“T-u tucky, t-u ti,T-u tucky-buzzud eye!T-u tucky, t-u ting,T-u tucky-buzzud wing!”
“T-u tucky, t-u ti,T-u tucky-buzzud eye!T-u tucky, t-u ting,T-u tucky-buzzud wing!”
“Aw, hush, Hitch!” Vinegar Atts bawled, as the lugubrious, recitative whine of this song greeted their ears. “Whut you wanter start somepin like dat fer?”
“I wus jes’ tellin’ you!” Hitch rumbled defensively.
“You niggers know whut?” Pap Curtain exclaimed, springing to his feet. “I’s gwine to deLittle Moccasin Swamp an’ hide out till dis bad luck goes by.”
“Me, too,” Prince Total proclaimed. “I ain’t gwine meddle aroun’ de white folks wid dis hoodoo on me. I’ll shore git serious injury.”
“Us, too,” the other darkies announced promptly.
“Wait till I locks up de Hen-Scratch, niggers!” Skeeter Butts begged. “I ain’t gwine sell no mo’ booze dis day.”
“Less stay close togedder, niggers,” Vinegar Atts whined as they started down the dusty road toward the swamp. “Lemme walk in de exack middle of you-alls!”
The nearest edge of the Little Moccasin Swamp lay four miles from Tickfall. It was an oblong stretch of deep, black mud, and deeper and blacker water, measuring twelve miles the longest way, and six miles at its widest.
Except for one place, along the Little Moccasin ridge, it was traversable only by those who knew the swamp well, and had the instincts of a fox or wolf.
It was full of cypress trees and cypress knees, canebrake, and rank weeds, pestilential with disease, and inhabited by countless insects, bugs, worms, snakes, and animate things of that general nature which bit or stung or poisoned. It was the last place on earth which a white man would seek to escape bad luck.
The sun had set before the six negroes came to that point where the swamp came right up to the dusty parish road and ended in a fringe of weedyundergrowth. In the midsummer heat this undergrowth was ten feet high, making a thick curtain and from the rotting vegetation beneath there came an almost overpowering smell.
As the six negroes walked down the silent road, the darkness in the woods, increased by the interlocked branches of the trees, was intense and overwhelming. The green fringe of the swamp weeds took on fantastic shapes, and the negroes, through their disordered imaginations, beheld claws and wings, and leering eyes, and sneering mouths, and snarling teeth, and painted upon the black canvas of the dark were all the slimy, horrid forms which fear could conceive.
At last they came to the bridle path which branched from the parish road and followed the Little Moccasin ridge to the Dorfoche bayou.
Up to this point in their flight the negroes had traveled in a bunch, but the narrow path now required that they go in single file?
“Who is gwine take de lead?” Skeeter Butts asked.
“Not me,” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “My ole maw tole me dat I wus borned under de sign of de goat, but I ain’t gwine butt head-fust inter dat swamp. My dream specify fear, trouble, an’ sorrer. I got a plenty now!”
“I ain’t gwine lead,” Figger Bush said positively. “Ef one of dem big swamp jack-rabbits like de one I dreamed ’bout wus to hop acrost my path, I’d straddle eve’y tree in dat swamp!”
“I don’t figger on headin’ de peerade,” Pap Curtain proclaimed. “I got a hunch dat I better takegood keer of myse’f. My dream specify serious injury. It don’t take hardly nothin’ to hurt a nigger ef luck’s agin him.”
“I backs out, too,” Prince Total declared. “Dat path ain’t wide enough fer no wagin wheel, but I ain’t sayin’ dat a wheelcain’trun on it!”
“I’s gwine fetch up de rear,” Hitch Diamond boomed in his deep bass. “Misforchine, great loss, an’ death is a plenty fer po’ Hitchey to tote along wid de crowd ’thout gittin’ ahead of de bunch wid his load.”
“Less build us a fire so we kin see!” Skeeter Butts squealed. “I’s gittin’ de jig-jams standin’ here in de dark.”
“Us won’t need dis fire long,” Pap Curtain announced as he pointed to a yellow haze through the tree. “De full moon is comin’ up!”
“Bless Gawd fer dat!” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “Us needs two moons!”
When their fire was lighted, Skeeter Butts sat down upon the trunk of a fallen tree which lay beside the road, and said:
“Fellers, dis book is shore handed me a wad of trouble an’ sorrer. It specify dat I is powerful bad an’ oughter git reformed befo’ I dies an’ goes to hell; it argufy dat secret enemies is trailin’ along atter me; an’ it orate dat chi-mer-i-cal plans is tryin’ to engage wid me!”
“Whut kind of plans is dem?” Vinegar Atts asked.
“I dunno, Revun,” Skeeter said miserably. “It ’pears to me like a preacher oughter know somepin ’bout dat. Whut does you figger it am?”
“Well, suh,” Vinegar announced, after a period of deep cogitation, “of co’se I would had to scuffle consid’able to git de real signify of dat long word ’thout no book of commontaters to read up on; but mos’ gin’ly speakin’, I argufies dat dem kind of plans is invenjums of de debbil.”
“How does you know?” Skeeter asked uneasily.
“I argufies dis way,” Vinegar declared, boring with his right middle finger into the palm of his left hand to emphasize his remarks: “Ef you is gwine die an’ go to hell ’thout reformin’ yo’ badness, of co’se yo’ secret enemies am de debbil an’ his angels, an’ dem plans you spoke ’bout is a kind of infernum machine like a cuttin’-box. I bet you git bofe yo behime legs chopped off befo’ to-morrer mawnin’.”
“Lawd,” Skeeter sighed pitiably. “I’s powerful glad dar’s a full moon to-night. She’ll git up over dem trees in a little while. I needs mo’ light!”
In the light of the fire, Skeeter brought out his dream book, and gazed at the red cover design.
“Ain’t dar no good dreams in dat book, Skeeter?” Figger Bush asked.
“Yes, suh, dis book is full of ’em,” Skeeter answered.
“Read us some, Skeeter,” Pap Curtain begged. “Ef we knows whut dey is, mebbe us kin dream ’em an’ bust de hoodoo.”
“Here is de fust one I sees,” Skeeter replied as he began to read laboriously:“‘Lion—To see one denotes admittunce to de sawciety of dis-tin-guish-ed pussons. To sit or ride on de back of a lion denotes de pro-tec-tion of some powerful pussonage. To dream of eatin’ de flesh of a lion denotes some high of-fice——”
“Aw, shuckin’s!” Prince Total exclaimed. “A nigger never could dream ’bout no lion. Us might dream ’bout a lizard.”
“You better not, Prince,” Skeeter warned him. “Listen to dis: ‘Lizard—Misfortune through false an’ de-ceit-ful friends.’”
“Fer de Lawd’s sake, Skeeter,” Vinegar howled impatiently. “Look over dat book an’ see ain’t dar no way to bust a bad hoodoo dream-sign!”
The pages of the dream book rustled for ten minutes while the negroes sat in expectant silence. At last Skeeter squealed:
“I done foun’ a new page, niggers! It’s all ’bout signs an’ omens. It say dis: ‘How-ever skep-ti-cal some pussons pro-fess to be on de subjeck of signs which ad-mon-ish an’ forewarn——’”
“Aw, cut dat out!” Hitch Diamond growled. “Us b’lieves in ’em—read de signs!”
Thus admonished, Skeeter began:
“‘Ef yo’ lef’ eye-brow be visited wid a tantalizin’ itchin’, be as-sured dat you are goin’ to look upon a painful sight—de corp’ of a valued frien’.”
Hitch Diamond sprang to his feet, while every negro gazed upon him with fearsome curiosity, at the same time, unconsciously reaching up and scratching their left eyebrows!
“Ef you niggers ain’t got no real objections, I’ll git out from under dis tree,” Hitch said in pitiful tones. “Dis tree is been here ’bout a millyum years, an’ I ’speck it’s gittin’ ready to fall over.”
“Dat’d shore wuck a bad accidunt on me,” Figger remarked as he moved to the middle of the road.
“Let Skeeter read some mo’ signs!” Prince Total howled as he walked out and squatted in the middle of the road like a frog. “Mebbe us kin find somepin dat’ll bust Hitch’s luck.”
“‘When you are af-fec-ted by itchin’ on de spine of yo’ back,’” Skeeter read, “‘be assured dat yo’se’f or some one near-ly re-lat-ed to you is about to suffer a violent death!’”
“My Gawd!” Vinegar Atts bawled.
There was silence for a quarter of an hour, while fear gripped the hearts of the negroes with iron fingers and squeezed out all hope, as we crush the water from a sponge.
Vinegar Atts was breathing like the exhaust of a steam engine.
“Revun Atts,” Skeeter said in a weak, frightened voice, “I feels powerful bad, an’ I was thinkin’ dat I’d like to hear a few advices of de Bible preached an’ a little religium singin’.”
“I cain’t he’p you now, Brudder,” Vinegar panted. “Wait till I git my breath back. How kin I bawl out wid de message when I’s all wind-broke like dis?”
Skeeter waited a few minutes, then turned to his dreadful dream book and began to read, mumbling to himself.
Suddenly Skeeter raised his head with a jerk and gazed up at the moon. He sprang to his feet and began to count on his fingers. The others watched him with intense curiosity. Finally he howled:
“He’p me, niggers; he’p me quick! Whut day of de mont’ is dis?”
“Dis is de twenty-six’!” Vinegar panted. “De day of de full moon.”
“When did de new moon come in?” Skeeter asked eagerly.
“De new moon wus de tenth!” Pap Curtain informed him.
“Oh, Lawdy!” Skeeter howled, his voice breaking into a sob.
He squatted down and held the book close to the fire, reading aloud to himself in a low tone.
“How many days is passed since de new moon, brudders?” Skeeter inquired in a trembling voice.
“Sixteen!” Vinegar replied, after making the count.
“Us all had our dreams las’ night, didn’t we?” Skeeter squealed.
“Yes, suh,” the chorus answered.
“Lawdymussy, niggers,we is saved!” Skeeter screamed, waving his dream book about his head. “I done found a new page in dis book!”
“Whut do she say?” the chorus screamed.
“Listen to dis!” Skeeter panted: “‘Jedgments drawn from de moon’s age: Dreams on de fifteenth day atter de new moonwill not come to pass; whatever bizzness a pusson undertakes dis day will prosper. De sixteenth day differs very little from de pre-ced-in’; but any undertakin’ on dis day will come to a foolish end.’”
“Bless Gawd!” Vinegar Atts bellowed, springing to his feet. “I’s gwine trust de Lawd an’ mosey back to Tickfall!”
“Hol’ on, niggers!” Skeeter squealed, as the others also sprang up.
Skeeter stooped over the fire and laid his little volume on the interpretation of dreams upon the hot ashes.
“I wish I had my dollar back,” he sighed, as the flames leaped up to the added fuel. “Dat shore wus a dam-fool book.”
Vinegar Atts was in trouble.
He sat in the shade of a chinaberry tree in the rear of the Hen-Scratch saloon, his gorilla-like hands nursing his fat knees, his fat stomach resting upon his lap, his moonlike baby face twisted into countless wrinkles as if he were just tuning up to cry. Tiny beads of nervous sweat rolled down his face and neck, and he mopped them off at intervals with an immense red bandanna handkerchief. He jiggered nervously with his ponderous feet, kicking up tiny clouds of sand from the sun-scorched earth. His pipe lay upon the ground by his chair where it had dropped unnoticed when he attempted to put it in his pocket. Skeeter Butts came out of the saloon, carrying his chair. He placed it beside the fat preacher, lighted a cigarette and entered with Vinegar into the silent fellowship of sympathy and understanding.
After a long silence Vinegar said mournfully:
“I cogitate dat they done deeprive me of my goat, Skeeter.”
“Yes, sur; dat’s so, suh. It ’pears to me dat you is fightin’ it out wid yo’se’f fer de las’ place in de race.”
Vinegar Atts sighed. He picked up his pipe from the ground, filled it with strong perique tobacco,lighted it, then let the bowl drop off of the stem, scattering the ashes over his lap and spilling the tobacco. Not noticing the accident, Vinegar sucked vigorously on the stem, and gave himself up to gloomy meditations.
“I been de pasture of de Shoofly church fer twenty year hand-runnin’, Skeeter,” Vinegar remarked at last. “I begged de loose change outen de pockets of de white folks to build dat church. I wus de fust preacher an’ de onlies’ preacher dey is ever had dar. An’ now dey is gwine gib me de farewell go-by.”
“Dat new nigger preacher shore is makin’ a bull-eye hit wid de members,” Skeeter remarked. “You see, de members of de Shoofly church is done got acquainted wid yo’ ways. Dey done listened to dem same sermonts fer de las’ twenty year——”
“Dey listen but dey don’t heed,” Vinegar Atts interrupted disgustedly.
“Shorely. Dat’s de way mos’ church members is,” Skeeter replied. “But, you see, dis new preacher he comes in wid a new loud voice——”
“You gimme a good dram an’ two sour lemons an’ I kin beller louder dan any yuther preacher in de worl’,” Vinegar Atts declared.
“Suttinly,” Skeeter replied propitiatingly. “But dese Tickfall niggers is done got intimate wid yo’ bawl an’ it don’t sot heavy on deir minds no more. Dey figger dat dey needs a change of tone.”
“Dey shore is treated me jes’ like a feetball,” Vinegar mourned. “Kicked me aroun’ scandalous!”
“Is de cormittee fired you yit?” Skeeter asked sympathetically.
“Naw!” Vinegar exploded. “Ef dey fires me, I’ll punch de stuffin’ outen deir hides. But I ’spose dey is gittin’ ready to send me my resign.”
“Dat’s powerful bad,” Skeeter sighed. “I stuck to you like a frien’ because you is always been one of my bes’ silent customers. I talked for you awful hard, an’ holped you all I could. I’s sorry dat dey drapped you down.”
“Dat new preacher worked a buzzo on me,” Vinegar lamented. “He fotch up in dis town while I wus oozin’ along in de Shongaloo woods, an’ had all de cormittee pregaged befo’ I got back. Fust news I knowed he had done hogged all de hominy. He hadn’t oughter did me dat way.”
“He shore did ack familious wid anodder man’s job,” Skeeter agreed. “But whut made de mostes’ hit wus his looks: he’s got a new suit of clothes, an’ gold eye-specks, an’ a ruben ring. He waves a silk handkercher, totes a teethbrush an’ wears pink socks.”
“All dem things is jes’ like de curl in a pig’s tail,” Vinegar Atts proclaimed. “Dey is ornamental, but dey don’t make no more pig!”
“Dat’s a fack,” Skeeter grinned. “But a pig whut ain’t got no ornamint twist in his tail a-tall is suttinly pure scrub!”
Vinegar stooped and recovered the bowl of his pipe, refilled it and began to smoke furiously. Skeeter fiddled with a brass wrist-watch which he wore with prideful ostentation. A hound dog lying upon the saloon steps scratched himself with such a noisy and monotonous knocking of his elbow against theboards that Vinegar roused himself and hurled maledictions and pine knots at him.
Then Skeeter asked:
“When is de cormittee gwine hold its las’ meetin’?”
“To-morrer night in my orfice in de Shoofly church,” Vinegar told him. “I figger dat’ll be de las’ time I’ll ever set by dat table. Of co’se, de cormittee will vote agin me an’ de church will vote wid de cormittee.”
“Whut is you gwine do fer a livin’?” Skeeter asked with interest.
“I done got me a job as Marse Tom Gaitskill’s butler,” Vinegar said. “Hitch Diamond, he used to buttle fer Marse Tom, but de kunnel specify dat Hitch couldn’t show no hon’able scars whar he hurt hisself wuckin’, so he fired him. I got Hitch’s job.”
“Dat wus good luck fer you,” Skeeter said in a delighted tone.
“Naw, suh, ’twas bad luck,” Vinegar said mournfully. “You see, Hitch is a member of dat church cormittee, an’ he’s gwine vote agin me because I picked up de job whut he drapped.”
“Lawd,” Skeeter sighed. “You is like a snake whut’s got his tail in his mouf—jes’ spinnin’ aroun’ yo’se’f in a circuous ring!”
Vinegar picked up his hat and stood up.
“I got to mosey up to Marse Tom’s, Skeeter,” he said. “De kunnel is gwine hab big comp’ny tonight. I’s much obleeged fer yo’ pity in my many troubles.”
“Pick up a brave heart, Vinegar,” Skeeter said encouragingly. “Mebbe de good Lawd will pervide.”
“I ain’t so certain ’bout dat, Skeeter,” Vinegar replied gloomily, as he walked out of the yard. “It looks to me mighty like Proverdunce is done busted a dynamite cap under my shirt!”
Four men sat around the table in the Gaitskill dining-room. The covers had been removed, and they were devoting themselves to an evening of boyish frolic. Everything went.
There was Colonel Tom Gaitskill, an ideal host, courtly, genial, whose fountains of humor never went dry, making him eternally young. Near him sat the Reverend Dr. Sentelle, eloquent, scholarly, whose fine face, seamed and wrinkled with suffering, was written all over with the literature of experience. Across the table was John Flournoy, the sheriff whose reputation exceeded the boundaries of the State, a man with a giant’s form and strength, a woman’s tenderness, and the courage of a host of jungle beasts.
And the guest of honor for the evening was Gaitskill’s life-long friend, Captain Lemuel Manse, a retired millionaire, who had received his title from the fact that he was owner of that beautiful sea-going yacht, whose keel had cut the waters of every sea upon the globe, and which had brought to Tickfall the never-to-be-forgotten Diada.
For four hours Vinegar Atts had served them in that dining-room, silent, watchful, with some mysterious instinct foreseeing the minutest need of every guest and meeting it before the guest himself was conscious what his need was.
The talk had become reminiscent.
“Say, Lem,” Colonel Gaitskill remarked, “do you remember how we used to scare the everlasting gizzards out of the niggers on the plantation by holding spiritualistic séances in their cabins?”
“Will I ever forget it?” Captain Manse laughed. “The darkies used to run when they saw me coming!”
“I wonder if you have forgotten how to make the table dance?” Gaitskill asked.
Captain Manse promptly pushed back his chair.
Vinegar Atts had no idea what was going to happen, but he knew instinctively that the table should be cleared. His long arms reached over the shoulders of the men and the liquors and the cigars were placed upon the sideboard.
With fun sparkling in his magnetic eyes, Manse arose and began the repetition of a stunt which had amused him half a century before.
“Gentlemen,” he began, in a sing-song voice, imitating the manner of the professional mediums, “there is an even number of us present, which makes a perfect spiritualistic ring. I presume you will smile and chuckle and fling unholy jests at the wonderful miracles which I perform, but I shall most certainly convince you of my close communion with the spirits of the unseen world. You might doubt a professional test, but this is an amateur séance. Here is no hidden machinery. Here are no paid confederates. You are my best friends, and why should I try to fool you? We are all sincere and open to conviction, and any results which are obtained must surely be authentic.”
This address concluded amid laughter and applause.
The four men drew up to the heavy mahogany table and placed their hands upon its polished top, palms down.
“My friends,” Captain Manse said in a husky whisper, “you will all keep silent, please. You will notice that it looks impossible for any person to move this heavy table by merely placing the hands upon it. No strength can be put into the open palms, it is impracticable to pull or lift or push from the elbows. The legs or feet cannot be brought into use, for they are not allowed to touch the board. And yet the table will move! Silence, gentlemen! If a spirit is present, he will give us a message through the table!”
Several long minutes slowly passed. No sound was audible except the steady, deep breathing of the four men sitting at the table.
As for Vinegar Atts, respiration had ceased some minutes before.
Suddenly, after the long strain of tense silence, Dr. Sentelle, the semi-invalid, took a deep breath—a sigh—and the heavy table rose slowly, teeteringly, under his delicate, fragile, blue-veined hands!
“Ah, some spirit has come at last,” Captain Manse exclaimed in a deep, sepulchral, sing-song undertone.
Again there was total silence, and the strain of waiting, and the sweating palms of the men outspread upon the table; Sheriff Flournoy took a long, deep breath.
Again the table tipped, bumped against the floor, and settled down!
“Dr. Sentelle,” Captain Manse spoke in a tone hushed and full of awe, “the spirit of my long-lost dead poll-parrot will answer any question which you desire to ask!”
Dr. Sentelle sighed audibly.
He raised his eyes toward the ceiling and in a low, thrilling, beautiful voice, he asked:
“Are you happy, Polly-parrot, since you became a bird of paradise?”
Instantly, the heavy table struck the floor three times—bump! bump! bump! “Y-e-s.”
There was a whoop of laughter and the men sprang to their feet.
“By George!” Gaitskill exclaimed with a chuckle. “If some of the experiences Lem and I had when we were young were wiped out of my memory, I wouldn’t know my soul in eternity.”
“That’s right,” Captain Manse laughed. “I recall one Christmas day when Tom’s niggers were eating in the kitchen, Tom and I went in there and made that table dance all over the place and scared the darkies so they wouldn’t touch a bite of that Christmas dinner. Of course, we had to fake that stunt. In fact, most of this spiritualistic stuff is faked now.”
“How is it done?” Flournoy asked.
Captain Manse explained several of the methods by which the table-tipping fakes deceived the credulous public, then the talk drifted into national politics.
In a moment Gaitskill looked up with surprise. Did not Vinegar Atts know that the theme of politics called for liquors and cigars?
Vinegar Atts stood beside the door as motionless as a Chinese idol, and his black face, expressive of meditation, mystification, fright and awe, made him almost as ugly as an idol.
But the colonel’s look galvanized him into action, and he was once more the silent, well-oiled, efficient machine of service.
“Let’s move out on the gallery, gentlemen,” Gaitskill suggested after a while. “We’ll find it cooler there.”
As the men passed out, Gaitskill lingered a moment and said:
“That’s all, Vinegar. You are dismissed for the evening.”
Vinegar Atts pulled the doors of the dining-room together, waited a moment until he was sure the men had settled themselves upon the gallery, and then he did a very unusual thing.
Seating himself at the mahogany table in the chair which Captain Manse had occupied, he spread his immense black hands palm-downward upon its shiny surface and with a perfect imitation of Manse’s manner, sat there for five minutes, in ludicrous, pop-eyed expectation, waiting for something to happen!
He looked up at the ceiling, and down to the table. He pushed on the table-top with all his strength. He drew in a breath which seemed to consume all the air in the room, and emitted a sigh like the exhaust of a blast furnace—but all to no avail.
“It cain’t be did widout plenty practice,” he assured himself. “But I ain’t got nothin’ to do allde rest of dis night but kotch on how to make her jigger!”
He went out to his cabin in the rear of the Gaitskill yard and sat down beside a cheap pine table.
When morning dawned he was still sitting there, puffing and blowing, his sweating palms pressed downward upon the table’s rough surface, his credulity unshaken despite his failure, waiting for something to happen!
“Lawd,” he sighed. “She ain’t even wagged her tail fer me all night long!”
Vinegar Atts spent the day in various activities, some of them of a personal nature, and some under the direction of Colonel Gaitskill.
When evening came he was free, and started on a gloomy walk to the office of the Shoofly church, where the Committee on Pulpit Supply was to hold its last session and determine whether Vinegar should retain the pulpit which he had occupied for twenty years, or surrender his prophet’s mantle to another.
Sitting around a cheap pine table in the middle of the room, Vinegar found Pap Curtain, Hitch Diamond, Figger Bush and Skeeter Butts. Of the four, Skeeter was now his only friend.
At the end of the table sat the Reverend Tucky Chew Sipe, a tall, black, thin-faced, ladder-headed negro, whose clothes were so loud that they proclaimed the man a block and a half away. He bore himself with an air of triumph, and gazed upon Vinegar Atts with a look of mingled pity and contempt.
Vinegar was also dressed in the loudest manner hispurse would afford, but the showiest things about him were his extraordinarily large and immaculately white shirt cuffs. His manner was meek and apologetic, utterly unnatural to Vinegar, who had been accustomed for twenty years to butt and bellow like a bull of Bashan among the sheep in the Shoofly fold.
“De meetin’ will come to orders an’ de sec’tary will specify de bizzness of de las’ session,” Pap Curtain, the chairman, announced importantly.
“Us didn’t do nothin’ but gass,” Figger Bush answered promptly. “De Revun Vinegar Atts had done made hisse’f abasent, an’ us didn’t take no action on de Revun Tucky Sipe gittin’ de job. Us took a mebbe-so vote, an’ all of us favored Tucky Sipe, excusin’ Skeeter Butts.”
Figger sat down, and Vinegar Atts moved his chair to the table and seated himself close beside the secretary.
“De bizzness of dis meetin’ am to choose a preacher fer de Shoofly church,” Pap Curtain announced. “Ef anybody is got any speeches on deir mind, let ’em squall out!”
Hitch Diamond arose and cleared his throat.
“Brudders, I feels dat us needs a change. We is done had a fat, squat-leg preacher fer twenty year, an’ now dis here spindlin’-shank is come applyin’ fer de job, an’ I favors him. He knows how to wear clothes, he’s got a good-soundin’ whoop to his religium advices, an’ knows how to tag on de ’rousements when he ’postolizes.”
“I feels de same motion, brudders,” Figger Bushput in when Hitch had taken his seat. “Vinegar gibs us good advices, but it ’pears like he cain’t make us take ’em. I heerd de Revun Tucky Sipe las’ Sunday, an’ he gib us cautions jes’ like he had done had a session wid de gram-jury. I ain’t much mo’ dan a seat-member of dis church, but I likes de skinny parsons best.”
“I got de same notions in my head, too, brudders,” Pap Curtain declared, as Figger sat down. “I is shore dat Tucky Sipe won’t slanderize nobody, an’ won’t snoop aroun’ huntin’ fer somebody’s sins to preach again an’ git often de subjeck dat way. He jes’ preaches de true word. I votes hearty fer Tucky Sipe!”
There was a moment of silent expectation, and all eyes were turned toward Skeeter Butts. Skeeter wiggled and clawed at his head, but did not offer to speak. At last, Vinegar Atts said in a husky voice:
“Skeeter, will you please git me a drink of water outen de well. I feels powerful dry in my innards. Dar’s a pint tin cup out dar by de water-buckit.”
There was another silence until Skeeter returned with the cup. Vinegar drained the contents at one gulp, then turned the cup upside down and set it in the middle of the table.
“Would you wish to relieve yo’ mind, Skeeter?” Pap Curtain asked.
“Naw, suh,” Skeeter said in an embarrassed tone. “You’all knows dat I favors de Revun Vinegar Atts. Him an’ me is good frien’s, an’ he ain’t never did me no harm. I favors keepin’ him wid us, but of co’se, I gotter bow down when de vote stan’s three to one.”
During Skeeter’s speech, Vinegar Atts sat beside the table, his hands spread out, palms downward, upon the top.
Suddenly the table began to move! It slid slowly forward, then slipped backward, then tipped up on one end!
“Stop shoving dis table aroun’!” Pap Curtain exclaimed.
Vinegar Atts moved his chair back so that all could see his feet and his knees. Then the table slowly lifted a few inches, and fell with a sliding motion, hitting Pap Curtain a jolt in the stomach, and almost upsetting the smoky oil lamp which occupied the center of the table.
“Hey, dar!” the Reverend Tucky Sipe exclaimed, as he grabbed at the tottering lamp. “Whut ails dat table to make it cut up dat way?”
Vinegar Atts emitted a deep, audible sigh, and his eyes were fixed upon the ceiling in a look of abstracted reverence and devotion.
An awed silence fell upon the men, and Skeeter Butts ostentatiously moved his chair close to the open door. If anything happened, Skeeter intended to lead the getaway.
The heat of the night was intense and overwhelming. Above their heads countless mosquitoes, attracted by the light, circled ceaselessly with an annoying whine of wings. Far away came the rumble of a summer thunderstorm. From a pine tree in the graveyard the voice of a screech-owl quavered like the cry of a child lost in the darkness.
Reverend Tucky Chew Sipe promptly arose andturned the side pockets of his pantaloons wrong side out—a sure cure for screech-owls!
The men moved back from the table and stared at it with popping eyeballs. Vinegar sat beside it alone, his palms outspread upon its rough surface.
A loud sigh came from Vinegar’s throat.
The table slowly rose, teetered for a breathless moment, then fell to the floor with a loud bump. The lamp chimney tottered and fell upon the table, smashing into tiny fragments.
The negroes sprang to their feet in terror—all except Vinegar Atts. He remained with his hands upon the table, sitting as if in a trance.
The lamp wick flared, filling the room with smoke. After a moment Vinegar adjusted the wick, setting the lamp in the center of the table, moving the pint cup to one side as he did so.
Then he moved his chair back from the table and seated himself beside Skeeter Butts at the door.
For a short time no word was spoken. Then the men began to recover their nerve, and Pap Curtain resumed the discussion of their business:
“I figger dat enough has done been said, brudders,” he declared. “De lamp chimney is done busted an’ us ain’t gwine hab no light on dis subjeck very much longer. I motions dat—My Gawd,whut is dat?”
This last question was a scream, as Pap pointed with trembling fingers at the pint tin cup. It was moving slowly across the table!
The men watched its erratic movements with breathless fascination. It moved forward towardthe edge, then backward toward the center of the table; then it moved slowly in a circle, and finally took a straight line and toppled off the edge of the table onto the floor!
Every negro jumped about two feet into the air, and bolted into the yard with a loud whoop.
Vinegar Atts alone retained his seat by the door and seemed to be unconscious of what was happening. They looked at him in wonder, not speaking a word.
After a while Vinegar stood up, opened the door which entered into the church auditorium, and returned with a new lamp chimney. Wiping it out carefully with a soiled bandanna handkerchief, he adjusted it upon the lamp, and said in a cordial voice:
“Come in, brudders! Us is done had excitements, but dis meetin’ ain’t bust up yit!”
The darkies timidly re-entered the room and sat down on the edge of their chairs ready for flight upon the least provocation.
After giving them time to recover their composure, Vinegar said:
“Brudder Chairman, I figger dat it would be doin’ de high perlite ef you axed fer a speech from de preacher whut is done served dis communion to de best of his ability fer twenty year.”
“Dat’s right, Elder!” Pap Curtain said heartily. “Us ’ll shore be glad to hear yo’ cormitmints!”
Vinegar hesitated a moment, then spoke impressively:
“Brudders, I believes dat a preacher oughter hab some things besides good clothes, spindlin’ shanks, a’rousement voice an’ a appertite fer good grub. Does you’all believe dat?”
No one answered the question, but after a pause Pap Curtain inquired:
“Whut else do he oughter hab?”
“He oughter hab de gift of power!” Vinegar roared in a mighty voice. “Does you’all believe dat?”
“Sho’ly!” the men murmured.
“Now, brudders,” Vinegar went on, “I built dis here church wid my own hands; I begged de money from de white folks to buy de timber whut went in it; I sawed de wood whut made de pulpit an’ de benches, an’ eve’y block of wood in dis church knows my hands an’ obeys my voice. I got de gift of power!”
He paused. The men looked at the pine table with shifty, frightened eyes.
“When I puts my wide open hand on a piece of furniture in dis church, it gits up an’ rambles!” Vinegar bellowed. “De spirits of de onseen worl’ tells dem furniture to git up an’ hustle! Kin de Revun Tucky Chew Sipe say de same as me?”
Tucky Sipe stared at Atts with the expression of a glass-eyed doll; he fingered a mangy rabbit foot in his left hip pocket; he licked his parched lips with a dry tongue; but he offered no reply.
“When I puts my hands down on dis table, I got de gift of power to make her move!” Vinegar bawled. “Even de tin cups goes ramblin’ aroun’ when dey hears my hawn!”
He glared around him, his hands clenched, his powerful neck bent, his head lowered as if about to butt—giving a ludicrous imitation of an angry bullgetting ready to make a charge. He walked over to where Tucky Chew Sipe was sitting, and shook an impressive finger before that gentleman’s long nose:
“I gib you fair warnin’ right now, Tucky Chew Sipe, dat de very fust sermont whut you preaches in dis church will be yo’ last—I’ll walk up to de side of dis church and put my hands agin de outside wall, an’ move dis whole house plum over to de State of Arkansas!”
Vinegar turned, shut the door of exit from the building, locked it and put the key in his pocket. Then he sat down beside the table and spread his hands palm-downward on the top.
He seemed to sink into a trance, his eyes rolled back, his alligator mouth came open, his breath came and went with a loud wheeze, and at intervals a low moan issued from his throat.
The minutes passed. The men watched Vinegar with ever-increasing horror. Tucky Chew Sipe stood up and flattened himself against the wall, his knees shaking until they threatened any moment to collapse and let him down in a heap upon the floor.
Vinegar moaned. A long, deep sigh whistled through the tense silence, and the table rose two feet from the floor, teetering uncertainly. Vinegar rose to his feet, and followed the table in its peregrinations around the room, his hands spread wide and resting upon the top.
“My Gawd!” Tucky Sipe exclaimed.
Instantly the table went high into the air and shot out toward Tucky Sipe, crashing against the wall, striking Tucky a mighty blow in his lean and hungrystomach, extinguishing the lamp and hurling it to the floor where it broke into a thousand pieces!
Instantly Vinegar Atts struck a match and held it up to illumine the darkness.
He glared a moment at the horrified negroes, then walked over to where the Reverend Tucky Chew Sipe lay flat on the floor in a hysteria of fear, whooping like a siren in a fog.
“Shut up, brudder, shut up!” Vinegar howled. “You done mourned a plenty. Trust de Lawd!”
The match went out and Vinegar struck another.
“Now, honey,” Vinegar said to the frightened Sipe, “ef you wants dis church, you kin hab it—but my advices to you is to hunt somewhar fer to git, an’ trabbel out to’des dat place right now!”
“Yes, suh,” Tucky Chew Sipe said in a voice which strangled in his throat. “I takes yo’ advices. I’s like dat ole Bill Shazzer in de Bible—I done observe de handwrite on de wall!”
The burning match scorched Vinegar’s fingers and he tossed it aside, sucking the blister as he unlocked and opened the door. Then he spoke in the darkness:
“De log-train passes through Tickfall in about ten minutes, brudder. Skeeter Butts will go to de deppo wid you an’ speed you on yo’ way. You won’t make me mad ef you never comes back!”
One hour later Vinegar Atts and Skeeter Butts met in the rear room of the Hen-Scratch saloon.
“De revun made his git-off, Elder,” Skeeter grinned. “He specify dat he reternally regretted dathe wouldn’t git no more free vittles from de dearly beloved sisteren, but he ’peared powerful anxious to trabel jes’ de same.”
“Well, I reckin ef dar ain’t no likely cand’date fer my preachin’ job, de cormittee will let me hold on to it, won’t dey?” Vinegar asked.
“Suttinly,” Skeeter grinned. “Dey say you is done bewitched dat church an’ dey is gwine let you keep it till you die.”
“Dat’s de bes’ news I’s heerd sence de las’ pay day,” Vinegar exulted. “I shore do like to bawl de message in dat communion. It he’ps me git a lot of wind offen my breast.”
Vinegar took out a soiled handkerchief and mopped the copious sweat from his beaming face.
“Lawd,” he sighed in delighted tones. “Ain’t it hot!”
“Lay off dat long-tail prancin’-albert coat, Revun,” Skeeter said irritably. “You oughter run yo’se’f through a wringer befo’ you wear dem clothes—dey makes you too moistuous—you’s spoutin’ water like a whale right now!”
Vinegar sprang up gladly and pulled off his coat.
Then he glanced at his wrists in shocked surprise, and began to put on his coat again with all possible haste.
But sharp-eyed Skeeter Butts was too quick for him. He sprang up, seized the coat, and wrenched it away.
“Hol’ on, Vinegar!” he barked. “Whut you doin’ wid all dat harness on yo’ wrists?”
Vinegar pulled back his big white cuffs and sheepishly displayed the “harness.”
Around each wrist a large leather strap was securely bound, and from each strap, projecting toward Vinegar’s fingers was a powerful iron hook with a sharp point!
“Whut in de name of mud is dat fer?” Skeeter howled.
Vinegar grinned, sat down at a little pine table in the middle of the room, spread his open hands upon the table, palms downward, just as he had done at the Shoofly church.
The two iron hooks fitted securely under the edge of the table, and were effectually concealed by his white cuffs. With the grip and the leverage thus secured, the gorilla arms and iron wrists of Vinegar Atts could have lifted a bale of cotton.
Vinegar quietly picked up the little table and grinning like a big fat monkey, pranced all around the room before the astounded, admiring eyes of Skeeter Butts.
Skeeter sat down and chuckled with delight.
“Vinegar,” he said, “I always figgered dat a preacher wus a nachel-bawn fool or he wouldn’t be a preacher. But atter dis I is gwine hand a tin prize to you fer brains!”
Vinegar could see no particular advantage in confessing that Colonel Tom Gaitskill and Captain Lemuel Manse had spent the entire morning of that day manufacturing Vinegar’s harness, and rehearsing him in the sensational stunt which he had pulled off at the Shoofly church.
“You won’t make no great big mistake ef you gib me two tin prizes fer brains,” Vinegar remarked complacently.
Skeeter clawed at his close-cropped head a moment, then asked another question:
“Elder, how did you make dat tin cup prance all over de top of dat table?”
Vinegar’s mouth was filled with chewing tobacco and his soul with peace. He ruminated a minute, grinning at the little barkeeper. When Skeeter began to show signs of impatience, Vinegar answered:
“I put a tree-frog under dat cup,” he said.
Sugar Sibley, the dusky belle of the Tickfall Parish Fair, sat in the Jim Crow section of the grand stand, clothed in all the colors of the rainbow, posing with all the indolence and insolence of an African princess, lavishing her charms upon the yellow-faced barkeeper of the Hen-Scratch saloon.
“Whut hoss we gwine bet on next, Skeeter?” she inquired.
“Dunno,” Skeeter answered anxiously. “I hopes it’ll be a winner.”
Skeeter removed his hat and rubbed a nervous hand over a closely cropped head, down the middle of which a part had been made with a razor.
His face was seamed with fine lines of worry, and the nervous sweat pouring down his face had wilted his high, white collar to a soiled and crumpled rag.
“I don’t like a nigger whut parts his wool in de middle,” Sugar announced, eyeing Skeeter’s head, with disapproving looks. “Ef a hoss eats in my trough, his mane is all got to lay on one side.”
Skeeter hastily put on his hat.
The band struck up the lively tune ofRastus, Why Don’t You Pay de Rent?
“Dar now!” Sugar exclaimed. “One dem hossesin dat nex’ race is named Rastus. You go bet ten dollars on Rastus, Skeeter! An’ fotch me back some loose change. You ain’t winned me nothin’ dis whole day.”
“I ain’t got but ten bucks lef’ over,” Skeeter confessed. “Ef Rastus don’t win, I’s shore a busted cornstitution!”
“Whut’s dat?” Sugar demanded sharply. “You mean to signify dat you ain’t fotch but one hundred dollars out here wid you to entertain a cullud lady?”
“Dat’s right,” Skeeter declared, “an’ I done loss it all but dis here tenner.”
“You’s gwine lose a lady frien’, nigger,” Sugar remarked in a disgusted tone. “Nothin’ don’t talk aroun’ me but dollars.”
“My talkin’ dollars is done expe’unce a vocal breakdown,” Skeeter answered shamefacedly.
A tall, yellow negro with a furtive manner, a baboon face, eyes too close together, and lips which carried an habitual sneer, passed them, walked down to the rail, and stopped to gaze up and down the track.
“Does you know dat man?” Sugar Sibley asked.
“Dat’s Pap Curtain,” Skeeter informed her. “He’s de meanes’ slick-head nigger in Tickfall.”
Then Skeeter left her, walked down to Pap, and said:
“Pap, is you got any money?”
“Shore!” Pap informed him, patting four capacious pockets bulging with silver coins.
“Cain’t you loant me a few loose change?” Skeeter pleaded.
“Naw, son,” Pap replied positively. “WheneverI loants money to a frien’ I axes dat money an’ dat frien’ good-by. I ain’t never gwine see ary one no mo’.”
“I sho’ am on de list fer he’p,” Skeeter mourned. “I’s armin’ a she-queen aroun’ an’ she done et up all my money an’ bawlin’ fer mo’ an’ I’s skeart she’ll pass me down because I’s busted.”
“Dat’s too bad,” Pap sympathized. “You had oughter picked de winners.”
“Is you winned all dat money wid bets?” Skeeter asked eagerly.
“Naw, suh!” Pap made emphatic answer. “I don’t bet on nothin’. I sells tips! I charges one half dollar fer eve’y tip per each.”
Skeeter produced his last bill and handed it to Pap.
“Give me nine dollars and fifty cents change. Pap,” he said eagerly, “an’ a tip on de winner of de nex’ race.”
Pap handed back the change, caught Skeeter by the arm, led him to one side out of ear-shot of all other negroes, and whispered impressively:
“Swa’r befo’ Gawd dat you won’t tell nobody whar you got dis tip!”
“I prommus!” Skeeter murmured.
Pap bent down, cupped both hands around Skeeter’s ear like a trumpet, and whispered hoarsely:
“Rastus!”
Skeeter’s little legs bounced him down the steps of the grand stand and for the next ten minutes he circulated assiduously among the negroes placing his private bets.
When Skeeter had gone Pap Curtain turned hisback to the track and gazed upward in worshipful adoration of Sugar Sibley as if she were the saint of his deepest devotion. The gaudy princess opened wide her large eyes, then squinted them, then slowly closed one eye and smiled.
Pap promptly pranced up the steps and seated himself in the place vacated by Skeeter Butts. He did not act like a stranger, nor as if he regarded an introduction necessary.
“Howdy, Sugar?” he remarked. “I argufies dat yo’ name fits you’ corporosity like a candy jaw-breaker fits a pickaninny’s mouf.”
“You ain’t entirely wrong, Popper,” the lady grinned. “I’s shore a sweet cake to de coon whut’s got de dough to mix wid de sugar.”
“Skeeter Butts jes’ now specify to me dat he’s nearly out of mixin’s,” Pap muttered, fumbling at his own silver-laden pockets.
“All right, Popper,” Sugar announced complacently. “Me an’ you will let dat Mr. Muskeeter fly up de creek.”
“Ef he won’t fly away us’ll screen him off,” Pap snickered.
Their conversation was brought to an abrupt close by a loud whoop from the spectators. Five horses were loping around the track—loping leisurely in spite of the fact that their frenzied jockeys were using whip and spur at every jump. But the racing game was new to these humble plough-horses, and their idea seemed to be that if they reached the wire before the sun set the day’s work would be done.
But the jockey on Rastus found a tender place onhis mount’s tick-bitten flank and managed to provoke a spurt of speed which put Rastus two lengths ahead and kept him there. Rastus won!
Flushed with his triumph and rattling his money, Skeeter Butts came to where Pap and Sugar were seated, tossed five dollars in Sugar’s lap, and glared at Curtain.
“Git outen my seat, Pap!” he commanded. “You’s tryin’ to deeprive me of my gal!”
“Naw, suh,” Pap answered promptly. “I ain’t intend no depravity. Besides, I gotter go. ’Bout fawty niggers wants to cornverse me ’bout dis nex’ race.”
“Whut hoss we gwine bet on nex’, Skeeter?” Sugar Sibley asked when Pap had gone.
“I dunno,” Butts replied, promptly regretting that he had not been more gracious to Pap Curtain. “Which way did Pap went?”
“Whut you want wid dat ole man?” Sugar asked suspiciously.
“Pap is sellin’ tips,” Skeeter explained. “He teched me off ’bout Rastus winnin’ dat las’ race atter he made me prommus I wouldn’t tell nobody.”
“I don’t b’lieve it,” Sugar snorted. “I picked Rastus myself when de band was playin’ dat tune. How do Popper Curtain know whut hoss is gwine win?”
“I dunno,” Skeeter answered. “He’s a slick-head nigger an’ mebbe he’s got a conjure.”
“Ef Popper knowed whut hoss wus gwine win, he wouldn’t sell no tips,” Sugar sniffed. “He’d bet!”
“Mebbe dat’s so!” Skeeter agreed, his confidence shaken by this argument. “But ef you’s so good at pickin’ de winner, s’pose you name de nex’ one?”
Sugar glanced at a large blackboard under the starter’s stand where a red-headed boy was chalking the names of three more horses.
“Doodle-Bug!” she exclaimed eagerly. “Bet on Doodle, Skeeter!”
Butts walked away, but before he placed a single bet he trailed Pap Curtain until he found him, placed a half-dollar in Pap’s willing palm, and demanded the name of the winner.
Again Pap cupped his hands around Skeeter’s ears and whispered:
“Doodle-Bug!”
Skeeter took a big breath. Then he got busy. First he found his friend, Figger Bush.
“Figger,” he panted, “loant me ten dollars. Ef I never pays it back yo’ credick is good at de Hen-Scratch till you drinks dat much liquor up.”
Figger counted out the money, and Skeeter raced around until he had borrowed a similar sum from Hitch Diamond, Prince Total, an Mustard Prophet, thus increasing his supply of money until he had fifty-five dollars. Then he raced around some more, betting every dollar on Doodle-Bug.
Walking back to the grand stand, he found Pap Curtain engaged in a lively conversation with Sugar Sibley. Jealousy boiled in Skeeter’s heart and his saddle-colored face flushed to a brownish crimson. He strode to where they were sitting and began:
“Looky here, Pap, you let my nigger gal alone. Idon’t want no ole gray-wool baboon monkeyin’ aroun’ whar I cotes a lady. You hike outen dis!”
“Set down, son, and watch de race!” Pap responded in a patronizing tone. “A nigger hadn’t oughter git uppity when he bets his las’ dollar on Doodle-Bug. Doodle might run in de groun’.”
At that moment Doodle galloped onto the track, and Skeeter postponed his quarrel to watch the horse which carried his money.
Doodle-Bug was a white-faced Tuckapoo mustang; and the Tuckapoo mustang is the beast which the Louisiana Indians purposely left behind when they were forced to migrate to Indian Territory, to wreak vengeance upon the paleface for depriving them of their patrimonial landholdings. Besides being able to buck, bite, and kick like other horses, the Tuckapoo mustang can butt like a goat, break a man’s jaw by switching his tail, and has the deer’s trick of jumping high in the air and coming down on top of a man, spearing him to the ground with his four stiff legs. He has more ways of ridding himself of his rider than a trick circus mule, and, unlike the circus mule, he is not good-natured about it.
Doodle-Bug balked in front of the grand stand, and seven men tried to induce him to go. Four got kicked, one got bit, the jockey was bucked off, and finally Doodle-Bug laid down on his back, squealing like a pig, his four legs fanning the air like the legs of an overturned beetle.
The men backed away from those rapid-firing legs and waited until it pleased Doodle-Bug to get up.
Thereupon Pap Curtain walked down to the railmotioned the little jockey to him, and issued instructions:
“Turn dat Doodle-Bug aroun’, Jim, an’ back him up to de startin’-place. He balks because he figgers you is tryin’ to make him go aroun’ de track de wrong way. Face him right an’ back him up, an’ when he gits started, he’ll run like a rabbit!”
Skeeter and Sugar heard this advice, and it restored Skeeter’s hopes in the horse. Sugar, anticipating a share in Skeeter’s winnings, became extremely gracious.
“Come an’ set down by me, Skeeter,” she said. “You an’ Popper Curtain kin set on each side of me an’ I’ll set in de middle. ’Tain’t no use fer you to be jealousy of dat ole man. He’s ole enough to be my daddy, an’ I’s jes’ bein’ gentle to him. I’s dead stuck on you!”
Pap Curtain joined them, and the three sat down to watch the race.
Doodle-Bug got a flying start, and did well for a quarter; he was running second at the half; he took last place at the three-quarters’ post, and came in after all the shouting was over, jeered by a few children as he loped past the grand stand.
Skeeter Butts crumpled up beside Sugar Sibley, in the saddest of all the plights which a lover experiences—dead broke!
Pap Curtain got the giggles.
Sugar Sibley pretended not to notice when Skeeter Butts arose and slunk away.
The racing was over for the day, and Sugar Sibley rode back to Tickfall in Pap Curtain’s hired buggy.
“Pa Curtain is done played a buzzo on me, an’ I wants revengeance,” Skeeter Butts soliloquized bitterly, as he sat behind the bar of the Hen-Scratch saloon.
The swinging doors were thrust open, and Hitch Diamond, Mustard Prophet, Prince Total, and Figger Bush entered the room.
“We wants our money back, Skeeter,” they announced in a chorus.
“Yo’ credick is good fer ten dollars per each, niggers,” Butts said with a sickly grin. “I bet on Doodle-Bug an’ Doodle didn’t do.”
There was a whoop from the four negroes, then each handed Skeeter certain derogatory remarks calculated to reduce his self-esteem to the minimum.
“Pap Curtain tipped me off on Doodle,” Skeeter said defensively. “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout pickin’ em.”
There was a moment of surprised silence; then Hitch asked:
“Did you pay him for de tip, Skeeter?”
“Suttinly. He charged me fo’ bits.”
“Dat sho’ is curious,” Hitch said in a perplexed tone. “Now Pap gib me a tip on dat race an’ he said Dixie would win.”
“Dat’s whut he tole us,” Mustard and Figger chimed in.
“I don’t kotch on to dat,” Prince Total declared. “Pap sold me a tip on dat same race, an’ he said Rooster would win.”
“Huh,” Skeeter Butts grunted, “dat shows whut a slick-head nigger Pap is. He wucks it dis way—hetole twenty niggers dat Doodle-Bug would win; den he tole twenty mo’ niggers dat Dixie would win; den he tole twenty yuther niggers dat Rooster would win—an’ dar warn’t but three hosses in de race. Of co’se he picked a winner fer twenty of dem niggers, an’ he picked a near winner fer twenty mo’, an’ he tuck up cont’ibutions of fifty cents from sixty niggers, an’ fawty of ’em come back to git anodder tip!”
“My Lawd!” the quartet mourned in righteous indignation. “Pap hadn’t oughter did us dataway!”
“Dat’s all right,” Skeeter said consolingly. “We gits one mo’ day of racin’ to-morrer, an’ I’s doin’ some heavy thinkin’. When I gits my plan all ready, ef you niggers will he’p, we’ll git Pap Curtain an’ ’vide him up—hoofs, hide, horns, an’ taller!”
“We’s wid you, Skeeter!” they shouted. “You kin sottle you’ owe-bills wid us when we ’vides up Pap’s pickin’s.”
The men tramped out of the saloon, and ten minutes later the door swung open again, admitting Pap Curtain.
“De good Lawd is sho’ heerd my prayer,” Skeeter murmured thankfully as he rose to his feet.
Pap came straight to the bar, laid down a five-cent piece, and remarked:
“Gimme a big beer, Skeeter.”
Skeeter set the drink upon the bar, then, under pretense of wiping the bar with his rag, flicked the coin so that it fell on the floor at Pap’s feet.
When Pap stooped to pick it up, Skeeter quietly emptied the odorless contents of a tiny vial into the glass.
“Put de nickel back in yo’ pocket, Pap,” Skeeter said pleasantly when Pap tendered it again. “It’s my treat. Less sot down at de table an’ cornverse awhile.”
The two sat down, sipped their drinks for a moment, then Skeeter remarked:
“Dat wus mighty bum racin’ we had to-day.”
“Shore wus,” Pap agreed. “Dar ain’t never no real racehosses at dis fair. Ef a feller’s got a hoss whut kin run a little, he picks the cockle-burs outen his tail, fotches him to town, and enters him in de race.”
“You come out powerful good, Pap,” the barkeeper said admiringly. “You muss ’a’ made a whole passel of money.”
“Yes, suh, I done it,” Pap assured him, draining his glass of liquor as he talked. “I didn’t bet none. I jes’ sold tips. But I shore had bad luck wid dat money at de las’.”
“Whut happened?” Skeeter inquired with great interest.
“You remember dat Sugar Sibley you wus wid? Well, suh, dat gal jes’ nachelly hoodooed me outen eve’y dollar I had on me, excusin’ dis one poor, lonesome nickel. She said she wus skeart I would git in bad comp’ny an’ lose it!”
“My Gawd, Pap!” Skeeter exclaimed, springing to his feet. “Whyn’t you tell me dat terr’ble news sooner?”
Pap did not answer. His head fell forward on his chest; his hands hung limply at his sides; he breathed stertorously, with his mouth open.
Skeeter ransacked Curtain’s pockets.
They still sagged from the weight of the coins they had contained, but now—they assayed only one five-cent piece!
Hitch Diamond, admitted into the Hen-Scratch saloon through the rear door early the next morning, was horrified to see the unconscious form of Pap Curtain lying on a pallet in the corner of the room.
“Whut’s come to pass wid Pap?” he inquired.
“Knock-out draps,” Skeeter answered disgustedly.
“When you gwine ’vide up de money?” Hitch grinned.
“Ax Sugar Sibley,” Skeeter responded. “She beat me to Pap’s pockets, an’ never lef’ me nothin’ but a buff’lo jitney.”
“Whar is dat Sugar Sibley?” Hitch asked earnestly.
“Dat’s whut yo’ job is right now—find dat nigger woman!”
“Whut’ll I do when I gits her?”
“Cote her servigerous!” Skeeter informed him. “Find out whar she keeps dat money. Ax her whut’s she gwine do wit it!”
“Dat looks like a dangersome woman to me,” Hitch remarked uneasily. “Whar do she come from, Skeeter?”
“Gawd knows!” the barkeeper answered. “I’s heerd her say somepin ’bout Baton Rouge. Mebbe she stays dar. She made google eyes at me in de grand stan’ an’ I tuck up wid her.”
“I’ll go out and make inquirements an’ see whut I kin do,” Hitch said.
“When you find out somepin, come back an’ repote.”
Two hours later a buggy stopped in front of the Hen-Scratch saloon and Sugar Sibley leaned out like a drowsy stage-queen, and languidly called for Skeeter Butts.
“’Mawnin’, honey,” she said graciously. “Is you gwine out to de fair to-day?”
“Suttingly,” he told her. “Dis here is Nigger Day.”
Sugar leaned over and whispered:
“Is you saw Popper Curtain dis mawnin’?”
“Naw,” Skeeter lied glibly.
The woman hesitated a moment as if debating her next move. Then she said:
“Skeeter, dat little brown hand-satchel at my foots is full of money. I wants you to keep dat coin fer me until atter dinner an’ den fotch it out to de races. I’s gwine bet big money on dem races to-day an’ I wants you to do my runnin’ fer me. I wus gwine ax Popper Curtain to do it, but he’s done made hisse’f absent.”
Skeeter lifted the satchel out of the buggy with an eager hand.
“Don’t say nothin’ to nobody, honey!” Sugar cautioned with a smile as she drove away.
Skeeter sat down behind the bar with the satchel of money between his feet and tried to think. This last incident had nearly unsettled his reason.
After a long period of meditation he arose and tiptoedinto the room where Pap Curtain lay and examined the prostrate man long and attentively. He shook him by the shoulder—not too hard. He kicked him—gently. Then he remarked with great satisfaction:
“He won’t wake up till mighty nigh dark. By dat time de fair will be over an’ Sugar will be gone away on de excussion, an’ I won’t know nothin’ a tall!”
When Skeeter entered the saloon again he found Hitch Diamond waiting for him.
“Skeeter,” he said with an air of dejection, “I foun’ dat nigger gal ridin’ ’roun’ town in a buggy, an’ she pronounce dat she ain’t gwine arm roun’ wid no kind of nigger excusin’ a high-yaller coon like you. She say she’s dead stuck on you, an’ she gimme de go-down.”
“Dat’s right, Hitch,” Skeeter replied complacently. “Dem arrangements I made wid you is all called down. Me an’ Miss Sugar is done made a trade.”
“Whar does I come in on de trade?”
“You comes in right now, Hitch,” Skeeter said affably. “I’s gwine pay you dat ten dollars you loant me.”
From the brown hand-satchel under the bar Skeeter counted out ten silver dollars and passed the money to his friend. Then he said:
“Now, Hitch, you go find dem yuther niggers I owes an’ fetch ’em in here in a bunch, because I wants to talk to all of you an’ fix up a plan.”
Half an hour later Hitch re-entered the room, followedby Prince Total, Mustard Prophet, and Figger Bush.
Out of Sugar’s hand-satchel Skeeter counted thirty dollars, arranged them in piles of ten dollars each and pushed them across the bar to the three negroes.
“Now, niggers,” Skeeter remarked, “I don’t owe nary one of you nothin’.”
“Dat’s right!” they exclaimed, pocketing the money.
“Now you listen to me: Sugar Sibley specify dat she’s gwine bet big to-day. I’s her runner. Now you niggers git all de loose change you kin borry an’ steal an’ be out dar. Ef Sugar wins I’ll tip you-all off whut her bet is. Ef Sugar lose I’ll place all her bets wid you-alls, an’ atter de races is over us’ll ’vide up.”
“Dem kind of exhort sho’ edifies my mind, Skeeter,” Hitch Diamond boomed, “an’ us is wid you!”