Part 3

Then one of the bizarre conceits of second childhood knocked upon the crumbling portals of his brain and found admittance. He thought that he was a young man again, and that the buxom negro girl whom he had married in the presence of the white folks up yonder on the hill in the drawing-room of the Gaitskill home, was still alive, and occupied this cabin with him.

“Ca’lline! Ca’lline!” he called sharply.

But Caroline, sleeping in her narrow, silent chamber under a scrub-oak tree on a hillside in Alabama, made no answer.

“Ca’lline!” he called again, in a voice which he tried to make loud, but which failed through weakness. “Ca’lline! Cain’t you hear me callin’ you?”

The old man stood up in perplexity. His fuddled brain could not grasp the reason for this silence and loneliness. He climbed feebly, with the aid of his staff, up the stone steps, and pounded loudly upon the crumbling floor of the porch.

“Oh, Ca’lline! Whar in dumnation is you gone at?”

He entered the room where Scootie had prepared his bed with the idea that he might want to lie down and rest after his trip to the cabin, and he took his seat in the comfortable rocking-chair, placing his stove-pipe hat beside him on the floor.

“Ca’lline!” he wailed. There was no answer to his call.

The fire of exasperation flamed in the ancient man’s withered frame, and he manifested his annoyance by kicking his beloved stove-pipe hat across the room.

“Dag-gone de dag-gone day whut fotch me de dag-gone luck of totin’ dat dag-gone fat nigger gal to my cabin!” he wailed. “_Ca’lline!_ Whar in dumnation is you an’ dem three nigger brats?”

He leaned back, resting his shaking, palsied head wearily against the chair.

“Dem chillun take atter deir maw,” he commented. “Dey’s gad-arounders!”

From the top of the big pecan tree a mocking-bird broke forth in delirious music. The loud, clear notes, imitating every bird which roamed the woods, echoed back from the woods and the hillside, and broke in jewels of melody around the old log cabin.

The old man listened, sighed gratefully, and smiled.

“Dat’s one of dem wuthless, no ’count piccaninnies a-comin’ now,” he muttered. “Dem chillun got deir whistlin’ gift from deir paw. I could whistle jes’ like dat befo’ I loss all de toofs outen my head.”

Instantly a footstep sounded in the rear of the house, and the door opened. Figger Bush entered the room and stopped near the door, looking at Popsy Spout with eyes as wistful as the eyes of a hound.

“Whar de debbil is you been at, Figger?” the old man howled. “I been callin’ you all de mawnin’!”

“I been settin’ aroun’,” Figger muttered. “I’s tired!”

“By dam’!” the old man snorted. “Mebbe yo’ legs is a little feeble an’ tired, but yo’ stomick don’t never weary none. Whut you been doin’ in dat kitchen--eatin’ or drinkin’?”

“Nothin’,” Figger mumbled.

“Ef you been drinkin’ dat dram agin, I’ll find out about it!” Popsy ranted in the falsetto of senility. “Licker talks mighty loud when it gits loose from de jug, an’ de fust time you whoops a yell I’ll wallop yo’ hide wid dis stick.”

“Yes, suh,” Figger murmured, rubbing his shaved head.

“Whar is yo’ hair gone at?” Popsy howled, glaring at Figger’s bald pate.

“Ole Mis’ Mildred cut it off!” Figger prevaricated with a snicker. “She say she wanted to sot a hin an’ needed my wool to make a nest.”

“Huh!” the old man snorted in disgust. “It’s a pity she didn’t take one of dese here wooden teethpicks an’ beat yo’ brains out while she wus at it!”

Figger turned and started to go out.

“Hey, Figger!” Popsy squalled.

“Whut?” Figger asked.

“You stay aroun’ dis cabin so you kin wait on me!”

“Yes, suh,” Figger grinned.

“Ef you leave dis house ’thout axin’ my say-so, I’ll skin you alive!”

“I ain’t gwine leave you, Popsy,” Figger assured him. “Nobody cain’t git me away from dis cabin widout compellment!”

The mocking-bird in the top of the pecan tree started again its song of delirious music.

“Go out an’ tell dat brat to stop dat whistlin’ so I kin take me a nap!” Popsy commanded, as his weary head rested upon the back of the chair and he closed his age-dimmed eyes.

Figger stooped and picked up Popsy’s big red handkerchief and passed out. He sat down upon the steps of the porch and unwrapped from the kerchief a cheap photograph of a man with a shoe-brush mustache and a woolly, kinky head. He gazed upon the picture for a long time, then tore it into tiny bits and tossed the fragments over in the high grass.

“Dat kind of Figger Bush is dead!” he announced to himself, while in his eyes there glowed the light of a great resolution. “I’s related to Popsy by bornation, an’ me an’ Popsy is kinnery of de Gaitskills by fightin’ wid de white folks endurin’ of de war. Us is all quality niggers, an’ we got to ack like we wus white!”

On top of the hill Figger heard the rumbling of two wagons, bringing the last of Scootie’s household goods to her new home.

“Won’t de widder be supprised!” Figger chuckled. “Bless Gawd! I ain’t as dead as she an’ me thought I wus!”

He sat chuckling to himself until he recalled Popsy’s last command, and sprang to his feet.

“He tole me not to let nothin’ disturb his nap!” he muttered, as he walked rapidly up the hill toward the wagons. “Now I’s gwine gib de widder de wust jolt she ever got in her life!”

He hid behind a large tree until the first wagon came to where he was standing. Scootie was driving, and she looked like one who had suddenly come into possession of a great treasure.

“Hol’ on a minute, Scootie!” Figger exclaimed, stepping from behind the tree. “Popsy sont me up here to tell you not to disturb him till he tuck a leetle nap!”

“’Tain’t so!” Scootie snapped. “Popsy don’t know yo’ favor or yo’ face!”

But as she looked at Figger Bush she knew beyond a doubt that he was installed in his grandfather’s cabin. Figger’s face glowed with a light of happiness and peace, and there was even something in the face which held the promise of a new manhood through the influence of the grand old man who now lay asleep in the cabin.

Scootie began to weep.

“I reckin I’ll hab to take my furnicher an’ move out, Figger,” she sobbed. “I kinder hoped I could live wid Popsy an’ take keer of him, an’ make him happy in his ole age--but all dat wus too much luck fer Scootie!”

“’Twouldn’t be mo’ dan you deserve, Scootie,” Figger said in a pleading tone. “An’ I b’lieve you an me could fix it up so dat it wouldn’t be onpossible!”

“How?” Scootie asked.

“Leave dem mules standin’ here in de shade, go wid me to de cotehouse an’ git some weddin’ licenses, an’ git Vinegar Atts to marrify us!” Figger suggested.

Scootie promptly hit the ground with both feet, landing by the side of Figger Bush.

“Come on, honey!” she said, seizing him by the hand. “Less go quick!”

“Kin I go, too?” Little Bit, the driver of the second wagon asked in a whining tone. No answer was given to him, so he jumped down and followed.

From the top of the hill, they looked down to where the red brick court-house baked in the summer sun. Side by side they started toward the court-house, and the new life.

On the other side of the hill, sole guardian of the grand old man in the cabin, the mocking-bird sat in the pecan tree and sang its song of love.

Hoodoo Eyes.

The swinging doors of the Hen-Scratch saloon fell apart and Conko Mukes walked in.

He was a large man and, to look at, very impressive.

The negroes in Tickfall had never seen clothes like his, so large in stripe and so variegated in color. On either lapel of his coat was a large, brassy emblem of some secret lodge.

On the middle finger of each hand was a rolled-gold band ring nearly an inch wide. Across the vast expanse of his sky-muckle-dun-colored waistcoat was a gangrened near-gold watch-chain like the cable chain of a Mississippi River steamboat, and a charm suspended from it was constructed of the talons of an eagle.

His ponderous feet shook the floor as he walked across the saloon and seated himself at a table. Removing his stove-pipe hat, he placed that upon one chair, kicked another chair from under the table on which to deposit his feet, and leaned back in a third chair, with his gorilla-like arms resting comfortably across the back of a fourth. The barroom appeared to be empty.

“Hey, dar! Come here--eve’ybody!” he bellowed.

Skeeter Butts peeped at Conko Mukes around the corner of the bar behind which he was sitting.

The black face which he beheld advertised unmistakably what Conko Mukes was. It was the mug of a typical prize-fighter.

The face was clean-shaven, accentuating a jaw, heavy, brutal, aggressive. His head was also shaven, and every bump on his villainous cranium stood forth like a promontory on a level plain. His eyes were heavy-lidded, lazy, sleepy-looking, like the eyes of a lion.

The nose had been broken and was crooked; his thick lips had been battered in many fights until they were shapeless, and the mouth was simply an ugly gash across his face. And to complete the adornment, one ear was “tin” and the other was cauliflower, both permanently disfigured and disfiguring.

Conko Mukes moved in his chair as if burdened by the heavy weight of his muscles, and his heavy-lidded eyes glowed yellow in the dim light of the saloon as he glared around him. Again his voice boomed:

“Hey! Am eve’ybody done hauled off an’ died? Come out here, Skeeter Butts--whut’s hidin’ you?”

“I guess dis is my move-up,” Skeeter remarked as he pocketed a handful of silver which he had been counting behind the bar and came to the table.

Conko watched the diminutive darky until he stopped by his table. Then the lazy, lion-like eyes glowed with a yellow fire, and with a slapping motion of his monstrous hand he exclaimed:

“Shoo, fly, don’t bodder me!”

Skeeter Butts cackled like a nervous hen, fluttered well out of reach of that hand, and snickered:

“Lawd, Conko, you sho’ is one powerful funny man! Dat gits you a free-fer-nothin’ drink. You is better’n a show-actor.”

“You done kotch de lizard by de tail, son--kotch him de fust time,” Conko informed him in deep, rumbling bellow. “I is a holy show!”

“How is you feelin’ to-day, Conko?” Skeeter asked as he set the drink before him.

“I feels like I is sorry I wus borned to die!” Conko answered, swallowing the raw whisky with one gulp and with a dry eye. “How is de bettin’ gittin’ on?”

“De niggers takes up eve’y bet, Conko,” Skeeter replied. “You see, dis here Hitch Diamond--nobody ain’t never knocked him out yit!”

“He ain’t never fit nobody yit,” Conko remarked easily. “Befo’ dis day is over I’ll make him wish he’d been borned a little nigger gal!”

“I hopes so,” Skeeter said with a nervous flutter in his tone. “I done bet de limit. Ef it ain’t a win wid you, I’s gwine hab de misforchine to lose fawty dollars.”

With a pompous air Conko Mukes thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out a large roll of bills which had been carefully wrapped around a fat corn-cob. He tossed it across the table.

“Dar am fifteen dollars whut you kin bet fer me, Skeeter. Dat many money says to you dat I’s gwine make Hitch Diamond dig a hole in de groun’ to git away from de Georgia Cyclome.”

“Hitch specify dat he gwine rub his gloves wid hoodoo-juice,” Skeeter said as he fumbled with the corn-cob. “Ain’t you got no stunts like dat to pull on?”

Conko Mukes opened his eyes with a sudden and tremendous interest. He sat for a moment in deep thought. Then he answered in a regretful tone:

“Naw, suh, I ain’t never studied ’bout dat befo’. I don’t depen’ on no hoodoo-juice. I depen’s on elbow-grease! I fights straight, and hits hard, an’ knocks ’em out on de level.”

“Yes, suh, elbow-grease is powerful good,” Skeeter said uneasily; “but I figgers dat us oughter hab all de he’p we kin git! Of co’se, I don’t b’lieve in no hoodoo myse’f, but----”

“Us don’t need no hoodoo,” Conko interrupted. “Let Hitch Diamond git it. He needs it. He don’t know it yit, but he needs a dorctor, a preacher, a undertaker, an’ a nice, deep grave in de cem’tery!”

“I wouldn’t be so powerful shore ’bout dat, Conko,” Skeeter suggested. “You ain’t never seed dat Hitch Diamond pufform.”

“Whut sort lookin’ coon is he?” Conko asked.

“He’s mo’ tall dan you, wider dan you, heavier dan you is. He’s got arms long enough to hug a elerphunt aroun’ de stomick.”

“I’ll break dem long arms in fo’ pieces an’ wrop ’em aroun’ Hitch’s neck like a mournin’ rag,” Conko declared.

“Hitch kin put his hands on yo’ head an’ mash yo’ face plum’ down in yo’ stomick--jes’ like you wus a mud-turkle!” Skeeter said.

“He won’t git no chance to mash,” Conko assured him. “I’ll make him think he’s got bofe hands tied behime him an’ bofe behime foots kotch in a bear-trap.”

“Hitch won’t take but two licks at you,” Skeeter continued. “One’ll be a up-cut whut’ll punch you in de air like a balloom; den he’ll take a side-swipe at you when you is comin’ down, an’ phish!--you’ll be over on de yuther side of Jordan!”

“Huh!” Conko grunted. “Whut you reckin I’ll be doin’ to him when I’s comin’ down?”

“De las’ time Hitch had a prize-fight,” Skeeter remarked, as he tried to roll a cigarette with fingers which trembled and spilled all the tobacco, “he specify dat he didn’t need but one glove, an’ he made em tie it on his _elbow_. He fiddled aroun’ an’ dodged dat big stiff till de nigger got in reach of dat elbow; den Hitch gib him a little jab in his soul-complexion, an’ dat nigger went to heaben fer a week!”

“Huh!” Conko grunted. “Hitch’ll need gloves on his elbows to-day, too. But he’ll want ’em to keep him from hurtin’ his crazy-bones when I knocks him down.”

“Hitch Diamond challenged Jack Johnsing,” Skeeter declared. “An’ you know whut dat nigger champeen of de worl’ went an’ done? He got on a big ferry-boat an’ went to Framce an’ specify dat he wustn’t never comin’ back to dis country no mo’!”

“Jack Johnsing got skeared too soon,” Conko replied easily. “I always said he had a yeller streak.”

“I seed Hitch fight a bear once,” Skeeter informed him. “He kotch dat bear by de tail, an’ dat bear gib one loud squall an’ drug Hitch plum’ to Arkansas befo’ Hitch could let loose his handholt!”

“Huh,” Conko grunted, undismayed. “I ain’t got no tail.”

Skeeter stopped. His thought could go no higher. His imagination could reach no further.

Conko lighted a big cigar and puffed smoke like a steam-engine. He laid two monstrous hands, palm upward, upon the table between them and remarked:

“Dese here hands needs exoncise, Skeeter. Hitch Diamond is shore gwine make a good punchin’ bag.”

“I hopes you gits yo’ punch in fust,” Skeeter sighed, wishing that he had not bet so heavily.

“Whut’s de matter wid you?” Conko Mukes bawled. “Is you gittin’ cold foots?”

“Naw. Nothin’ like dat,” Skeeter hastened to assure him, “but----”

“’Tain’t no need to git anxious,” Conko declared as he rose to go. “You go out an’ bet my money, an’ remember dat de Georgia Cyclome is a real twister.”

“Hitch is a stem-winder, too,” Skeeter declared.

As Conko Mukes tramped out of the saloon, Skeeter Butts wiped the clammy sweat from his face and sighed.

“My Lawd!” he moaned. “I tried to skeer dat nigger up so he’d be keerful, but Conko don’t take no skeer. Leastwise, he don’t talk dat way. I got de hunch dat he ain’t nothin’ but beef an’ wind an’ a loud noise. I bet I’s gwine lose eve’y bet whut I done bet. Dat’s de bes’ bet I could bet!”

“Huh!” Conko Mukes meditated as he walked slowly toward that portion of Tickfall inhabited by the whites. “Dat Skeeter Butts specify dat Hitch Diamond is some fightin’ coon. I wish I hadn’t bet dem fifteen dollars; I cain’t affode to lose ’em. I needs he’p. Wonder whar I could git some of dat hoodoo-juice?”

* * * * *

Professor Dodo Zodono, medium, magician, hypnotist, stood on a box in front of the Tickfall drug-store, adjusted the joints of his flute, and placed it to his lips. The sweet, piercing notes quickly drew a crowd around him.

The professor was tall and thin, with long black hair, big black eyes, a long mustache, and long, snaky fingers. His black clothes appeared to hang upon his emaciated form like draperies, a circumstance which helped him greatly in his sleight-of-hand tricks.

Two assistants stood on the ground beside the box. Both were tall and very thin, with lank, damp hair and listless, humid eyes, and tallow-colored skin always moist with nervous sweat--you have seen many like them lying in hypnotic sleep in some show window, or have peered down a wooden chute to see them slumbering in a coffin six feet under the ground.

When the music ended Professor Zodono handed his flute to one of his assistants and began his spiel:

“Fellow citizens, I have called you together to give you a little demonstration of my powers.

“We are surrounded by mystery. There is a vast realm of the unknown which science has not explored. I shall demonstrate to you to-night that we have not yet even reached the edge of the great ocean of discovery--price of admission, fifteen and twenty-five cents!

“I shall show you wonders which cannot be accounted for. You will hear sounds which defy the laws of acoustics. You will behold appearances which fly in the face of investigation, and effects which do not appear to have a sufficient cause--all for the insignificant price of fifteen and twenty-five cents!

“I shall now give you a free demonstration of hypnotism. This is no new thing, and I do not charge you a cent to see an old and familiar stunt. It is nothing but a nervous sleep induced by the active mind of the operator upon the subjective consciousness of the hypnotic. This power has been known to the world for eighteen hundred years. Under this influence, the operator can make his subject dance, sing, speak, or perform any stunt he pleases. In New York, Dr. Meseran hypnotized Sandow, the modern Samson, and that giant who could lift three hundred pounds above his head with one hand could not even lift his hand to his head to scratch his ear----”

At this point there was a slight commotion in the closely packed crowd in front of Zodono. A giant darky gorgeously dressed was pressing himself to the front. It was Conko Mukes.

His manner and speech, as he pushed aside both whites and blacks, were the very apotheosis of deference and courtesy:

“’Scuse me, boss! Beg parding, kunnel! Fer Gawd’s sake, don’t lemme disturb you-alls! Gotter git to de drug-sto’ prompt, cap’n. Please, suh, let a po’ mis’ble nigger git by fer de white folks’ med’cine. Thank ’e, suh, de Lawd is shore gwine bless you fer dis nigger’s sake.”

By the time Conko Mukes was within four feet of the box on which Zodono stood, the professor had resumed his speech and the crowd had forgotten the interruption. Mukes stopped where he was and listened.

“Every positive character in the world has this power of hypnotism over every negative character,” the professor proclaimed. “It is the simple power of mind over mind by suggestion--all of which I shall prove to you to-night at the opera-house for a few nickels admission--price, fifteen and twenty-five cents!”

At this point one of the professor’s assistants walked toward the box, his feet dragging and moving as if some one had him by the shoulders, leading him forward. His thin arms dangled at his sides, and his bony fingers twitched and writhed like the tail of a snake.

He climbed upon the box with awkward movements as if the joints of his shoulders and hips were stiff and the hinges rusty, and they hurt him.

He walked slowly, reluctantly toward Zodono, and the professor threw up his hand, snapped his fingers, and cried “Stop!”

The assistant flinched, dodged like a dog, and the crowd snickered.

“My Gawd!” Conko Mukes mumbled in a low tone. “Look at dat!”

For a moment the professor glared in the eyes of his assistant; then his hands began making slow, stroking motions downward before the subject’s face. Red spots came and went in the bleached cheeks of the hypnotic; his breath was short and quick; his nostrils and lips were pinched.

The crowd looked on breathlessly as the hand of the professor, fingers outstretched, clawed the air before that weak, chalky face, with its twitching lips and feeble, trembling chin.

“Ah!” the professor exclaimed theatrically, grinning his triumph in the face of the crowd.

“Ah!” the crowd echoed with an expulsive sound of breath released after a moment of breathless attention.

The man stood before them, asleep on his feet, his body waving slowly like a feather suspended from a thread and gently wafted by a slight breeze.

The druggist and his two clerks came out, picked up the hypnotic, who was as stiff as a board; carried him into the drug-store, and laid him flat on his back in the show window.

Then the druggist unfolded a sheet, covered the body, tucked the covering close around the sleeper’s chalky face, and stepped across the store to the soda-fountain with an eye alert and a hand ready for trade.

“Remember, gents!” Professor Zodono exclaimed. “An educational and instructive show for men, women, and children--opera-house to-night at eight o’clock sharp--fifteen and twenty-five cents!”

Then, followed by his other assistant, the professor walked slowly up the street to the opera-house to dress the stage for his evening’s performance.

They were followed at a respectful distance by Conko Mukes.

The moment the two men had passed out of sight through the stage entrance in the alley by the Gaitskill store, Conko Mukes knocked on the door.

“Open up, Bill!” Zodono commanded. “I guess that is the nigger washwoman come after those curtains.”

When Conko Mukes entered, Zodono came forward.

“Have you come after the washing?” he asked.

Conko Mukes took off his hat, and his immense mouth with its mashed and shapeless lips spread wide in an ugly grin.

“Don’t you know me, Mister Jimmy?” Conko asked.

“My Lord!” Zodono exclaimed after a moment’s inspection. “You damn’ ole coon! What you doing in this place, Conko?”

“I had to take a good riddunce of Georgia, Mr. Jimmy,” Conko growled, grinning like a bear. “De gram jury lawed me all de time an’ dat place got too hot. How is all de white folks an’ de niggers in Tupelo?”

“Fine--when I saw them last,” Zodono grinned. “The grand jury lawed me, too, and I left.”

“Is dat how come you change yo’ name?” Conko asked in polite tones.

“Oh, no; it wasn’t as bad as that,” Zodono laughed. “But I could never make any money in my business with my real name. A spiritualistic medium, fortune-teller, magician, and hypnotist named Jim Skaggs--that would never do. What are you doing here?”

“I’se prize-fightin’, Mr. Jimmy. I been fightin’ up’n down de Mississippi River, an’ I come here to git a fight dis atternoon wid a nigger named Hitch Diamond.”

“How did you like my show out in front?” Zodono asked.

“It wus fine, Mr. Jimmy!” Conko exclaimed in enthusiastic tones. “Dat’s how come I wants to see you. I would like to ’terrogate you ’bout dat show.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Whut I axes you is dis,” Conko began; “you s’pose a nigger could learn how to hypnertize like you?”

Zodono looked at Bill, his assistant, and winked. Then he answered:

“Certainly, Conko.”

“How is it did, boss?” the negro asked eagerly.

Zodono looked at the negro for a moment then grinned. He looked at Bill and Bill grinned back. Here was a chance to have some fun.

“You’re getting ready to pull some hypnotic stunt in that prize-fight this afternoon, ain’t you Conko?” the professor asked.

“Yes, suh,” Conko chuckled like a rumbling train. “I figger ef I could put dat fightin’ coon to sleep like you done dat white boy in front of de drug-sto’, dat I could knock him out widout wastin’ so much wind an’ elbow-grease.”

“Well,” Professor Zodono began, “first you walk straight up to the subject and look into his eyes.”

“Which eye does you look at his eyes wid?” Conko asked.

“Both eyes--your own eyes!” Zodono explained.

“Yes, suh.”