil you mean by throwin’ dis game, Figger?” he howled in irate tones. “Whut de trouble wid yo’ head? Don’t you know you is losin’ yo’ own good money?”
“Trouble?” Figger Bush bawled. “Dem Sawtown niggers done put a hoodoo sign on me!”
“How come?” Hitch asked in a changed tone.
“Dey crisscrossed my head wid a rabbit foot.”
“My Gawd!” Hitch howled, and his eyes looked scared. “Why ain’t you stood pigeontoed when you pitched, Figger? Dat’d bust de sign.”
“Shut up, Hitch!” Pap Curtain snarled as he came into the crowd. “You stop lowratin’ dat Figger Bush. I done made inquirements, an’ I foun’ out dat all dem Sawtown coons is got a buzzard’s feather in deir hat an’ snake-dust in deir shoes, an’ a raw pertater in deir pocket. Dey done sot deir triggers fer luck, and dey got all de rabbit foots in Sawtown hung roun’ deir necks!”
“My Lawd!” mourned Skeeter Butts, “dem niggers hadn’t oughter did us dataway.”
“Of co’se, I couldn’t do nothin’!” Figger Bush declared defensively. “Eve’y time I picked up dat ball it begun to claw at de inside of my hand jes’ like I wus holdin’ a live Jume bug!”
“Dat’s right!” Prince Total agreed. “Ef dem fust three balls I pitched hadn’t fotch dem niggers out, I never could ’a’ tossed anodder over dat plate. Dat ball’s got de slickments, an’ wiggles like a live snake!”
“Shore!” the fielders agreed with awed voices. “Somepin shore ails dat ball—dey muss hab rubbed it wid eel-juice!”
Skeeter Butts listened to this with ever decreasing hopes of victory for the team.
“Lawdymussy, niggers!” he sighed helplessly. “Think of all de dollars we is losin’. Ain’t dar no way to cross dem Sawtown hoodoo signs?”
“Us might try it,” Hitch Diamond said as he dived his hand into his pocket for his lucky charms. “Less dec’rate de fust batter wid all our luck pieces!”
“Batter up!” the umpire bawled for the tenth time.
Thereupon Prince Total went to bat, stuffing things in his pockets until they bulged like the pockets of a boy who had been on a visit to an apple orchard. He had rabbits’ feet and buzzards’ feathers, iron rings and iron bolts, buckeyes and raw potatoes, rattlesnake rattles and birds’ claws, teeth of horses and tusks of hogs, locks of hair and four-leaf clovers, rings and chains and rubber bands, beer-checks and copper pennies—a veritable witch’s brew of trifles.
Standing at the plate with all this equipment of luck, he bunted the ball to the feet of the shortstop, started to first base carrying his bat, tangled the bat up between his legs, fell on his head, and scatteredhis luck-charms all over that part of the diamond.
A loud groan went up from the throats of the spectators, and Prince got up, picked up his scattered trinkets, placing them in his hat, and laid them at the feet of Skeeter Butts with a sheepish grin.
“I had too many of dem things, fellers,” he explained. “Too much luck is more’n a plenty. I couldn’t tote it all!”
Then Figger Bush fanned wildly at two balls, shut his eyes and took a lick at the third, hit himself on his own shin with the bat, and came limping back, nursing his crippled leg, and muttering profane things.
In the meanwhile Skeeter had loaded down Mustard Prophet with all the hoodoo charms which Figger had carried and a large assortment which Hitch had accumulated by solicitation among the fans. They were in his shoes, in his belt, in his cap, in his shirt; he rubbed snake-dust on his hands, sprinkled magic powder on his woolly head, and went to bat as uneasy as a condemned criminal facing the electric chair.
“Lam de ball, Mustard!” Skeeter howled. “Put some ginger on de bat, Mustard! You’s puffeckly safe—you done crossed de hoodoo sign on ’em! I’s prayin’ fer you, Mustard!”
Skeeter’s prayers were not answered.
Mustard saw the first ball coming and jumped ten feet away. He struck at the second ball after it was in the catcher’s mitt, and he struck twice at the third ball—once while the pitcher was winding upand again when the ball was forty feet from the plate. Then he walked back to Skeeter, delivered of all his lucky pieces, and joined the Tickfall team on its way to the field.
Then Vinegar Atts walked up and laid his hand on Skeeter’s shoulder.
“Looky here, Skeeter!” he bellowed. “All us niggers is losin’ our dollars on dis here game! I b’lieves dat dis game has been fixed!”
“’Tain’t so, Elder,” Skeeter denied tearfully. “I done bet fawty dollars on dis game, an’ I’s gwine lose eve’y cent of dat an’ ten dollars dat my gal bet!”
“Whut ails dis Tickfall team?” Vinegar wanted to know.
“Dem Sawtowners done got de hoodoo sign on ’em,” Skeeter explained. “I tried to bust de hoodoo when us wus at bat, but it cain’t be did.”
Vinegar shook his fat fist at the face of Butts.
“I tells you dis, solemn an’ specific, Skeeter: dese here cullud pussons is bet deir few money on yo’ recommend. Dey don’t figger on no hoodoo or no nothin’! Ef you done gone an’ fixed dis game, all I gotter say is, you better unhoodoo our team befo’ dis crowd of coons make up deir minds whut dey gwine do to you fer sellin’ us out to de Sawtowners!”
Vinegar Atts walked away with a majestic air, and Skeeter Butts sat down on the ground beside Coco Ferret, wiping the copious sweat from his face.
“O Lawd,” he prayed, “ef I only but had a jinx!”
“Whut am a jinx, Skeeter?” Coco inquired.
“It’s a cross-eyed female woman,” Skeeter declared, looking at Coco hopefully. But Coco’s eyeswere round as a buckshot and straight, perfectly straight.
With a groan Skeeter placed his face in his two hands and mourned:
“We’s gwine lose all our dollars, Coco—dar ain’t no hope!”
“Whut did Vinegar Atts specify de niggers wus gwine do to you?” Coco asked.
“He ain’t say,” Skeeter told her, speaking from a heart filled with misery and dreadful foreboding. “I ’speck dey’s gwine hang me.”
A wild yell from the Sawtown rooters caused him to glance up listlessly. The slaughter had begun again. With another groan he dropped his head and gave himself up to deep thought.
A sharp crack of hickory against horsehide—Skeeter looked up and saw the Tickfall center-fielder fumbling with the ball, picking it up and dropping it three times, while four hilarious Sawtown men came in and scored.
Skeeter rose to his feet, dusted the seat of his duck trousers, and said to Coco:
“Little gal, you set right here till I gits back. Dar ain’t no cross-eyed gals in dis whole town, but I’m gotter bust dat hoodoo sign onless I hankers to die, which ain’t so. Is you willin’ to he’p me?”
“Suttinly,” Coco assured him.
“All right. You set right here an’ keep on mascoppin’! I’s gwine to Tickfall.”
Skeeter ran the quarter of a mile to Tickfall, jumped into the door of the drug-store, and panted:
“Please, suh, I wants a jar of dat white stuff whut de lady folks puts on deir complexion.”
“Cold cream?” the clerk inquired.
“Naw, suh; it’s a kind of paste whut dey puts on wid a little sponge.”
“I got you,” the clerk answered, reaching up on a shelf and lifting down a jar. “Face enamel. You go’ner try to git white, Skeeter?”
“Naw, suh; nothin’ like dat. Dis is fer a cullud lady pusson,” Skeeter snickered as he laid the money on the counter. “How long do it take dis stuff to dry atter you put it on yo’ mug?”
“About a minute.”
“Kin you gib me a little piece of sponge to smear it on wid?”
The grinning clerk tossed him the sponge, and Skeeter went loping down the street to a dry-goods store.
“Gimme a thick, black veil ’bout a yard long!” he exclaimed. “I wants a mournin’ veil!”
With this article clutched in his hand he ran all the way back to the ball game.
“Whut de sco’, Hitch?” he squealed as he ran through the crowd.
“Twenty-eight to nothin’ favor erf de Sawtowns,” Hitch grunted with a malignant stare at Skeeter. “You better git busy, Skeeter Butts, an’ bust dis hoodoo—ef it is a hoodoo. Dese here niggers wut bet deir money is ackin’ powerful peevish an’ specify dat you done sold ’em out—I favors dat view myse’f.”
“Dat’s jes’ de way wid niggers,” Skeeter whined.“Dey been winnin’ money offen dis nine all summer, an’ now when us is struck a losin’ streak dey talks ’bout mobbin’ me!”
He ran over to where Coco Ferret sat. She looked up and said:
“Whut muss I do, Skeeter? I been tryin’ to mascop, but dat don’t do no good!”
“Come wid me, honey!” Skeeter replied, and led her through the crowd and into the picnic grounds, where a growth of underbrush screened them from view.
There he produced his jar of face-enamel, and explained:
“Coco, my maw wus de greates’ hoodoo dorctor in dis parish. When she died she gimme dis jar of hoodoo juice an’ tole me ef I would rub it on de face of de gal I loved dat gal would bust any hoodoo sign in de worl’. I loves you best of all, an’ ef you ain’t got no real good objections I’ll an’int yo’ mug wid dis juice.”
“Do it hurt?” Coco asked.
“Naw!” Skeeter declared.
He took her hand, rubbed the enamel over the back of her wrist, and wiped it off quickly, leaving the skin coal-black as before.
“It makes de hide feel cold like ice,” Coco giggled as she took off her hat and held her head back. “Smear it on thick, Skeeter!”
Skeeter dipped his sponge in the enamel and gladly smeared it on thick. He wiped the mess across the girl’s forehead, down each cheek, and under her chin. The black skin under that whiteningmade the most poisonous-looking combination imaginable.
“I ain’t gwine put dis close aroun’ yo’ eyes, honey,” Skeeter declared. “I’ll jes’ make a nice roun’ ring roun’ yo’ eyes an’ yo’ mouth because I’s skeart it might sting ef it got in dem places.”
“Smear it on thick, Skeeter,” the girl snickered. “It shore feels cold an’ smells sweet.”
In two minutes Skeeter looked upon the work which his hand had made, and pronounced it very good.
“Dat’ll shore fetch ’em, Coco,” he giggled. “When our mascop shows up all greased wid hoodoo-ile somepin is gwine be doin’ wid dem Sawtown coons!”
He laid his black veil on Coco’s lap.
“Now, honey, you let dat juice dry a minute, den you put dat veil over yo’ hat an’ down over yo’ face.”
Skeeter helped her to adjust the veil, and they were ready.
Ecstatic whoops from the Sawtown team came to their ears, informing them that the massacre was still in progress.
The score stood thirty-seven to nothing in favor of Sawtown, and the Sawtown captain grew weary of the game.
“You fellers stop hittin’ dat ball! We got to play at least five innings befo’ we kin be shore of gittin’ our bet-money,” he bellowed. “Us is done got ’em beat—fan out! Eve’y batter is ordered to fan out!”
“Dat’s suits me,” Skeeter snickered as this commandwas expressed loud enough for everyone to hear. “Dey’ll change deir tune in a minute. Dey’ll want to hit de ball an’ cain’t!”
The Sawtown batters, responsive to the captain’s order, went out—one, two, three.
Again Tickfall was at the bat—the last half of the second inning.
“Now, Coco,” Skeeter said as a scar-faced negro named Possum picked up the bat and went to the plate. “Dis is yo’ time to git busy an’ save de day. You stand over dar—as close to fust base as you kin git. I’s gwine over an’ stand by third base. Don’t you raise up yo’ veil until I gives de sign.”
“Whut is de sign?” Coco giggled.
“When I lifts my hat like I wus bowin’ to a lady den you raise up yo’ veil, an’ stick it up on top of yo’ hat.”
“All right,” Coco agreed. “I’ll watch fer de sign.”
“Hey, fellers!” the Sawtown pitcher whooped as he pointed toward first base. “Look at de Tickfall mascop all diked out in black mournin’! Dey got her fixed right now!”
Loud yells from the Sawtown players greeted this remark, and a moment later the Sawtown pitcher delivered the ball. Possum bunted it toward the shortstop, and started for first base like a rabbit.
Skeeter Butts raised his hat with a most exaggerated bow.
Coco Ferret raised her veil.
Possum never reached first base.
He took one look at Coco’s face, gave utterance to a howl which would have frightened a European war general, and started for left field by way of the pitcher’s box, looking behind him and whining like a dog.
Just as the shortstop threw to first the Sawtown first-baseman got a look at Coco’s face.
“My gosh!” he whooped.
His arms dropped paralyzed to his sides, he received the baseball full in his stomach, and started after Possum at his best gait.
“My Gawd!” the Sawtown pitcher yelped; his glove fell from his hand, and he started away.
“Dat gal’s got some kind of ketchin’ disease!” the third-baseman squalled; and thereupon he and the second-baseman, the shortstop, and the catcher started after the pitcher in wild flight, looking behind them as if fearful that the object of their fright would pursue them.
Coco Ferret, lacking a woman’s best friend—a mirror—and having no idea of her horrific appearance, turned and grinned at the crowd of Tickfall negroes, delighted with her success as a hoodoo breaker.
“Oh—my—Lawd A’mighty!” Vinegar Atts bellowed, his eyes popping with fright, his mouth spread wide in horrified imbecility. “Whut is Gawd done gone an’ done to dat gal? Run, niggers, run!”
Vinegar’s hand was pointing Coco out to the crowd, but the girl at that moment was looking toward Skeeter Butts, grinning like a drunken nightmare.
The crowd paused just long enough to look.
What they saw was a girl who had been shiny-black two hours before—but now her face was white, with black rings around the eyes and mouth; a ghastly, horrible whiteness, poisonous-looking and appalling, enough to frighten any sane man into jimjams.
Vinegar Atts started toward Tickfall, bellowing like a cow.
Four hundred squalling blacks fell in behind him, fighting for room to run, grabbing at each other’s coat tails to accelerate their speed, taking frightened glances behind them every moment, then adding another octave to the vocalization of their fright.
Out on the highroad they kicked up the dust and sand like a cyclone, but the dust-cloud did not obscure the light-blue dress of Coco Ferret as she trotted down the road behind them.
Skeeter Butts trotted behind Coco, cackling like a hen.
“Keep it up, honey!” he squawked. “You shore is a grand little hoodoo sign buster! Chase ’em plum’ to town! You done saved our money an’ saved my life!”
At the little bridge over the Coolie Creek on the edge of Tickfall, Skeeter Butts tried to stop her.
“Less blow a while an’ rest our foots, Coco,” he snickered. “Lawd, dat shore wus a dandy race!”
“Naw!” Coco declared. “I ain’t gwine rest till I gits home! Dis here mess is hot on my face. It wus cool at fust.”
“Pull down yo’ veil, honey!” Skeeter begged her.“Dis here face juice is too precious fer igernunt niggers to see.”
Coco adjusted her veil, and they lingered a moment at the bridge, cooling off under the shade of the trees. Finally Coco asked:
“Skeeter, wus dem niggers runnin’ away from me?”
“Naw!” Skeeter declared. “It wus dat hoodoo juice dat sont ’em skootin’ home. My maw shore told de truth ’bout dat juice.”
“Kin I have de rest of de juice, Skeeter?” Coco asked as they strolled slowly toward her cabin.
“Suttinly!” Skeeter said, producing the little jar from his pocket. “But I bet you don’t never use it no more, Coco.”
“I bet I does,” Coco giggled as they walked up the steps of her cabin.
The girl laid her hat and veil on the bed and sat down.
Skeeter broke into a loud laugh.
“Whut you laughin’ at, nigger?” Coco demanded.
“Go, take a peep at yo’se’f in de lookin’-glass. Coco,” Skeeter cackled. “Oh, my goodness gracious Moses——”
He sprang to his feet, caught hold of the mantel with both hands, and hung there, helpless with laughter, his alligator mouth stretched to the limit.
Coco walked to the mirror.
“My stars an’ garters!” she howled at sight of her face. “Skeeter Butts, is you made me look like de debbil’s wife on purpose?”
“Sure!” Skeeter whooped. “I wus ’bout tolose my bets—fawty dollars fer me an’ ten fer you——”
“Is you made me look like dis to save you money?” Coco demanded in irate tones. “You treat yo’ gwine-be wife like dat?”
“Yes’m!” Skeeter shrieked amid his paroxysms of laughter. “Oh, my honey bird—you is de dangest sight ever I did see since de day I wus borned on—whoop-ee!”
Coco suddenly snatched open the drawer of her bureau, and Skeeter saw the malignant gleam of a nickel-plated, pearl-handled revolver.
“Murder-r-r!” he shrieked as he shot through the door with the speed of a comet.
As he passed out of the door a bullet flattened against the jamb close to his face.
As he passed through the yard gate the splinters from two more bullets were shattered from the posts close beside him.
As he galloped wildly down the street two more bullets kicked up the dust around his flying feet.
He bounced through the swinging doors of the Hen-Scratch saloon and found his establishment crowded with negroes demanding back the money they had bet.
“All bets is declared off, niggers!” Skeeter panted.
He sank weakly into a chair, wiped the sweat from his face with a trembling hand, fanned himself with his hat for a moment, then made another announcement:
“All my weddin’ arrangements is declared off, too, niggers!”
“How come?” the Rev. Vinegar Atts demanded, saddened by the loss of a wedding fee.
Skeeter panted for breath, and finally explained:
“Dat female mascop is done jinxed me!”
Tick Hush looked like a negro who would work like a horse, and who would do as he was told.
Colonel Tom Gaitskill leaned back in his swivel chair for a comprehensive survey of this new applicant for a job.
He saw a brown-skinned man, with a big round head, a flat nose, heavy lips that were easy-smiling, and eyes which were as wide-open, as simple and innocent as the black, glass eyes of a china doll. He noticed that the man stood perfectly straight, without nervousness, and that his big hands were hard and square—the hands of a willing worker.
“I don’t know nothin’ but how to wuck de lan’, Marse Tom,” Tick told him. “Farmin’ is my trade. So when I heerd tell dat you done bought dat farm whar de ole pest-house was located at, I figgered dat dis wus a chance to git me a good job wid a good boss.”
The speech won Gaitskill’s favor. Negroes are afraid of hospitals, quarantine stations, and graveyards. He had had difficulty in securing a negrotenant for this newly acquired farm because the pest-house occupied a portion of the plantation.
“Aren’t you afraid of that farm, Tick?” Gaitskill smiled.
“Naw, suh,” Tick chuckled. “De cullud folks orate ’bout all dem bad ketchin’ diseases in de pest-house, but I ain’t gwine pester aroun’ in dat neighborhood none.”
Gaitskill determined to test the negro’s sincerity once for all.
“Think of the people who have died out there, Tick,” he said. “When I was a boy there was an epidemic of cholera, and the people died in that old stone house like flies. After that there was yellow fever, and nobody who was taken into that house for quarantine ever came out alive. There have been epidemics of diphtheria, scarlet fever, and smallpox. People are buried all around that quarantine station—you mean to tell me that you are not afraid?”
“Naw, suh, I ain’t skeart,” Tick grinned. “Dem folks is all been dead so long dey done fergot whut dey died of. Dem bad ketchin’ diseases is done kotch on to somebody else by dis time an’ been toted away. Of co’se, I ain’t gwine dig fer no buried money aroun’ dat spot.”
“I’m sure of that,” Gaitskill told him.
“An’ I don’t figger on havin’ much comp’ny out dar,” Tick chuckled. “Niggers ain’t gwine make my place no hangout. Ef I got inter real bad trouble, I might could hide in dat pest-house—nobody ain’t comin’ dar atter me.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Gaitskill smiled.“But I will not object if your idle, loafing friends stay away. At the same time, I presume you will often be lonesome—are you married?”
“Naw, suh.”
Gaitskill leaned back in his chair and tapped the top of the table with the rubber of his pencil.
“Why haven’t you married, Tick?” he inquired.
“Cain’t affode it, Marse Tom.”
“How do you know you can’t?” Gaitskill asked curiously.
“I figgered dat all out once, boss,” Tick grinned. “I wus wuckin’ as a wage-han’ on de Coon-Skin plantation. I tuck a notion I wus qualified to take a wife, I wus shore I could git one, but I warn’t shore I could suppote her.”
“How did you decide that matter?” Gaitskill asked.
“I wus doin’ my own cookin’ an’ livin’ in a cabin by myse’f alone, so I fixed up a way to try it out. I sot two plates at de table. Eve’y time I et a biskit, I sot a biskit on dat yuther plate. Eve’y time I he’ped myse’f to a b’ilin’ of greens, I put some on dat yuther plate. Eve’y time I wanted a corn pone, I baked two in de hot ash, and’ throwed one of ’em out to my houn’ dawg. At de eend of de month I counted up my money whut wus lef’ over, an’—my Gawd, boss—it shore cain’t be did by me. Keepin’ a wife is too blame expenshus.”
Gaitskill pulled his heavy silken mustache down over his mouth to hide his widely smiling lips. Thus disheveled, he resembled a venerable walrus with an amiable disposition. After a while he spoke.
“I want a married man for the quarantine plantation, Tick. There is a good house on the other side of the farm from the pest-house, and there is ample accommodation for cows, chickens, and hogs. There’s a good garden plot and a number of fruit trees. An unmarried man won’t attend to these things, and I want some one who will keep the place up.”
“Dat’s powerful bad news, Marse Tom,” Tick replied as he took a step backward toward the door. “I suttinly had my whole insides sot on gittin’ charge of dat plantation. Yes, suh.”
Gaitskill sat waiting, confidently anticipating Tick’s next remark. The colored man’s mental processes were slow, but at last he arrived.
“Mebbe I might could git me a wife, Marse Tom,” he suggested.
“That’s the very idea I had in mind,” Gaitskill smiled. “If you promise to get married within the next two weeks, I’ll locate you on the pest-house plantation for the next five years.”
“Mebbe no woman won’t take no ole tough gizzard like me,” Tick remarked with humility.
“That’s up to you,” Gaitskill laughed. “I think if you will emphasize the fact that you are getting the management of a good farm, a good house, plenty of fruit, a number of cows, chickens, and a good garden, and the woman is sure that you will put as much on her plate as you do on your own—well, try it, anyway.”
“I’ll shore try it on,” the negro answered with ludicrous solemnity as he turned and started out of the door.
“And, listen, Tick!” Gaitskill exclaimed as he turned to pick up some papers on his desk and resume his interrupted work. “If you find a woman who is willing to marry you, let me know, and I’ll furnish the marriage license—it won’t cost you a cent!”
“Thank ’e, suh!” Tick grinned. “Dat ’ll he’p me a heap!”
Tick passed out of the bank and stood on the street in front of the big plateglass window. He took off his battered wool hat and scratched his woolly head in real perplexity. Certainly, Marse Tom had assigned him a tremendous task.
The world was full of marriageable colored women.
What woman should he ask?
He looked up and down the street with an appraising eye. He could see ten women; some were fat and some were lean, some were kind and some were mean—what kind should he choose?
“Dat white man shore is wropped up my kinky hair with a strong string,” he sighed as he mopped the sweat from his face. “I b’lieve I’ll go ax a few advices outen Skeeter Butts.”
No one knows how Skeeter Butts got his reputation among the members of his race as the possessor of supernal wisdom. Nevertheless, in every emergency it was their custom to ask Skeeter Butts, and Skeeter was always there with the good advice.
Inexpert physicians frequently say to theirpatients, “I’ll try this medicine, and if it don’t do the work, I’ll change to something else.” Skeeter followed the same method with his advice. With the inexpert physician, too, often one medicine calls for another; always with Skeeter, one suggestion led to another; and the reason with both was the same—because dangerous complications “set up.”
On matrimonial matters, Skeeter was supposed to be extremely wise.
He had courted every woman in Tickfall and its environs without actually committing matrimony. His experiences had been many and varied, and highly educational. So when Tick Hush appeared in the Hen-Scratch saloon with a look of perplexed melancholy upon his brown face, Skeeter at once heated up his mental incubator to hatch out a few rare thoughts.
“Dis here is a awful mess, Skeeter,” Tick began as he held an ill-smelling perique stogie between his stiff and trembling lips. “Marse Tom Gaitskill is shore kotch my tail in a cuttin’-box.”
“How come?” Skeeter asked.
“He offered me a job on de pest-house plantation pervidin’ only but dat I gits married inside two weeks.”
“Dat’s easy,” Skeeter grinned. “Lady folks is crazy ’bout steppin’ off, an’ anybody kin git married.”
“How is dat did?” Tick asked.
“At de fust off-startin’, you seleck a woman whut you wants to marry,” Skeeter suggested.
“Dat gits me in a jam right now,” Tick mourned. “I’s powerful fondish on two nigger women.”
“Uh-huh,” Skeeter grunted. “Dat looks like cormpilations mought set up an’ us ’ll hab plenty doin’s. Name de femaleses!”
“Limit Lark an’ Vakey Vapp,” Tick told him.
“Gosh!” Skeeter sighed. “Why cain’t you rattle de bones, or cut cyards, or flop up a jitney, an’ decide which am de whicher?”
“’Tain’t pious,” Tick replied.
“You needn’t let dat pester you,” Skeeter cackled. “Ary one of dem womens will make you lose yo’ religium powerful soon atter you marries ’em.”
“Cain’t you think up no highbrow way of deecidin’?” Tick inquired.
“Suttinly,” Skeeter snapped. “But I don’t think brains he’ps a man whut’s got his mind sot on mettermony. Look at me—I’s a smart, up-to-date, new-issue nigger—an’ I cain’t git married to nothin’! Brains don’t git me even a two-times, secont-han’, hand-me-down widder!”
“Dat’s because you is too choosey,” Tick grinned.
“Mebbe so,” Skeeter replied, as he applied his mind to the problem before him. At last he suggested:
“How would it suit to write a letter to one of dem niggers an’ ax her to marry you?”
“Dat don’t he’p me,” Tick explained. “Ef I knowed which one to write to fust, I’d know which one to ax fust——”
“I sees,” Skeeter interrupted. “You likes ’em bofe alike, each one as much as de yuther. Well—whichsomever one you take, you’ll wish to Gawd you’d tuck de yuther one—lemme think!”
Skeeter lighted a cigarette and rubbed his nervous hands over his closely cropped head. Then he jumped to his feet with a yelp.
“I got it, Ticky!” he squealed. “Dis here is a histidious notion—listen. You an’ me will write a letter to bofe dem nigger womens. Den we’ll git a nigger whut cain’t read ner write to pick out one of dem letters outen a hat. De letter whut de igernunt coon picks out is de one to be sont.”
“Listen to dat!” Tick Hush applauded. “Dat sounds real cute. Git some paper an’ a writin’ pencil!”
Skeeter found two soiled envelopes, a writing-pad and the stub of a pencil. Sitting down at a table, he arranged them carefully, and said:
“You do de heavy thinkin’, Ticky, while I writes!”
Tick Hush rose to his feet and began a nervous pacing up and down beside the table. He cleared his throat, wiped the sweat from his face, fanned himself with his hat, took off one brogan shoe and shook the gravel out of it.
Skeeter Butts sat and waited.
At length, Tick straightened up, breathed like a husky bellows, and began:
“Dear Limit—” Then he broke off to ask: “How’m I gittin’ along so fur, Skeeter?”
“Dat’s a fine start-off,” Skeeter assured him. “I think she’ll kotch on to dat easy.”
“Say, ’I wants to git married right away’—hold on, Skeeter!” Tick exclaimed in a sudden panic. “Don’t be so peart ’bout writin’ how soon—tell her atter while, befo’ long, when I kin git aroun’ to it, when de craps is all in, or somepin like dat.”
“Naw!” Skeeter retorted as he began to write. “Tell her de real facks: ‘I wants to git married in de nex’ ten days.’”
“O Lawdy,” Tick sighed. “Dat sounds powerful early to me!”
“Go on!” Skeeter snapped.
“Say, ‘I hopes—I hopes—I hopes——’”
“Shut up!” Skeeter snapped. “You sound like a danged ole donkey brayin’—you don’t hope nothin’! Tell on!”
“Say, ‘Me an’ Skeeter—us thinks you-all oughter marry us’!” Tick Hush dictated.
Skeeter Butts laid aside his pencil and leaned back, glaring at Tick with mingled pity and contempt.
“You is de worst igermus I knows of, Ticky Hush!” he squealed. “Ef you an’ me wus to swap heads, I’d die a durn fool! Stop talkin’ wid yo’ mouth an’ think!”
Thus admonished, Tick Hush took a big breath and a tidal wave of dictation splashed all around the head of Skeeter Butts.
“Say, ‘Will you marry me real soon?’ Say, ‘I got a job on Marse Tom Gaitskill’s pest-house farm.’ Say, ‘I’ll take you out to see de place.’ Say, ‘We lives togedder—plenty money, plenty eats. Answer prompt! Yours—yo’ husbunt—yo——’”
“Naw!” Skeeter interrupted. “You don’t want no answer through de mail-box—tell her to meet you somewhar to-morrer night, ef she is willin’ to take you on!”
“Dat’s right!” Tick agreed. Then he dictated: “Say, ‘Answer prompt. Ef you is willin’, meetme to-morrer night behime de Shoofly church under dat big sycamo’ tree. Yours truly Tick Hush.”
“Dat’s de way to talk it,” Skeeter applauded. “Ef you wants a hoe-cake, reach out yo’ hand fer it. Now wait a minute till I copy dis same letter, because we got to hab two.”
When Skeeter had made the copy, he addressed the two envelopes and slipped one message into each, being extremely careful not to get the letters mixed and put them in the wrong envelopes.
“Now, Skeeter,” Ticky asked, “who we gwine git to pick out dis letter?”
“Little Bit cain’t read nothin’,” Skeeter suggested.
“Let him pick,” Tick agreed.
In answer to Skeeter’s call, a diminutive, bullet-headed boy came from the rear room and picked up a white envelope.
“Dat’s all, Little Bit!” Skeeter told him. “You git!”
With the nervous solemnity of a man who was determining the destiny of two lives, Skeeter turned the envelope so he could see the address.
“It’s de letter to Limit Lark,” he almost whispered.
Tick Hush sighed deeply.
“Dat’s fine, Skeeter,” he said in a low voice. “I sorter hoped it’d be Limit Lark, an’ I’d be plum’ happy ef she takes me—only but now I kinder wish de yuther woman hadn’t drawed no blank.”
“Mebbe Limit won’t take you an’ dat ’ll gib you a shot at de yuther gal,” Skeeter said hopefully. “Lemme see. Limit wucks fer Judge Lanark. I’llwrite his name on one corner of dis, an’ dey ’ll put de letter in de judge’s box.”
Skeeter stamped the envelope and called Little Bit.
“Take dis right straight to de post-office, boy,” he commanded.
“Much obleeged, Skeeter,” Tick said as he started out. “Dat he’ps a mighty load offen my mind.”
When Tick Hush had gone, Skeeter stood fumbling with the letter addressed to Vakey Vapp. He placed a stamp upon it. Then a slow grin spread over his face.
“It’s a plum’ pity dat Vakey Vapp don’t git no letter,” he murmured. “I’s gwine down an’ mail dis letter to her as soon as Little Bit gits back. Bofe dem womans cain’t want Tick, an’ ’twon’t do no harm. Mebbe it’ll do a large amount of great good.”
On his way to keep his engagement with Limit Lark under the tree behind the Shoofly church, Tick Hush had to pass the Hen-Scratch saloon. When he reached the door he walked in.
“I helt up a minute fer a few last advices, Skeeter,” he said nervously as he fumbled with his hat and panted like a tired dog.
“Whut ails you now?” Skeeter demanded.
“Ef dat woman meets me under dat tree, whut muss I say to her?” Tick inquired.
“Ax her did she git yo’ letter,” Skeeter suggested.
“She won’t be dar ef she don’t git de letter,” Tick protested.
“Suttinly,” Skeeter agreed, “but dat will make talk an’ it’s a good way to begin.”
“Whut muss I say atter dat?” Tick asked helplessly.
“Ax her will she marry you,” Skeeter said.
“Ef she say she will, whut muss I do next?” Tick wanted to know.
“Grab her!” Skeeter cackled. “Swing onto her like a cockle-bur to a woolly dawg’s y-ear!”
“Dat sounds easy!” Tick remarked, in a tone which indicated that he considered the task attended by both difficulty and danger. “I shore hopes I don’t make no miscue!”
“You cain’t make no mistake,” Skeeter grinned. “Womens likes to be hugged. I knows—I done tried it a millyum times. Dat’s yo’ one safe bet!”
“All right!” Tick remarked in a tone indicating that it was all wrong, and he rose reluctantly to his feet. “I’ll try to make de riffle—but you listen out, Skeeter! Ef you hear any real loud hollerin’ up de Shoofly way, you’ll know it’s me! I got a hunch dat de grabbin’ will be on de yuther foot—dat nigger woman is gwine grab me!”
“Dat’ll be best of all,” Skeeter said, with a knowing grin. “Ef she do de grabbin’, dat means you is shore kotch—pervidin’ she don’t bite an’ scratch at de same time.”
Tick slowly retreated from the room, and Skeeter promptly reached for his own hat and started in the same direction.
“Dat po’ fool nigger mought need a little back-up-ance,” said Skeeter, grinning to himself.
In the shadow of the Shoofly church Tick Hush waited, his anxious eyes fixed upon a bench under a sycamore tree where he was to meet and make the final matrimonial arrangements with Limit Lark.
Sometimes there comes out of the swamp into Tickfall a negro so simple that his life has consisted of eating, sleeping, and working. Having lived far from civilization, his innocence and ignorance are amazing. He is a joy to the planter, for he works hard and does just as he is told to do. Coming into contact with the negro social life of Tickfall, he is also a joy to his colored friends—he contributes so largely to the funny side of life.
Skeeter knew that Tick Hush was sure to contribute much to the gaiety of the negro inhabitants of Tickfall, and he had already tipped off his friends to be ready to help him when he needed them.
So Tick waited at the church, peering across the yard in the dim light of a young moon, feeling more nervous and panicky as the moments passed, repeating with dry lips the instructions of Skeeter Butts:
“Ax her did she git de letter—ax her to marry me—grab her!”
Then a sudden weakness overcame him and he sat down upon the ground so forcibly that he nearly jarred his head loose from the rest of his anatomy.
“Gosh!” he murmured.
A woman dressed in white had moved quickly across the churchyard and had seated herself upon the bench under the sycamore tree. Tick experiencedabout the same sensation that might come to a war spy backed up against a church wall and facing a firing squad. Tick knew he was facing his fate.
“I guess I’m got to make de riffle,” he sighed as he started slowly across the churchyard.
The woman saw him and stood up.
“Hello, Limit!” Tick began. “Did you git my letter?”
“Yes, suh,” the girl giggled.
She was a tall, neatly dressed woman, with typical African features and skin as black as coal. In the dim moonlight she began to look good to the embarrassed Tick Hush.
Tick felt his courage oozing away, so he began to speak in a loud voice:
“Is you gwine marry me?” he howled.
“Hush!” Limit whispered. “Some nigger woman is comin’ dis way—she mought hear us!”
The two sat down on the bench and waited.
The second woman came up confidently, jauntily.
She was a square-headed, woolly-haired, pout-lipped negro, with a short temper and a long tongue.
It was Vakey Vapp.
Tick Hush gazed at her in horror. Already he could hear himself squalling to Skeeter Butts to come and rescue him from the wrath of these two women.
“Hello, Ticky,” Vakey said easily. “I got yo’ letter all right an’ I got here as quick as I could. Dat Gaitskill plantation looks good to me. I favors ownin’ it right now!”
“Hold on, cullud folks!” Tick begged. “Don’t shove me along so peart. You got to start me slowan’ gimme time. S’pose you-alls sets here a minute an’ converse yo’se’ves, an’ lemme go git Skeeter Butts.”
“Whut you need wid Skeeter?” Limit Lark inquired.
“Eh—uh—oh, Lawdy, I needs him bad—Skeeter’s pretty handy to hab aroun’. I needs him fer comp’ny—social puppuses—gosh!”
“Whut’s pesterin’ yo’ mind, Tick?” Vakey snapped. “You ain’t actin’ plum honest about somepin!”
“Yes’m—dat’s a fack—er—I speck I better git gwine!” Tick moaned.
“Not yit, Ticky!” Limit Lark said sharply. “I done walked pretty fur to dis place an’ I wants my permittune to marry you right now. Is you gwine hitch up wid me?”
“Honey,” Tick said desperately, “I don’t like to say nothin’ ’bout dat befo’ comp’ny—less git off alone by ourse’ves fust!”
“How’s dat?” Vakey snapped. “Whut you sayin’, Ticky? Is you figgerin’ on marryin’ dis here Limit nigger?”
“No’m,” Tick began, “I ain’t really especkin’ to——”
“Whut you say, nigger man?” Limit howled, laying a firm and competent hand upon Tick’s coat collar. “Talk straight, Ticky! An’ don’t you fergit dat I always totes a mighty hard fist fer social pupposes!”
She thrust a big clenched hand under Tick’s nose, and Tick whistled through his nostrils like a mustang smelling a bear.
“I totes a big gun fer social pupposes!” Vakey Vapp announced in a raucous voice as she thrust her right hand into the folds of her ragged dress.
Then Tick squalled and bolted. But he did not get very far. Limit and Vakey pooled their interests. They laid hold upon the struggling colored man, fought with him across the yard, and backed him up against the church, a terrified chunk of cringing flesh.
“Now, Ticky,” Vakey proclaimed as she flourished her big pistol before Tick’s frightened face, “me an’ Limit is gwine straighten you out flat. You cain’t fool no ole ginny-hens like us—so you better tell de Gawd’s truth.”
“Yes’m,” Tick stuttered.