THE COMING SNEEZE
BY HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS
Author of “Sons and Fathers,” “Two Runaways,” etc.
WHAT it really was that twisted Aunt Tildy’s features into the anxious expression which inevitably waits on an approaching sneeze, no one, it is likely, will ever discover, though several plausible explanations have been offered; but twisted they were, early in life, and for all time Aunt Tildy was condemned to face the world with wrinkles on her forehead, lifted brows, a ruffled nose, half-closed eyes, and a drawn mouth. The theory of an arrested sneeze was advanced many years ago by Tim Broggins, who still sits around the cotton warehouse and, while he whittles white pine splinters and chews tobacco, is wont to settle all questions as they arise. Tim knows everything worth knowing and probably some things that are not; and of course he knew what was the trouble with Aunt Tildy’s face.
“Hit’s er comin’ sneeze, that’s what!” said he once, when Aunt Tildy, passing in her little country buggy, drew comment after her. “Hit’s er comin’ sneeze! Hit’s er sollum fac’, gentlemen, that Aunt Tildy ain’t been known ter sneeze in her whole life. She started oncet erlong back in th’ sixties; got her face twisted jes right, looked at th’ sun an’ was er-strainin’ of her corsits when somebody hollered ‘Cyclone!’ She’d been in one cyclone that like ter drug her hair out by th’ roots, an’ when she heard th’ name ag’in, she jes natchully hunted cover an’ forgot to pull ’er face together. When th’ cyclone passed, hit were too late. She ain’t never sneeze’ sence that day. Thought I’d try her some time with snuff or red pepper an’ see if hit wouldn’t tech ’er off an’ straighten out things; but hit’s done growed that erway now. The thing is sot an’ fixed!”
Aunt Tildy, however, did not let the tangled condition of her features interfere with business. From the profits of her little farm and country store she managed to sustain herself admirably; to educate and marry off her niece and lay up a competency for old age. It mattered not how hard the times, how poor the crops, and how bad were general collections, there was seldom a day when she did not have money in bank to loan at legal interest on exceptional collateral. With her bonnet pushed back, her fat umbrella grasped by its middle, and her little worn bag, she was a familiar figure in town on most Saturdays.
It was on a Saturday that Aunt Tildy and handsome Jack Cromby met for the first time, and Jack heard from Tim Broggins the old legend of the coming sneeze. Jack was the wide-awake and pushing representative of an up-State snuff factory, and was flooding the county with little red labeled tin boxes that contained samples of its product.
“Tell yer what, Jack,” said Tim, as he passed his knife-blade under a delicate curl of pine to the end of his splinter, “ef you was ter git th’ ole lady’s face on your boxes an’ call it ‘The Comin’ Sneeze’ brand, hit would ketch th’ town. Say, Jack! why ’n’t you try er little of the stuff on her, anyhow? Seems ter me ef you could jes git her up-town on the Court-House Square whar folks could see it all, an’ git her to turn loose that sneeze that’s been er hangin’ fire forty years, you’d sell er million! I ain’t er-sayin’ yo’ ole stuff could reach it, but it mout. My private opinion is that when that sneeze do come, hit’ll have ter be broke up with dynamite firs’ an’ then took out of her system piece by piece. Still, as I said, yo’ pertickerlar brand of tickler mout tech it off!”
Jack laughed heartily at the drollery of the wag; and then, the spirit of commercial enterprise taking possession of him, he suddenly grew serious.
“Not a bad idea, Tim—that about the picture. Think of the big ones to hang in the window—three colors—‘The coming sneeze’! And what a trade-mark! By George! I wonder whether I can get a photograph of her.”
“Dunno ’boutthat. But I did hear John Belton who runs the gallery up-town say as how las’ week he took some to sen’ to her niece out in Texas. Maybe you mout git hold o’ one ef you go ’bout it right. But looker here, Jack!—don’t you git me mixed up in this thing! Lord! She run down that sneeze joke o’ mine ten years ago an’ sech er tongue lashin’!—Keep me out o’ hit er I’ll call you er liar, sho’!”
“I’ll keep you out, Tim. Belton, did you say?”
“Yes—John Belton. He’ll let you have one of the pictur’s, mebbe, ef you don’t tell what you want with hit. Ef you tell himthat, he wouldn’t sell you one fer no price—’cause Belton wants ter live erwhile yet.”
Jack Cromby finessed. He had his own picture taken, being now thoroughly carried away with the advertising scheme, and voluntarily paid cash in advance. He then begged of the well-pleased artist one of Aunt Tildy’s,—to “send away to some friends.” In after days—though it is a shameful thing to print—he very generously assisted the unfortunate Belton to erect a barricade of fiction between himself and his outraged patron.
Jack’s one great error in discretion, after embarking on this perilous enterprise, was committed when he confided his plans to a young belle of the community. Handsome, dashing, well-dressed, and generous, Jack was a favorite, and numbered his sweethearts by dozens up and down the road. Among these was Miss Pinkie Appleby, selected by him in an evil moment to become the joint custodian of his mature plans touching Aunt Tildy’s likeness. Of course, Miss Pinkie laughed. What girl would not, in the circumstances? How could the innocent joke, as Jack described it, in any way injure Aunt Tildy? And what girl would not have promptly confided the secret to several intimates whom Jack had not honored, with strict injunctions as to secrecy?
The little group of idlers around the warehouse were holding their usual morning conversation when Aunt Tildy’s vehicle turned the corner at a pace that caused all four wheels to slide sidewise and give forth a harsh warning. Tim Broggins suspended his whittling a moment, looked at the broad scar left in the dust, and suffered his contemplative gaze to follow the receding figure in the buggy.
“What ails Tildy?” The question came from Judge Oglesby, whose two hundred and fifty pounds were waiting upright in a broad chair while his justice court threatened to convene. “Sorter flustered, ’pears to me.” He crossed his fat hands on his hickory cane and rested them against his zone of greatest circumference, blinking, as the dust began to float in.
“I wonder!—I wonder!” said Tim, reflectively, as he resumed his interrupted occupation. “Now, gentlemen, I’m goin’ ter give er guess; an’ watch me hit the nail on the head! Jedge, you know how ol’ Squire Jones laugh’ erbout that sneeze picture las’ night, an’ how drunk he were?”
“Squire was putty drunk, Tim. Worse ’n usual.”
“Well, now, I bet squire stop’ an’ tole Aunt Tildy all erbout hit! Right on his way home, her store is, an’ most gener’ly he begins to ricollec’ things he was to bring back ’bout time he gits there! Aunt Tildy gits er big trade o’ that sort. Hit’s a good soberin’-up stan’ for fellows goin’ thet erway an’ totin’ too much of the brand o’ O-be-joyful they buy eroun’ town. Yes, sir, squire tole ’er cert’in—dad blast his ol’ skin, he had oughter be lynched! Where’d she pull up, Jedge?”
“Lawyer Thomas’s office!”
“Thar now! She ain’t got no common business on ’er mind ter-day! This ain’t no mortgage, gentlemen, ner no jumpin’ account case. This isfight. She’s done cross the line an’ got on the criminal side o’ th’ docket, Jedge. Let’s go an’ stan’ eroun’ an’ see what’s up!”
But if the idlers sought excitement, they failed to get it. Aunt Tildy, after half an hour spent in consultation with her lawyer, issued from his office and, with one withering glance at the group, climbed into her buggy. When she turned it about, it slid as before, only this time the sound that came back seemed a defiance. Tim surveyed the little drama with intense interest.
“See ’er cut the horse, Jedge—three times ’twixt crossings! Mad? Dad blast my skin, she’s jes natchully er hornet now! Hit’s squire’s work.”
The pictures arrived a week or two later. They set the town wild with laughter. Merchants, clerks, and customers came out on the sidewalks up and down the single business street and exchanged criticisms after an ancient fashion of town people. There was Aunt Tildy, sureenough, in the act of holding a box of snuff; and there was the old, familiar, coming, but long delayed, sneeze! The supply of pictures was exhausted in thirty minutes. At ten o’clock they brought fifty cents each; at eleven, a dollar; and at noon Tim Broggins sold his copy to the town bank for one dollar and a half. The cashier was Aunt Tildy’s agent.
The laughter, which began down-town, spread over the dinner-hour up-town and rippled over the county for a week. No more striking advertisement had ever been put forth in that region. No other snuff could touch the trade. “The Coming Sneeze” brand had won and held the market.
Then one day Lawyer Thomas took the train for Macon and filed suit for $10,000, as damages direct and punitive, against the snuff company for infringement of copyright. For, on the day Aunt Tildy had come to town so angry, she had bought the negative of Belton and applied through him for a copyright on her own face as portrayed in that photograph. “The Coming Sneeze” was her own personal property.
After this fact became known, the idlers took their hats off and cheered Aunt Tildy whenever she passed. Her sole recognition of their friendliness was an abortive smile that flickered for an instant against the background of the coming sneeze.
Tim became oracular.
“Tell you what, boys!—Jedge—that’s er new p’int in law, on me! Don’t er man or er woman own his own face? Fer an instance, has er man got ter put his face on er record like er guano contrac’ or mule mortgidge befo’ he can pertec’ hisself? Dad blast my skin,nobodyain’t safe! I’m er goin’ right up-town an’ git my pictur’ struck off an’ patented now! Some o’ these smarties like Jack Cromby’ll be comin’ erlong here bime-by an’ er gittin’ me onter er Christmas cyard, an’ you on er valentine!” Tim laughed silently. “Po’ Jack!” he said. “Always did lack jedgmentan’ allus will, I reck’n!”
Jack Cromby’s experience with the managers of his snuff company is not a matter of public record. He may have suffered criticism or he may have convinced them that their product was getting, throughout the rural districts for which it was manufactured, an advertisement worth all it might cost. If the airing of Aunt Tildy’s complaint was not confined to a city office and its spectacular values lost in the multiplicity of graver legal causes, the snuff company would not suffer much, if any. A local hearing would give him a chance to fill a column of the town’s weekly paper with a carefully prepared report of the trial, which report would be quoted in full in all the rural weeklies of the State. The advertisement department of his company would see to that.
The transference of Aunt Tildy’s case to her home county was easily effected. Lawyer Thomas was after a verdict in her favor, and perhaps was not unmindful of the advertising feature as concerned himself, and greatly preferred the home atmosphere.
The reappearance of Jack on the scene, therefore, betrayed no evidence of chagrin. On the contrary, his step was a little more elastic, his head held a bit higher, his movements were quicker, and his salutes and greetings full of cheer. Resiliency was written all over him; the sunrise was on his face.
“Now ding blast his imperdunce!” said Broggins one day when Jack, passing on the opposite side of the street, had waved a hand to them joyously and shouted a greeting: “Hello, Tim! Hello, Judge! Major, how are you? See you boys later!”—“ding blast his imperdunce! What’s he got up his sleeve now? Jack! Oh, Jack!” he called lazily.
“What’s the matter, Tim?”
“Got you going some—ain’t they?”
“Not—on—your—life, Tim! Watchme!”
Aunt Tildy’s case, by consent, came up in her own town before a special master appointed by the court.
Long before the hour set for the hearing arrived, people began to appear on the scene. Every wagon-yard, every vacant lot was crowded with vehicles; every horse-rack and hitching-post was in use. There had been great days in town before; Robinson’s old one-ring circus had occasionally depopulated the rural district in its favor, and at another time the political contest between Democrats and Populists and Tom Watson’s impassioned speeches had made it the storm-center of excitement. But no such crowd ever had assembled within the incorporated limitsas that which gathered to see Aunt Tildy through in her brave assault on the enemy. The special master had elected to hear the issue in a private office, but indignant public opinion drove him into the court-house and to the bench, where he was soon surrounded by an eager crowd so dense that breathing became difficult despite the fact that all the court-room windows were open.
Drawn by F. R. GrugerHalf-tone plate engraved by R. C. Collins“‘WELL, NOW, I BET SQUIRE STOP’ AN’ TOLE AUNT TILDY ALL ERBOUT HIT!’”❏LARGER IMAGE
Drawn by F. R. GrugerHalf-tone plate engraved by R. C. Collins
“‘WELL, NOW, I BET SQUIRE STOP’ AN’ TOLE AUNT TILDY ALL ERBOUT HIT!’”
❏LARGER IMAGE
Not half the visitors secured entrance. The majority gathered around the building in the public square, men, women, and children, and took, second-hand, from those who struggled exhausted out of the doors, such reports of the proceedings as were not borne to their ears direct on the vibrant air. Buggies, wagons, carryalls, and the grass afforded seats, and the good-natured crowd settled down to enjoy the day.
Within the building the master and the lawyers soon arranged preliminaries and the case was opened, Aunt Tildy sitting serenely scornful beside her lawyer and facing the curious spectators with perfect indifference. It was a long trial, stubbornly contested at every point. The defense protested against “imperfect service” and “surprise.” Both sides amended and contested each other’s amendments. Both sides “demurred” and fought each other’s demurrers. Both sides offered documentary evidence, and both sides moved to “strike out.” And there were arguments at every crisis. So the day wore along, and the people outside proceeded to dine from their baskets. They were having the best of it by far.
Finally a buzz of excitement came from within. Persons visible through the windows were observed to straighten up and face one way. The crowd on the outside were now having the worst of it.
About this time Tim Broggins, who had heretofore been in evidence chiefly around the grocery down the street, where he had all day elaborately explained between “treats” the features of Aunt Tildy’s remarkable case, as well as the Federal law governing copyrights, appeared on the scene bearing a long scaling-ladder. Tim’s approach to the building with his burden was one of the features of the case not soon forgotten. The unsteadiness of his gait, the weight and length of the ladder, and his attempts to face every one who asked him questions—there were dozens of them—produced a set of gymnastics on his part that cleared the whole north side of the square. People fled from him as from a plague, the women with babies leaving first.
Reaching the court-house, Tim made heroic efforts to place the ladder upright against the wall—a performance that convulsed his audience, then at a safe distance. The final result was, Tim went over on his back with the ladder on top of him, escaping miraculously without broken bones. Friendly hands stood up both Tim and the ladder, and presently he climbed unsteadily to the second-story window, where, after a brief survey of the court-room scene and swaying dangerously, he began to laugh.
“Jedge,” he called eagerly to Oglesby below, “come up! Come up!” The judge was about as happy as Tim, but more discreet. He shook his head and shifted his quid.
“Tell us erbout it, Tim!”
“Ol’ lady on th’ stan’, Jedge, hammerin’ away with her umberella!—Go it, Aunt Tildy!” he shouted. The master’s gavel was heard, and those within the room near the window turned and shook their heads at Tim.
“What’s she sayin’, Tim?”
“She’s jes p’intedly er-skinnin’ of Jack Cromby! ‘Oudacionest’ is the shortes’ word I’ve ketched. Go it, Aunt Tildy, I’m er bettin’ on yer! Whoopee-ee—!”
“Silence in court!” The master’s angry voice could be heard by the outsiders; and again the people at the window, gesticulating, turned on Tim, whose expostulations descended.
“Thass all right, gentlemen,—all right! I ain’t in the court ner on th’ earth ner in th’ heavens, ner in the waters unner th’—earth!” Tim made a dangerous lurch as he concluded, but swayed back into the perpendicular, while the crowd below held their breath. Then he straightened up and craned his neck over his neighbors’ heads, his sides shaking while he hammered on the ladder with his fist. The people below him were burning with curiosity and the judge grew impatient.
“How goes it, Tim?”
“Fine, Jedge! Come up!—Come up! Room at the top! Allus room at the top!”
“More room down here! What’s she sayin’ now?”
“Oh, gee! Oh, gee!—” Tim laid his head against the wall and joined loudly in the subdued laugh which rippled through the window. “This here is er circus right, Jedge! She says anybody says she ever took er pinch o’ snuff er wet er snuff-stick in her born days is er lower down houn’ th’n Jack Cromby, an’ Jack is th’ lowes’ she met in thirty years’ tradin’ with Niggers an’ po’ white trash! Jedge,—oh, Jedge!—” Tim held on with both hands for safety and let his laughter come. He finally ended it with a wild “Whoop-ee-ee!” which was followed by furious strokes of the master’s gavel and the usual pantomime in the window. These did not trouble Tim. “Jedge, you had oughter see Jack’s facenow!Geminycriminy! He better keep outer the way of the ‘befo’ takin’’ man or git er patent on it quick! Hello, Jack!” He had thrust his head in the window. Somebody shook him and pushed it out. “All right,all-l-lright, gentlemen. Wouldn’t ’sturb nobody fer nothin’!”
Then the vibrant voice of Lawyer Thomas rang out clear and loud, and the attentive people in the square below needed no interpreter. His arraignment of the foreign firm which had slandered and humiliated one of the noble women of the county, his scathing denunciation of Jack Cromby, were things to talk about for years. Despite the gavel, applause followed his every rounded period, and to this applause Tim contributed each time a wild whoop that fairly split the air. When Lawyer Thomas closed with a flight of eloquence that caused the older people to mention Toombs and Linton Stevens, the applause from within was answered by cheers from without. At this climax Tim Broggins’s feet slipped, the outer cheers subsided suddenly into something like a gasp of horror, and Oglesby beat a hasty retreat. Fortunately, however, Tim lodged among the upper rounds of the ladder from which he disengaged himself only after five minutes of hard work. During his struggles to get back on the upper side of his ladder he was good-naturedly assisted by advice from the sympathetic crowd who knew a “Roman holiday” sacrifice by sight if not in terms.
But all good things as well as bad must have an end. There came a few moments of silence with evidence of close attention above.
“What’s up now, Tim?” The judge drew nearer the ladder to avoid shouting.
“Hush! The boss is talkin’!” The silence was short; presently the people in the court-room began to move excitedly and to clap hands, and once more Tim, who had regained his lost ground, uttered his “Whoopee-ee!”
“One thousan’, Jedge, one thousan’! That’s what she gits! Oh, gee!—oh, gee!” he cried, cupping one hand toward Oglesby, who had ventured back into the danger zone below.
Then a queer sound issued from within, a single sound, a shrill, high-pitched, prolonged note, so totally divorced from the masculine hubbub there that it attracted the attention of everybody. And this time the people within the court-room cheered wildly, joyously, and hilariously, shaking one another by the shoulders and slapping backs. But almost instantly there began to mingle with the cheers certain vocal explosions up and down the whole chromatic scale which, swelling in volume, finally swallowed up all other sounds, and frantic hands were seen through the windows clutching at elusive coat-tail pockets. Tim was holding to the window-sill desperately and swaying violently as he gasped for breath to answer the excited questions hurled up to him. He found it at last.
“Aunt Tildy has snee—snee—sneezed! And scattered er box over ev’ybody! The comin’ sneeze has done come! An’—an’—by gosh!—hit’s—got me—too,—Currasha-h-h-o! Kitty!” The ladder went out from under him, and he hung, sneezing, to the window-sill, while below the women shrieked.
However, no tragedy marred the day. Judge Oglesby galloped out from under the falling ladder, and responsive to the frantic appeals of women, and greatly to the relief of all, the men at the window reeled Tim in by his hair and coat-collar and trousers’ seat, despite his struggles.
“Hurrah for Tim Broggins!” yelled the delighted Oglesby from a safe distance, waving his hat. A ringing shout went up.
“Currasha-h-h-o!” faintly replied the invisible Tim.