Part 6

That smile sent the cold shivers up Pap’s spine, and made the hair bristle and crinkle with terror on the back of his neck. He had had dealings with Marse Tom before, and he knew that Marse Tom had no patience with a crooked, tricky nigger.

“My Gawd!” Pap sighed. “Dat white man is gwine hang me shore!”

Gaitskill pulled out a heavy purse, laid two yellow-backed bills on the table in front of the constable, and said:

“There’s your pay, Bob. Much obliged for bringing my nigger back. I guess you want to run around town a little before you go back.”

Bob grinned his appreciation, pocketed his money, and strode out.

Gaitskill looked at Pap Curtain and broke out in a loud laugh.

Great tears rolled down Pap Curtain’s face and splashed upon the hands folded in his lap, but Gaitskill took no notice.

“Now, Pap,” Gaitskill grinned, “that was a great stunt you pulled off on me. What do you think I ought to do to you for it?”

“Dunno, boss,” the negro quavered, leaning over and resting his teary face upon his hands.

“How many of those niggers did you get?”

“I didn’t git any, Marse Tom,” Pap declared, hoping to build up some sort of defense. “It wus dat fool Figger Bush an’ Prince Total whut succulated de repote!”

There was a wild yell up the street and a rumble of wagon wheels.

Gaitskill sprang up and walked to the front of the bank, where he could look through the window.

Pap Curtain, trembling, horrified, followed Gaitskill because he was afraid to remain alone.

Ten wagons passed the bank, the teams going in a fast trot, each wagon containing ten or twelve squalling blacks, who waved their hands at the bank as far as they could see it.

Pap Curtain ducked behind the door and kept himself invisible--for each wagon contained a load of his victims!

“That’s your work, Pap!” Gaitskill grinned, when the wagons had passed.

“Yes, suh,” Pap answered in a weak, tearful, hopeless voice.

“If I had known about it when I telephoned the constable, I would not have had him bring you back, Pap. I thought you had robbed all those niggers of a dollar each.”

“Yes, suh,” Pap sighed, praying for more light.

Gaitskill took a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket, felt its texture with a banker’s expert fingers, then said in a voice which dripped with the sweetness of appreciation and praise:

“That trick was the real stuff, Pap! How did you ever think it up?”

Every pore of Pap’s body was spouting cold sweat. His eyes burned, his throat choked, his brain reeled, his limbs trembled--he was racked, tortured with fear and anxiety--and yet this white man seemed to be talking kind words.

“Oh, Lawd,” he prayed, “let a leetle sunshine in!”

“It certainly takes a coon to catch a coon!” Gaitskill laughed. “The idea of making a negro pay a dollar for the privilege of working on a cotton plantation when the white folks are begging for hands--think of it, Pap!

“One hundred and eighteen niggers gone off on a cotton-picking picnic to the Niggerheel plantation, paying a dollar each for the privilege of gathering a thousand bales of cotton, and swearing that they will stick to the job because they paid to get it! Say, nigger, you are the greatest coon in Tickfall!”

Pap Curtain straightened up; his shoulders came back with a snap; he drew a breath so deep that it seemed to suck in all the air in the bank.

“I’m certainly much obliged to you, Pap,” Gaitskill said earnestly. “I take back what I said this morning. You’re a good nigger. Here’s ten dollars for your trouble.”

Gaitskill opened the door.

Pap Curtain stepped out, holding the crinkling bill in his hand. He reeled down the street like a drunken man, staggered across the village to Dirty-Six, and sat down on the rickety porch of his cabin.

The Gulf breeze swept across his sweat-drenched face, cooling it like a breath from the land where angels dwell.

Slowly his shattered nerves were composed; slowly his trembling limbs were stilled; slowly his twitching muscles quieted. He felt tired. He breathed deeply, like a man who had emerged from the depths of great water.

Then he filled his mouth with chewing tobacco and grinned.

“Lawd!” he chuckled. “I’s powerful glad it come out de way it done.”

His mind quickly reviewed each incident of this exciting day, and as he watched the sun sink below the horizon, he announced his conclusion:

“When Marse Tom tole me to leave dis town, he jes’ nachelly overspoke hisse’f!”

The Cruise of the Mud Hen.

Unthinking people assert that negroes do not think.

Nevertheless, when Skeeter Butts, by methods peculiarly his own, became the high-proud owner of a good, cheap automobile, he permitted only three friends to ride with him,--Vinegar Atts, Hitch Diamond, and Figger Bush.

Figger was necessary because his superb voice added to the others, completed the most melodious male quartette in Louisiana. Hitch Diamond as a prize-fighter, Vinegar Atts as an ex-pugilist who had been called to preach, each possessed the physical strength of a forty-horse-power mule. Skeeter needed them to lift his automobile out of the mud and to push it through the sand.

Was not that a thoughtful selection of first-aids to the helpless?

Truly, that outfit was a fearful and wonderful thing.

When those four negroes climbed into that car and began to sing to the accompaniment of a mechanism which sounded like a saw-mill, a cotton-gin, and a boiler factory loaded upon a log-train chasing a herd of bleating billy-goats along the public highway, the effect produced made the pious cross themselves, the ungodly “cuss,” and the little children run to their mothers, whimpering with fright.

A white man might think a thousand years and never think up an arrangement like that.

Then to show that his mental incubator was still capable of hatching out little fuzzy, two-legged chicken-headed thoughts, Skeeter bought a steamboat!

“Whar is Hitch Diamond at, Kunnel?” Skeeter asked of a handsome, white-haired gentleman standing in front of the Tickfall post-office.

“He’s up at my house, unloading fireworks from a dray,” Colonel Gaitskill answered.

“Hitch don’t go back to wuck to-day, do he?” Skeeter inquired in a shocked tone.

“Certainly not,” Gaitskill smiled. “This is a national holiday. I imagine Hitch has finished that little job now. Are you folks going off to make a day of it?”

“Yes, suh, us is fixin’ to cel’brate, too!” Skeeter chuckled.

“Do you know why we celebrate the Fourth of July, Skeeter?” Gaitskill asked with a smile.

Skeeter knew. He also knew that “Fighting Tom” Gaitskill stood before him, and this old soldier had not fought with the heroes of ’76. He tempered his answer to a hero of the Lost Cause.

“Shore, Marse Tom!” he chuckled. “Dis is de day dat our white marsters kilt all de dam-yanks!”

Gaitskill laughed.

“Your answer is a credit to your tact and diplomacy, Skeeter, but it certainly upsets the records of history. Where are you going?”

“We’s gwine down to de river.”

“I want you and Hitch Diamond to help me with the fire-works to-night,” Gaitskill said. “You get back by dark.”

“Shore, Marse Tom!” Skeeter cackled. “We ain’t gwine miss no free show. I’ll go git Hitch an’ de rest of de bunch now!”

The seven-mile road to the Mississippi River was smooth and level and was a favorite with Vinegar and Hitch, who preferred riding to climbing out to lift or push. So, one hour later, the automobile quartette stood beside a stump on the banks of that majestic stream and sang of the time “when de water’s so low, de bullfrog roll up his pants jes’ so, and wade acrost from sho’ to sho’; while over in de channel de catfish say: ‘We’s gittin’ plum’ freckle-faced down our way.’”

Six miles up the river at the bend, a little steamboat whistle squalled at them through the still July atmosphere. The quartette promptly sat down and watched the boat’s approach.

The boat was about thirty feet long and about eighteen feet wide, was built with a flat keel which made it float on the top of the water like a cigar box, and was propelled by a paddle wheel in the rear about as big as a barrel.

Some river fishermen own such boats, living in them, and peddling their fish to the negroes on the plantations along the river. The vessel could ride the current down-stream and make six miles an hour; going up-stream, it hugged the bank, navigated the slack water, and got there as soon as it could. Three miles an hour up-stream was going some.

As the boat drew near, the quartette noticed that the machinery was protected by a rudely-built roof, and the crew consisted of one man who sat on a three-legged stool, smoked a pipe, shoveled coal, steered, and pulled the whistle-cord, and still had plenty of time to watch the scenery.

“Dat’s de life fer me,” Skeeter Butts exclaimed. “Up ’n’ down de river, fishin’ an’ swimmin’ an’ sleepin’. Ef I owned a steamboat like dat, I’d go right back to Tickfall an’ ax all my friends good-bye.”

“Me, too!” Vinegar Atts rumbled. “Ef I had a boat, I’d trabbel dis river givin’ religium advices to all de niggers on de river plantations. I’d preach eve’y night an’ I wouldn’t fergit to ax some hones’ brudder to pass de hat.”

“Steamboats is got some good p’ints over autermobiles,” Hitch Diamond growled. “You don’t got to lift ’em outen de mud or push ’em up-hill through de sand.”

“Ef I had a boat,” Figger Bush cackled, pulling at his little shoe-brush mustache, “I’d buy me a derby hat an’ a grassaphome, an’ a long-tail prancin’-albert coat, an’--an’--I’d climb up on top of it an’ sing all de songs I knows.”

The whistle squalled again.

“She’s fixin’ to make a landin’!” Skeeter exclaimed.

The boat passed them on the current, then turned and puffed along the bank through the still water opposite to where they were sitting. A black, chunky, bull-necked negro, the whites of whose eyes shone across the water like china door-knobs, hurled a rope toward them.

“Gimme a turn aroun’ dat stump!” he bellowed, as he stopped the machinery.

While the quartet tied the boat the owner stepped into a little canoe and paddled ashore.

“Howdy, brudders!” he bellowed, as he sat down with them. “My name is Pipe Smash.”

“Us is got names, too,” Skeeter Butts proclaimed, as he introduced himself and his friends. “We been watchin’ you’ boat an’ wishin’ dat we had one.”

Smash hesitated just a second before answering. An eager look flashed in his eyes and vanished. Then he said:

“’Tain’t such a awful rotten dawg’s life fer a nigger--livin’ on you’ own boat. I’s jes’ mournin’ in my mind because I’s got to quit it.”

“How come?” Skeeter asked.

“I’s gittin’ married real soon an’ de gal specify dat she don’t want no home whut floats aroun’ permiscus so dat de chickens don’t know whar to come to roost. She wants me to sell out an’ sottle down on dry land.”

“Dat’s a powerful sensible notion,” Skeeter Butts proclaimed, as his appraising eyes searched the steamboat. “Is you foun’ a buyer yit?”

“Naw!” Pipe Smash said disgustedly. “White folks won’t buy no nigger’s boat, an’ niggers ain’t got no money.”

“How financial do a nigger got to be to pick up a good, cheap, han’-me-down boat?” Skeeter asked cautiously.

“Well, suh, I figger it out dis way,” Pipe Smash said, boring the middle finger of his right hand into the palm of his left hand for emphasis. “I bought dat whole boat jes’ as she floats from a white man whut picked a fuss wid de cote-house an’ had to run in a direction whar de river didn’t go. It costed me two hundred dollars ten year ago, an’ is some wore out. One hundred dollars in cash spondulix gits her now.”

Skeeter glanced at the faces of his three friends and each responded with a slight nod. Skeeter made a careful advance.

“Ef I jes’ knowed somepin ’bout how to run a steamboat--” he began.

“Don’t none of you niggers know nothin’ ’bout steam-engines?” Pipe asked, in a peculiar voice.

“Naw!” they said in a chorus.

A peculiar expression passed over Pipe’s face.

Skeeter’s quick eyes caught the look, and he rightly concluded that Pipe was going to take advantage of their ignorance to cheat them.

“’Tain’t no trouble to learn how to run ’em,” Pipe remarked. “All you got to do is to keep fire in de furnace an’ water in de b’iler, an’ hol’ to de steerin’-wheel an’ stay in de river.”

“Dat sounds easy,” Skeeter said, as he rose to his feet. “Less paddle out an’ take a look at dat boat.”

When they were all aboard and the engine was puffing laboriously up the river, Pipe Smash looked at the four grinning negroes with an air of triumph.

He knew his steamboat was sold.

* * * * *

They were traveling about as fast as a lame man could walk, but there was an exhilarating throb to the engine, and a cheerful slap-slap to the paddle-wheel, and the river went past them instead of taking them with it, and by shutting their eyes for five minutes and then opening them they could see that they were actually gaining on the scenery.

And the scenery would set an artist wild: a sky like a soap-bubble, and high in the dome a buzzard sailing like a speck of dust, a river like a broad, flowing ribbon of old gold, and close to the levees on each side the woods, dense, black, moss-hung and funereal, absorbing so little of the sun’s light that the negroes could hear the call of the night-owls and the voice of the whip-poor-will.

Suddenly Skeeter’s high soprano voice ran out across the water, the other voices joined, and the woods echoed back the music:

“When peace like a river, attendeth my way, When sorrers like sea-billers roll-- Whutever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, It is well, it is well, wid my soul.”

“Whut is de name of dis boat called, Pipe?” Skeeter asked at the end of their song.

“’Tain’t got no name,” Pipe answered.

“Dat won’t do,” Vinegar Atts bellowed, as he looked with proprietary eye upon the vessel. “Less call her by some high-soundin’ name.”

“Less call her de _Skeeter Butts_?” the little barkeeper promptly suggested.

“Naw!” the three other men whooped.

Skeeter giggled.

“I figger dar will be three votes agin any yuther nigger’s name in dis bunch,” he said. “Less call her de _Hen-Scratch_.”

“Naw!” the trio bellowed. “A saloom ain’t no fitten name fer a boat.”

“Less call her de _Shoo-fly_.”

“Naw!” the bunch howled. “We don’t name no boat after a Mefdis meetin’-house.”

Finally Skeeter said:

“I motions dat we leave it to Pipe Smash to name de boat fer us!”

“Dat’s right! Gib us a good name, Pipe!”

Pipe scratched his woolly head and thought. Then he said:

“Is you niggers made acquaintance wid a coot?”

“Suttinly.”

“Is you ever seed how a coot starts to fly? He leans fur back like he was restin’ on his tail den he takes a runnin’ shoot----”

“Shore! We knows!” the men interrupted.

“Dis boat gits its start by shovin’ wid its tail,” Pipe resumed. “Furthermo’, dis boat, like a coot, is a lan’ an’ water bird. Accawdin’ to dat notion, I votes dat we call dis boat after de nigger word fer a coot----”

“De _Mud Hen_!” the quartet whooped triumphantly. “De _Mud Hen_!”

From that moment our four friends were consumed with desire to own the boat which had received such a high-sounding and appropriate name.

Skeeter presided at a lengthy consultation, then came forward to the pilot-wheel and counted one hundred dollars into Pipe Smash’s greedy palm.

“Each of us chips in twenty-five dollars, Pipe,” Skeeter explained.

“Dat’s a fine way to do,” Pipe grinned. “Is you elected who is de head boss leader yit?”

“Naw,” Skeeter said. “We ain’t got dat fur.”

“Ef you ’vide up yo’ jobs an’ decide who is gwine be who, I’ll learn you how to run de boat an’ esplain each man’s job to him,” Pipe proposed. “Atter dat, I’ll step off.”

“I announces myse’f de captain of dis boat!” Skeeter Butts yelled. “Any objections?”

“I’s de commondore,” Hitch Diamond bellowed.

“I’s de skipper,” Figger Bush quacked.

“My job is cut out for me,” Vinegar Atts grinned. “I’s de fust high exalted chaplain.”

“Whut do de chaplain do?” Skeeter Butts wanted to know.

“He sets down an’ sings religium toons ontil somebody dies,” Vinegar informed him. “Den he gibs de dead man religium advices, ties a lump of coal to his foots, an’ draps him in de ribber.”

“Dat’s a easy job!” Figger cackled.

“’Tain’t so,” Vinegar growled. “Plenty accidunts happen on boats--de b’iler busts, de boat snags out de bottom on a stump an’ sinks, de boat ketches on fire an’ burns up, an’ niggers falls overboard an’ gets drowndead.”

“Shut up, Revun!” Skeeter Butts barked. “Dat kind of graveyard talk gibs me trouble in my mind.”

“Prepare to git ready to die!” Vinegar bellowed dramatically. “Dis river is ’bout fawty miles deep!”

“Whut you figger on doin’ as commondore, Hitch?” Skeeter asked.

“I sets in de middle of dis boat to balunce de load,” the giant prize-fighter announced. “I’ll watch you fiddle wid dat little steer-wheel, an’ between times, mebbe I’ll shovel a leetle coal.”

“Whut you gwine do as skipper, Figger?” Butts inquired next.

“I skips all de hard jobs, an’ all de easy wuck dat I kin,” Figger snickered. “I don’t mind standin’ up in front an’ watchin’ fer snags an’ allergaters. I’s gwine hab a fence rail tied under each arm an’ stan’ straddle of a log. Ef dis boat sinks, Figger figgers on floatin’ to land!”

“I’s gwine lay in some fence-rails, too,” Vinegar Atts declared. “I’ll need a whole wood-pile of ’em.”

“It’ll take a whole log-raft to float me,” Hitch Diamond decided. “I’ll fix it togedder as soon as I git back to land.”

“Whut good will a lot of fence-rails do you niggers ef dis old engine busts?” Pipe Smash inquired in a tone of comment. “When a steamboat blows up dar ain’t enough of it left over fer any fool nigger to set on.”

“Dat’s so,” Skeeter Butts replied uneasily, trying to grin with stiffening lips. “Does dey bust up pretty frequent?”

“Naw, suh, dey never busts up but once,” Pipe Smash grinned. “Once is a plum’ plenty fer any kind of boat.”

“I mean does pretty many boats bust up?” Skeeter explained.

“All of ’em--soon or late,” Smash chuckled.

“Mebbe I hadn’t oughter been so spry ’bout buyin’ dis boat,” Skeeter mourned, as he looked down into the muddy water and shuddered.

“I wouldn’t say dat till I learnt how to run de boat,” Smash responded. “Come here an’ take holt of dis wheel.”

Smash had shrewdly waited until the right time to give this invitation. They were now riding down the middle of the river on the current. The boat was still lacking in speed, but it moved as smoothly as a high-powered automobile.

“Huh,” Skeeter chuckled. “Dis here is a snap. I feel like I been runnin’ steamboats all my life. Gimme elbow room accawdin’ to my muscle, niggers, an’ watch Cap’n Skeeter Butts make de _Mud Hen_ flit!”

Hitch Diamond, the commodore, reached for the coal shovel.

“Drap dat shovel, Hitch!” Pipe Smash grinned. “Coal costs a heap money an’ you don’t want to waste it goin’ down-stream. De time to shovel ain’t yit.”

“Dat’s right,” Hitch agreed. “It ’pears to me like we is all got a snap. I shore feels comferble.”

“I got a easy job, too!” Vinegar proclaimed. “’Tain’t no real trouble to set down an’ wait fer a corp’.”

“All you niggers, come here!” Pipe Smash exclaimed. “I wants to press somepin’ powerful heavy on yo’ minds, an’ ef you fergits it offen yo’ minds, I tells you right now dat Revun Atts won’t wait long to git a fust-rate corp’.”

“Whut’s dat?” Skeeter chattered.

“You see dat contraption up on dat engine whut looks like a clock?” Pipe Smash asked.

“Yes, suh!”

“Dat is called de steam-gage. Dat shows how much steam is in de b’ilers. Now dis engine won’t tote but sixty pounds of steam an’ be plum’ safe--you see dat indicator p’ints to sixty now.”

“Dat’s right!” Hitch Diamond corroborated.

“Whut do us do ef we git over sixty?” Skeeter asked tremblingly.

“Ef you is puffin’ up-stream, you kin risk sixty-five,” Pipe Smash told him. “But atter you pass dat number--good-night!”

“Dat ain’t tellin’ me whut to do!” Skeeter snapped.

Smash scratched his woolly head, loosened his soiled shirt-collar by running his fingers around his fat neck, and sighed.

“I don’t know whut is did wid dem succumstances,” Smash declared. “I ain’t never loss my good sense an’ got up dat high yit. But I got it figgered out dat a real quick nigger could do two things: he kin open de furnace, rake out de hot coals, set de boat on fire an’ burn her up; or, he kin jump in de river an’ let de boat float ontil she busts!”

“Hear dem words!” Vinegar Atts bawled. “I knowed I had a good chance to orate over a corp’!”

Skeeter Butts looked greatly scared for a minute, then he took a big breath and rallied.

“Dat ain’t so awful dangersome,” he said. “I bet you niggers seben dollars per each dat dat indicator don’t never reach sixty no more--open dat furnace door, Hitch, an’ cool de b’iler!”

The commodore lost no time in obeying the captain.

“Dat ain’t de right way to do!” Pipe Smash told them. “Ef you open de furnace door, de b’iler gits hotter--dat makes de fire draw better!”

“Shet dat furnace door, Hitch, you fool!” Skeeter barked. “My Lawd, you’s gittin’ us ready to bust!”

The commodore shut the door.

Then Pipe Smash gave them another jolt:

“You all is got one mo’ little jigger to watch, niggers!” he said, pointing to a glass tube. “Dat little, round, glass bottle is de water-gage. You wanter put water in de b’iler till dat water-gage stands half-full all de time. Ef dat little bottle ever goes plum’ dry, de buzzards will be pickin’ yo’ bones outen de top of de cypress trees along dis river!”

“Hear dat, now!” Vinegar Atts whooped. “Dis here chaplain shore has cut out a hard-wuckin’ job fer hisse’f!”

“Shut up, Revun!” Skeeter snapped. “You ack like you wus proud dis boat wus gwine bust.”

“’Tain’t so!” Vinegar protested. “I done invested my whole June sal’ry from de Shoo-fly chu’ch in dis boat!”

Skeeter’s eyes lit on Figger Bush.

“Figger,” he said, “you done nominate yo’se’f de skipper--you skip aroun’ here an’ sot yo’ eye on dis glass bottle!”

“She won’t dry up as long as I rides in dis boat!” Figger said with conviction. “I wouldn’t take my eye offen dat bottle ef a allergater tickled me wid his tail!”

“I got a few mo’ advices,” Pipe Smash announced. “You wants to keep de lily-pads, snags, an’ wire-grass outen de paddle-wheel an’ de steerin’-gear. Ef you don’t you’ll git kotch in de current an’ float plum’ to de Gulf of Mexico.”

“Hear dem words!” Vinegar Atts whooped. “All you niggers better be on de mourners’ bench a gittin’ religium!”

“Shut up, Vinegar!” Skeeter wailed. “You set behime dis boat an’ watch dat paddle-wheel.”

“I shore will!” Vinegar declared. “An’ de fust time she fouls up you’ll see Vinegar floatin’ to’des de shore straddle of his own coat-tail! Dis chaplain don’t take no chances wid hisse’f--I don’t need no visit to de Gulf.”

“I cain’t remember nothin’ mo’ to say,” Pipe Smash said, scratching his woolly head. “Mebbe I oughter say dis: Keep all de bolts screwed up real tight.”

“Dat’s my job!” Skeeter declared. “I don’t trust dese igernunt niggers wid no monkey-wrench.”

“Dat’s right, Cap’n!” Pipe Smash applauded. “You keep dat monkey-wrench in yo’ hand an’ ’tend to dat job wid yo’ eyes wide open, or you’ll shore hab to paddle yo’se’f ashore wid yo’ hands!”

They passed the spot on the shore where, four hours earlier, the boat had been tied to a stump.

Pipe Smash glanced up at the sun.

“I ’speck it’s ’bout time I wus steppin’ off an’ lettin’ you-alls hab yo’ boat,” he said. “I’s gwine to de railroad track an’ ketch de log-train fer Kerlerac. Dar’s a big Fo’th of July nigger dance at Kerlerac to-night.”

Skeeter ran the boat past the stump, gave the wheel a turn, the current swept the rear of the boat around, and Skeeter puffed up to the landing with the skill of an expert pilot.

“Well did!” Smash applauded, as he leaped into the canoe and paddled to shore with the line. “You ack like you been runnin’ steamboats all yo’ life!”