Part 10

The Consolation Prize

I

THE CLOUD ON THE HORIZON

“Skeeter, kin you rickoleck in your mind about a nigger man who called hisse’f Wash Jones?”

“Suttinly,” Skeeter answered. “He snuck in here about a year ago an’ tried to refawm Tickfall cullud sawciety. Us made him Fust Grand Organizer of de Nights of Darkness Lodge fer de whole worl’ an’ sont him out of town on his fust gran’ organize. Ain’t seed him since dat time.”

“He’s done snuck in agin,” Figger informed him. “He’s all here—de same flossy vest an’ de same big watch-chain ’thout no watch to it, an’ de same mouthful of chawin’ terbacker. But his mouth is done changed.”

“Whut done happened to his mouth?”

“He’s growed two long mustaches whut comes down de sides of his nose plum’ below his chin. He looks like a nigger whut had swallowed two cat-squirrels an’ lef’ deir tails hangin’ out!”

“Whut you reckin he done dat fer?” Skeeter asked.

“Done disguised hisse’f.”

“He ain’t refawmin’ nothin’, is he?” Skeeter asked uneasily.

“Naw, suh. He’s organizin’. He done throwed up his Nights of Darkness Lodge job an’ is cornductin’ health resorts fer cullud pussons.”

“Dar ain’t no sick niggers in Tickfall,” Skeeter said with relief. “He’s done busted in bizziness an’ don’t know it.”

“Dar ain’t no real sick niggers,” Figger agreed. “But plenty of us feels jes’ tol’able an’ b’lieves dat we needs a rest.”

“Restin’ time an’ Sunday comes nachel wid niggers,” Skeeter grinned. “You ain’t sweeped out dis saloon fer about six mont’s.”

“Cain’t sweep her out now, Skeeter,” Figger replied hastily. “Fer a fack, I done come to ax you fer a lay-off fer about two weeks. I needs a change.”

“Wharabouts you gwine change to?” Skeeter asked grouchily.

“Out to de ole tabernacle an’ de prize-fight, picnic, baseball-groun’s, whar Brudder Wash is organizin’ his health resort.”

“How come I ain’t heerd tell ’bout dat?” Skeeter asked.

“He’s been keepin’ it sly because he wus skeart somebody else would think it up an’ beat him to it,” Figger explained. “He done leased de ole camp-groun’s complete, fixed up all de little shacks whar niggers kin stay, hired Shin Bone to run de resteraw, made a dancin’-floor in de ole tabernacle, rented a brass band, an’ is gittin’ ready to rake in de dollars.”

“My Lawd!” Skeeter exclaimed in dismay. “I been livin’ in dis town all my days an’ I never thunk of dat gorgeous idear in my whole life.”

“It shore is a dandy notion,” Figger said with admiration. “Dar’s fo’ springs of water, a great big lake to fish an’ swim in, plenty woods an’ play-groun’s.”

“Gosh! Jes’ think of de money dat’s gwine miss my pants’ pocket,” Skeeter sighed.

“Wash specifies dat dar is a Cooney Island in New Yawk an’ he’s gwine hab a Coon Island in Tickfall.”

“Dat shore is put somepin over on me,” Skeeter mourned.

“Ef you ain’t got no real good objections, I goes out dar to-night an’ stays a week,” Figger remarked.

“I don’t like de notion of keepin’ dis saloon while you gallivants off to a nigger frolic,” Skeeter protested.

“But I gotter go,” Figger assured him.

“Nobody ain’t gotter go no place onless he wants to, excusin’ jail,” Skeeter grumbled.

Figger Bush ended the argument by rising from the table, knocking the ashes from his pipe, and retiring to a little room in the rear of the bar to dress. Ten minutes later he came out with a new suit of clothes, a sunburst tie, a high collar and most expansive cuffs, and all the other paraphernalia of a dead-game sport out for a vacation.

“I hates to leave you, Skeeter,” Figger remarked apologetically. “I’s sorry you is got a grouch. But ef I don’t show up at de tabernacle my grandpaw won’t like it.”

“How come you is so suddent oneasy about displeasin’ Popsy Spout?” Skeeter wanted to know.

“Dat ole man is got money in de bank. Some day he’s gwine haul off an’ die. When he do, he’ll inherit me his house an’ all his cash spondulix. Atter dat happens, I’ll buy one-half of dis Hen-Scratch saloon.”

“Dat ole gizzard says he’s gwine live till he’s one hundred year ole,” Skeeter reminded him.

“Dat means you got to wait thirty year fer yo’ money.”

“Mebbe he’s done miscalculated ’bout how long he’s gwine hang on de bush,” Figger grinned. “I been pussuadin’ him to take a little swim in de Cooley Lake eve’y atternoon when we gits out dar, an’ you know dar’s allergaters in dat lake whut kin swaller Joner an’ de whale.”

“Ef a allergater swallered Popsy, he’d treat him jes’ like de whale done Joner—he’d git dat nigger off his stomick as soon as he could,” Skeeter growled.

“’Tain’t so, Skeeter,” Figger argued earnestly. “When one of dese here Loozanny allergaters swallers a nigger, he crawls out on a mud-bank an’ goes to sleep an’ fergits all about dat cullud pusson in his midst.”

“Ef I could git my wish, I’d be glad if one dem things would chaw up you an’ Popsy, too,” Skeeter retorted.

Figger sat down and lighted a cigarette, wondering how he could placate Skeeter for leaving him alone with the saloon. He could think of nothing else to say, so he changed the theme a little:

“Whut bothers my mind a little, Skeeter, is de fack dat Popsy ain’t got no real good notion whut kind of doin’s will be at de tabernacle. He remembers how ’twus befo’ de war when de white folks helt religium-meetin’s out dar. He wants me to go an’ attend de religium services so me an’ Scootie will git gooder dan we are.”

Skeeter brightened up and laughed.

“Dat means de joke is on you an’ Scootie, Figger,” he guffawed. “I’d druther hab de seben-year itch wid nothin’ to scratch wid—I’d druther be a drag-log tied to a houn’-dawg—dan listen to dat ole Popsy fussin’ ’bout how good things useter wus an’ how much wusser things is now. Go to it, Figger! You got my permission fer a week’s leave-off.”

“I been tellin’ you I warn’t so awful anxious to go,” Figger reminded him.

“You ain’t ’pressed dat fack on my mind very hard,” Skeeter replied. “I wants you to come in eve’y mawnin’ an’ barkeep. You kin go out an’ enjoy Popsy at night.”

“I’ll be in to-morrer mawnin’ early,” Figger answered, as he left.

But Figger did not appear in the saloon until the next day at noon. Skeeter had spent the time thinking up some especially cutting things to say to his partner, but Figger entered the place like a personified calamity and Skeeter forgot all his unkind words in an intense curiosity to know what had happened.

“I done run up on somepin awful bad, Skeeter,” Figger groaned. “Pap Curtain is fixin’ to start a saloon.”

“My Lawd!” Skeeter exclaimed. “De Hen-Scratch has been de onliest cullud saloon in Tickfall fer twenty year. Now dis here Pap Curtain is aimin’ to rival us out of bizzness.”

“Dat’s de way de rabbit p’ints his nose,” Figger assured him.

“Whar do he git de money?” Skeeter asked.

“He’s makin’ arrangements to marrify it,” Figger wailed. “Dar’s a great big ole cow of a woman out dar whut owns five hundred dollars. Her paw an’ maw is talkin’ it aroun’ an’ dey’s huntin’ somebody dat’ll marry her fer her money.”

“Is she as bad lookin’ as all dat?”

“Shore is. She looks like a puddin’ dat riz too high an’ spreads out too much. She kinder comes outen her clothes an’ rolls over de edges of a chair an’ de big of her ’pears like it’s boilin’ over all de sides all de time.”

“I ketch on,” Skeeter grinned. “She jes’ out-niggers herse’f by bein’ so fat.”

“Pap’ll take her ef he kin git her,” Figger sighed. “He ain’t pertickler. He wants money to start a saloon.”

“Us’ll bofe close up dis saloon to-night an’ go out an’ take a look on,” Skeeter announced. “Dis town kin do without two nigger saloons. One is a plum’ plenty. Who is dis here nigger woman anyhow?”

“She’s ole Isaiah Gaitskill’s stepchile,” Figger informed him. “She takes atter her maw in fat-hood. She’s a widder woman an’ her deceasted husbunt left her a lot of insurance dollars.”

“Gosh!” Skeeter sighed in desperation. “Pap Curtain an’ a widder woman! Two ag’in’ one—I ain’t got no show. Life ain’t fitten to live no more.”

II

PLEASURE AND PROFIT

In the evening Skeeter Butts followed Figger out to the old tabernacle grounds and was amazed at the transformation of the place.

Wash Jones had moved many of the benches out of the building and had placed them under trees and in the groves. He had made sawdust trails from the tabernacle to the edge of the lake, to the Shin Bone eating-house, and to all other places where a little money could be coaxed from the pocket of the pleasure-seeker.

He had made a dancing-floor in a part of the tabernacle, arranging seats around it for the sightseers. He had erected refreshment-booths in other portions of the building, and also a band-stand, where the sweating, hard-worked black Tickfall brass band was having the most hilarious time of their lives.

Negroes had come in from the plantations for miles around. Horses were tied to all the trees, wagons and buggies were sheltered in the woods, and a great mob of folks moved up and down the sawdust avenues or tramped the woods, shouting, laughing, cutting monkey-shines, and eating popcorn balls, hot dogs, and sandwiches made of fried catfish.

It was a noisy, boisterous, rollicking place which Skeeter entered.

Ordinarily Skeeter would have been the center of the whole thing. But this affair had slipped up on him and had suddenly developed business complications and his mind was too occupied with his troubles to enjoy the fun going on around him.

Soon after entering the grounds he found Pap Curtain. Pap was entertaining himself by paying five cents for three baseballs. He would then try to throw each ball so it would stay in a bucket about twenty feet away. Whenever he placed one to stay, the proprietor of the amusement feature would give Pap a cigar. The cigars sold three for a nickel in Tickfall and as Pap never succeeded in placing more than two balls in the bucket, the proprietor of the place always made a fair profit in the transaction. Pap had his pocket stuffed full of cheap cigars and promptly offered a handful to Skeeter.

“I don’t smoke garbage,” Skeeter said impatiently, waving aside the offer.

“I figger I done acquired enough of dese cabbage-leaves. Less move on an’ git some fun somewhere else.”

A short distance down the sawdust trail they ran into something new. The diminutive darky named Little Bit was standing on a frail platform erected over a hogshead full of water. There was a trigger shaped like a skiff-paddle about fifty feet away, and men were throwing baseballs at this paddle. If someone hit the trigger, the platform, on which Little Bit was standing, fell and ducked the diminutive darky in the hogshead of water. Little Bit was well known in Tickfall and this particular attraction was a riot. Sometimes thirty baseballs would be flying toward that paddle-shaped trigger at one time, and the hapless Little Bit spent more time in the hogshead of water than he did on the platform.

“Lawd, Skeeter!” Pap exclaimed when he had laughed himself nearly to exhaustion. “I’d druther be de owner of dis Coon Island dan de’ pres’dunt of de Europe war. I feels like I’s jes’ nachelly cut out fer a job like dis. I been huntin’ fer somepin I been fitten fer all my life an’ dis am it.”

“I wish you had dis job, Pap,” Skeeter replied. “I stopped by to ax you a question.”

“I’ll answer yes or no, like de gram jury always tells me to do,” Pap grinned.

“Word is done been sont to me dat you is fixin’ to start a saloon. Is dat so?”

“Yep.”

“Whar you gwine git de money at?”

“A fat widder woman’s husbunt is kicked de bucket an’ lef’ her a wad of dough,” Pap chuckled. “I’s gwine marrify de widder, mix dat dough wid my brains an’ start me a place of bizzness.”

“I thought you wus done through wid marrin’ womens,” Skeeter wailed. “You done been kotched fo’ times already.”

“Yas, suh, but in all dem fo’ times I never married no widder. My edgycation is been neglected. Dey wus all young an’ foolish gals. Dis here is a sottled woman—so dang fat dat when she sottles down it takes a block an’ tackle to h’ist her agin.”

“Aw, shuckins!” Skeeter exclaimed. “Whut you marryin’ dat kind of gal fer?”

“Fer five hundred dollars!” Pap said.

Skeeter turned away with a troubled face. Pap looked after him a moment, then purchased three more baseballs to throw at the trigger-paddle.

At the far end of the grounds, Skeeter found Wash Jones.

“Wash,” he said after a little conversation, “I understands dat you is got a prize widder in dis show.”

The big black eyed Skeeter for a moment with suspicion. He took the time to help himself to a big chew of tobacco before he answered, watching Skeeter covertly all the time. At last he said:

“I ain’t heerd tell about dat. But I ain’t supprized none. I got all de attrackshuns on dis Coon Island whut is.”

“Dey tells me dis widder is got a dead husbunt an’ five hundred dollars,” Skeeter continued.

Wash dropped his plug of tobacco and stooped to pick it up. That Skeeter had this information was not a surprise to him; it was a shock.

“Who mought dat widder be?” Wash asked.

“Sister Solly Skaggs,” Skeeter informed him.

“I knows her,” Wash groaned. “Fat—O Lawd! Ef dat gal wuster drap dead, dey’d hab to git a mud-scow outen de river fer a coffin, an’ de only hole in de groun’ big enough to put her in is Marse Tom’s sand pit. Dat five hundred dollars don’t int’rust my mind, naw, suh, not at all, not at all!”

“Don’t waste no time thinkin’ about it,” Skeeter sighed. “Pap Curtain is done spoke fer it—de fat’s in de fire.”

“Which?” Wash Jones exclaimed in a tone that popped like a gun. “Pap Curtain?”

“Pap done pulled de curtain down on de widder,” Skeeter assured him. “Nobody else needn’t look at her charms.”

Wash Jones turned around three times, as if looking for some place to go and practically undecided about what direction to choose.

Skeeter wandered on disconsolately and finally found himself beside the old tabernacle. An aged man approached him. Skeeter looked for a place to escape, but found no avenue of exit and stood his ground. The venerable man was Popsy Spout.

“I don’t ketch on ’bout dis, Skeeter,” he said in the high, shrill complaining voice of senility. “Dis here ain’t de place whut I thought it wus. ’Tain’t de same place whut it uster be befo’ an’ endurin’ of de war. When do de religium exoncises begin?”

“I dunno,” Skeeter answered. “Ax Wash Jones.”

“I axed him. Wash said ef de people wanted religium doin’s dey could start ’em deyselfs,” Popsy whined. “Wash said he wus jes’ de servunt of de people fer so much money per each people.”

“Dat’s right,” Skeeter laughed.

“I thought dey wus gwine hab preachin’ in dat ole tabernacle to-night,” Pap complained. “Instid of dat, dey’s gwine had a dance fer a prize! Yas, suh—whut do Gawd think of dat? A dance fer a prize?”

“I hopes dat Pap Curtain slips up an’ breaks bofe behime legs,” Skeeter remarked bitterly.

“’Tain’t no use hopin’,” the old man chuckled. “Pap is like me—spry on his legs fer a ole man. But Pap an’ me don’t favor dancin’. We been talkin’ it over. I deespise a nigger dat dances. Ef any of my kin-folks cuts a shuffle on dat flo’ dis night, dey ain’t no kinnery of mine no more.”

“I ’speck I better go gib Figger a warnin’ right now,” Skeeter exclaimed eagerly, glad to find a reason for departure.

“Dat’s right!” Popsy exclaimed, in his high, cracked falsetto. “You warn him good!”

Skeeter wandered down to the shore of the little lake and sat down alone to think out some method of defeating Pap’s designs. After an hour Figger Bush found him by the glow of his cigarette, and came and sat beside him.

“De only way to bust Pap’s plans, Figger, is to marry dat fat Solly Skaggs to somebody else.”

“Who’ll take her?” Figger inquired.

“It’ll hab to be somebody dat ain’t married already,” Skeeter said.

“You’s de only onmarried man I knows, excusin’ Pap,” Figger giggled. “I guess you’ll hab to make de riffle.”

Skeeter considered this a moment in silence. Then he asked:

“Is she so awful fat as people says she is?”

“Ain’t you never seed her?” Figger exclaimed. “Honey, de half ain’t never yit been told! She’s been reg’lar to her meals ever since she wus borned, an’ her meals is been frequent an’ copious, an’ her vittles is agreed wid her too well! Come on, Skeeter, lemme interjuice you to yo’ future wife!”

Figger rose to his feet with eagerness. Skeeter shook his head and sighed.

“I wouldn’t choose any, Figger. I’d druther Pap Curtain would rival me out of bizzness.”

“Mebbe we could wish her onto somebody else,” Figger proposed.

“I been tryin’ to think up some onmarried man,” Skeeter told him, “but I don’t see none in sight.”

They smoked for an hour longer without producing a spark of an idea. At last Skeeter said:

“All I kin do jes’ now, Figger, is to keep Pap away from dat gal ontil I finds a fitten secont husbunt fer her. Dar’s gwine be a prize-dance to-night an’ I nominates you to dance wid Sister Solly Skaggs.”

“Ef she trods on me I’ll be a squashed worm of de dust,” Figger wailed.

“Don’t talk back,” Skeeter replied sharply. “I’ll fix it so you an’ Sister Solly win de prize.”

III

“DAT FAT, FLOUNDERIN’ FOOL”

Mrs. Solly Skaggs was a widow of the sod variety and had enjoyed her matrimonial release for about six months. She had not mourned too much for Solly nor had she loved him much. For he was about as lovable as a sick dog and his departure from the world was a distinct blessing to all the inhabitants thereof.

Old Isaiah Gaitskill, in discussing her chances for matrimony again, assured her that no negro would marry her because she was too fat. But this did not discourage the lady and there was no indication of despair either in her manner or her deportment, for she dressed and acted like a miss of sweet sixteen.

Old Popsy Spout stood on the edge of the throng and watched her elephantine performances on the dancing-floor. Growing weary, he walked over and sat down upon a bench beside Pap Curtain.

“Look at dat fool nigger gal, Pap,” he whined. “I been livin’ off and on nigh onto one hundred year an’ I done seen plenty sights, but dat fat fool flounderin’ on dat floor is de wust sight till yit.”

“Don’t preach so loud, Popsy,” Pap said with a warning hiss. “You mought hurt dat cullud lady’s feelin’s.”

“I ain’t preachin’,” Popsy snapped. “I’s tellin’ facks. Excusin’ dat, she ain’t got no feelin’s. Her feelin’s is padded two-foot deep in fat. I bet she’s got some age on her, too.”

“Not too much age fer a widder,” Pap said. “An’ she’s wuth consid’able money since her fust husbunt up an’ died on her. Five hundred dollars will keep dat woman fat fer a long time.”

“Why don’t you git in de race, Pap?” Popsy suggested. “You ain’t got no wife now.”

“Dat’s my bizzness right now,” Pap grinned. “I needs a little cash money to start a saloon.”

“You ain’t figgerin’ to buy out Figger an’ Skeeter in de Hen-Scratch, is you?” Popsy asked.

“Naw, suh, I’s fixin’ to run ’em out,” Pap said confidently, as he arose and walked away.

Popsy arose, too, pushed his way through the crowd and went in search of Figger Bush. He found Figger and his wife and Skeeter Butts in the Shin Bone eating-house. He hastened to their table, rested his rusty stove-pipe hat upon the top of the table and sat down.

“How come you an’ Skeeter is bofe lef’ yo’ bizzness to come out here, Figger?” he inquired.

“Dar ain’t no bizzness wid dis frolic gwine on,” Figger said.

“You better git to wuckin’ up some new bizzness,” the old man remarked. “Pap Curtain is jes’ tole me he wus gwine run you-alls out.”

“We been talkin’ about dat,” Skeeter broke in.

“Pap’s tryin’ to pick a widder an’ us is wonderin’ how we kin bump him off de job.”

“I’s gittin’ to be a awful ole fool,” Popsy sighed. “I jes’ dis minute suggested to Pap dat he ought to marry dat widder an’ git her out of her misery an’ her mournin’.”

“Whut you mean by doin’ dat, Popsy?” Skeeter snapped. “You done ruint us. I’s thinkin’ about firin’ Figger now because our bizzness is got so bum wid prohibition an’ all dem yuther troubles.”

“Mebbe I could go back an’ tell Pap he is makin’ a miscue at his age,” Popsy proposed.

“You better go do somepin,” Skeeter snapped. “You go potterin’ aroun’ an’ spile my trade an’ I’ll kick Figger out an’ you’ll hab dis here wuthless nigger to suppote.”

“Not ef I kin he’p it,” Popsy said positively. “I’ll shore git busy an’ c’reck dat mistake. I needs my dollars fer my own use. I’s fixin’ to spend ’em in my ole age, when I gits ole.”

At this moment Wash Jones stepped to the middle of the floor, pulled proudly at one of his squirrel-tail mustaches, knocked upon a dining-table with the nicked edge of a thick, granite saucer, and commanded silence.

“I announces dar will be a prize-dance at de tabernacle to-night. It will be de last dance of de evenin’. Five cents lets you into de tabernacle to perceive de dancers, ten cents will gib you de right to dance. At de end of de last dance a prize will be gib away to de lucky winner. De show begins at ten o’clock.”

“I’s reckin I’ll hab to trod ’em a few,” Skeeter sighed. “Got to do somepin to ease up my mind.”

“I don’t allow Scootie an’ Figger to dance,” Popsy snapped. “’Tain’t decent an’ religium to cut monkey-shines like dat at a camp-meetin’. Married folks oughter sottle down an’ behave.”

“I agree wid you,” Skeeter grinned, winking at Figger Bush. “Bofe of ’em is gittin’ too ole an’ stiff to dance an’ Figger never wus no account dancer nohow. As fer Scootie, she dances like one dese here Teddy bears.”

“’Tain’t so,” Scootie snapped. “You gimme a couple dances wid you to-night an’ I’ll show you—_ouch_!”

Figger kicked Scootie under the table and pounded on the top of the table with his fist to drown her voice, looking fearfully the while at Popsy Spout to see if he was listening to her remarks.

“Shut up!” he hissed. “Whut you want to be such a splatter-jaw fer? Watch whut you’s sayin’!”

Scootie cast a frightened look at Popsy, but the old man showed by his next question that he had not noticed her break.

“Whut kind prizes does dey gib fer de dance, Skeeter?”

“Nobody ain’t know but Wash Jones,” Skeeter informed him. “Dis is de fust night of de show an’ no prizes ain’t git bestowed yit.”

“’Twon’t be nothin’ but a pack of chawgum fer de lady an’ a box of cigareets fer de man,” Figger said disgustedly. “Wash Jones ain’t gwine gib nothin’ away. I think I’ll cut out de dance an’ go to bed.”

“Me, too,” Popsy whined. “I got a little bed out here in one of dese shacks ef I could find it.”

“It’s down by de lake, Popsy,” Figger told him, glad that Popsy was leaving them. “You won’t hab no trouble gittin’ dar.”

As soon as Popsy had departed, Scootie turned to Figger and snapped:

“You mighty nigh kicked my leg off an’ ole Popsy didn’t pay no mind to whut I wus sayin’ at all.”

“Stop talkin’ ’bout dancin’ whar Popsy is,” Figger growled. “Dat ole man will git mad an’ gib all his money to furin missionaries when he dies.”

“You’s makin’ yo’se’f tired fer nothin’, Figger,” Skeeter giggled. “Popsy will find out about yo’ dancin’ powerful soon.”

“How soon?” Figger asked.

“As soon as you an’ Sister Skaggs wins dem prizes to-night.”

“I ain’t gwine win no prize. Dar cain’t be no prize-dancin’ wid dat fat ole cow. De judges would laugh at us.”

“I’ll fix de judges,” Skeeter laughed. “Leave it wid me an’ Wash Jones.”

“You ain’t fixin’ to buy up de judges, is you?” Figger asked.

“Naw. I’s fixin’ to buy Wash Jones. ’Twon’t cost much. Wash is a cheap nigger.”

IV

THE JOYOUS TROUBLE-MAKERS

Wash Jones was standing behind the tabernacle, mopping the copious perspiration that streamed from his baboon face.

“I finds dis here bizzness a heap more wuck dan I bargained fer,” he complained to Skeeter Butts. “When I fust started out I thought dat niggers would jes’ entertain deyselfs an’ not expeck nothin’ from me but de pleasure of my comp’ny. But I finds dat dey expecks me to be on de job of waitin’ on ’em all de time.”