Part 12

“Naw,” Skeeter snapped. “No such good luck. Mebbe ef he sleeped here till mawnin’ he’d roll off dis table an’ break his fool neck!”

“He’s love-sick,” old Isaiah cackled. “He gittin’ ready to marry.”

“Shore!” Pap snarled. “He tripped up my legs an’ throwed me down. I wus in hopes Popsy wus sick—less shove him off dis table an’ kill him!”

Then another man entered the restaurant. He was a fat, pot-bellied negro, his head bald except for two tufts of hair growing over his ears which made him look like a big fat-faced mule wearing a blind bridle.

“Hello, brudders!” the Rev. Vinegar Atts bellowed. “How come you-alls didn’t stay at de weddin’?”

“Never heard tell about dat’n,” Skeeter exclaimed. “Who is de victims?”

“Brudder Wash Jones an’ Sister Solly Skaggs!”

“Whoo-pee-ee!” Figger Bush screamed. “De Lawd wus shorely wid me. Wash is done saved my life!”

Figger’s wild yell of exultation aroused Popsy from his slumbers. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Then he saw Isaiah Gaitskill.

“I done decided not to marry Solly, Brudder Isaiah,” he whined. “I tuck a little nap an’ I dreamt a dream dat Calline, my fust wife, come to me an’ warned me to beware of widders. She said dey wus awful treach’rous an’ deceivin’.”

“Calline is got it right, Popsy,” Pap sighed. “My little romance is snipped in de bud.”

“Wash an’ Solly had dat case fixed up in N’ Awleens,” Vinegar told them. “Solly wouldn’t marry Wash onless he had de same amount of money dat she inherited from her husbunt. So Wash arrived in Tickfall, started a Coon Island like N’ Yawk has, collected five hundred admissions at one dollar per each, married Solly an’ lit out on de midnight train.”

“Whut becomes of dat Coon Island?” Pap asked.

“Wash axed me to hand dat whole shebang over to you fer a consolation prize,” Vinegar answered.

The First High Janitor

I

“Dis here nigger Uplift League is shore gittin’ active, Figger,” Skeeter Butts remarked one morning as he entered the Hen-Scratch saloon and seated himself at a table beside his partner.

Figger Bush sat with his knife-blade poised over the top of the pine table, trying to devise some new design to carve upon that piece of furniture. He showed his lack of interest in the league by replying:

“Dem Uplifters ain’t gwine lift me up. I’s a heavy-weight.”

“You always wus a sinker,” Skeeter smiled, as he watched Figger sketch the outline of an Indian face in the soft pine with his knife-point before beginning to carve. “You jes’ nachelly went down ever since I knowed you.”

“Dese Uplifters is uppity, biggity, high-brow niggers. Dey’s always jawin’ about high cullud sawciety, an’ who b’longs an’ who ain’t b’long. Dey ain’t black folks; dey’s play-like whites.”

“Dey’s actin’ an’ playin’ like niggers now,” Skeeter grinned. “Dey’s in a awful row ’bout who’s gwine be elected to de high-up offices of de Uplift. I never seed de beat of de politickin’ dey’s doin’.”

“Nobody ain’t politicked me yit,” Figger murmured, as his knife slowly moved through the soft pine. “I reckin votes ain’t fetchin’ so awful high price.”

“Dem Uplifters is gwine uplift de price befo’ de election is over,” Skeeter told him. “Ef I had a real loud voice an’ could holler an’ bawl an’ whoop, I’d run fer presidunt of de league myself.”

“You jes’ fergit dem notions off yo’ mind,” Figger growled. “I ain’t aimin’ to keep dis saloon an’ do all de odd jobs while you yelps aroun’ like a kicked dawg about whut oughter be done fer de poor, oppressed cullud race.”

“But de Uplifters is done fergot de po’, oppressed cullud niggers an’ is thinkin’ up cuss names to call each yuther wid,” Skeeter explained. “Some Uplifters ain’t in favor of de way de yuther uplifts is liftin’, an’ dey’s tryin’ to git good riddunce of Mustard Prophet an’ put Pap Curtain in his place as presidunt.”

“Pap Curtain is a slick-head nigger,” Figger growled. “He’s heap mo’ crookeder dan a dawg’s hind leg. Nobody cain’t never git Pap straight.”

“Dat’s de kind of man to git elected,” Skeeter snickered. “It’ll take a slick-head to beat Mustard.”

“You real shore dey ain’t gwine run you fer presidunt?” Figger asked suspiciously.

“Dey ain’t got no notion of dat kind,” Skeeter replied. “Dey don’t see me at all. Dis here is gwine be a real election an’ it takes a loud speecher to git votes. My voice is too squeaky an’ my size is ag’in’ me. A little runt like me wid a screech-owl voice couldn’t git elected as free-meat man in a dawg town.”

“I’s glad you’s so modest, Skeeter,” his friend grinned. “My idear is dat dis saloon is gwine be de chiefest headquarters of bofe sides of de Uplifters. We’ll rake in a heap of dollars by bein’ puffeckly neuter in dis race. Ef we takes sides, we loses money.”

“Dat’s so,” Skeeter agreed. “But I heerd Pap Curtain talkin’ down in Dirty-Six an’ Pap got de right notion. He says dat we need new blood in de Uplift League. He says dem officers whut’s got de honors now jes’ holds deir jobs an’ don’t do nothin’. He says our race is sinkin’ down because dem Uplifters ain’t liftin’ up. He says dat de pusson who will git charge of dat league an’ make it active an’ yellervate de race will be Tickfall’s most leadin’ cullud sitson.”

“I wouldn’t objeck to bein’ de leadin’ member of de Tickfall blacks,” Figger sighed. “But I’s like you—I ain’t got de voice. I’s got de heft on you, but I don’t weigh as much as Hitch Diamond or Vinegar Atts, an’ ef weight an’ voice is gwine win out, Ginny Babe Chew is got us all beat a mile.”

“Dat’s a funny thing about dis here race,” Skeeter chuckled. “Ginny Babe Chew is a runnin’, too!”

“Uhuh!” Figger grunted. “Dat means dat eve’y Uplifter in de league is gwine have a rep onless dey votes fer her. Dat ole woman knows all de sins all de niggers in Tickfall is cormitted. She tells ’em, too. An’ when it comes to callin’ cuss-names, all us is new beginners to Ginny Babe. Dat gal’s had expe’unce.”

“I ain’t gwine mess wid it, Figger,” Skeeter said, as he thought uneasily of the things Ginny might tell about him. “I don’t want my rep ruint by Ginny Babe. Us’ll bofe be neuter an’ keep dis saloon.”

At that moment the door of the saloon was pushed open and a diminutive darky named Little Bit entered.

Little Bit had apparently robbed a woman’s wardrobe for his wearing apparel. For coat, he wore the upper half of a woman’s coat-suit, the tail flapping down around his knees and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to give exit to his short arms. For a shirt, he wore a woman’s shirt-waist, silk material, flowered and lacy and frilled. We presume that the woman’s husband had contributed the masculine portion of the attire, for the trousers had originally belonged to a man much larger in the waist and much longer in the legs than Little Bit, and the pants were hitched about his middle and cut off at the knees. For hose, he wore—here I cross my heart and hope I may die—a woman’s purple-silk stockings, ending at the feet with a pair of ladies’ pumps, gray suède in color with high French heels!

“Whar in de name of mud is you been at?” Skeeter Butts howled as he glared at his wristwatch. “Is you wuckin’ in dis saloon or is you ain’t? You expeck me to pay you wages when you comes here at mighty nigh dinner-time an’ aims to do a day’s wuck?”

“I been listenin’ to Pap Curtain make a speech,” Little Bit snickered. “He’s got a chunk of rock salt in one hand an’ a sour lemon in de yuther, an’ he’s talkin’ about all de sins of de Uplifters. He wants me to he’p him win out.”

“You!” Skeeter Butts shrieked.

“You!” Figger howled.

“Suttinly,” Little Bit answered. “I got plenty influence an’ kin git a lot of votes. Pap say to me dat plenty offices is to be give away to his supporters ef he gits elected an’ he done tipped me off dat I’ll be de fust high janitor at four dollars per mont’ pay.”

“But me an’ Figger is gwine be neuter in dis race,” Skeeter snapped. “De Hen-Scratch saloon will be de grand high headquarters of all de politics. Dis saloon mussn’t take no sides.”

“I ain’t no pardner here,” Little Bit replied. “Nobody won’t pay no mind to me.”

“All right,” Skeeter said after a moment’s thought. “I reckin you don’t count fer nothin’ nohow. But I don’t stand fer no politickin’ about dis place. Ef you gits to makin’ any of Pap’s speeches fer him, I’ll shore suppress you.”

Little Bit shuffled his high-heeled pumps in a few dance steps to show his contempt for this warning and passed out.

“I hope dis politics disease ain’t ketchin’,” Figger sighed. “Little Bit is done got de germ.”

“’Tain’t ketchin’,” Skeeter assured him. “But I shore hopes Pap is gwine win out or some yuther good man. Mustard Prophet oughter be squelched.”

“I ain’t huntin’ no job like dat,” Figger replied as he closed his knife and looked with admiration upon his handiwork. “I’s gwine home to my dinner. Scootie is cooked some hot cakes an’ I’m got a gallon of sirup.”

II

In Pap Curtain’s career he had driven many carriages which transported over the Parish of Tickfall the candidates for the offices within the gift of the people. He now recalled to his profit that every prospective Congressman, Governor, and Senator went from house to house, seeking out each voter, loudly enunciating their political principles, and soliciting their votes.

Figger Bush, on his way home to his dinner of hot cakes and sirup, found a little group of negroes standing on a corner in Dirty-Six, with Pap Curtain in the midst. Pap gesticulated with his left hand, which held a lemon, and his harsh, snarling voice clearly enunciated the principles on which he hoped to be elected president of the Tickfall Uplift League.

Figger slipped quietly around the little group, determined to go on his way. But Pap would let no possible voter escape.

“Ain’t dat so, Brudder Figger Bush?” Pap howled.

“Whut?” Figger asked, brought to a sudden halt.

“Ain’t whut I been sayin’ true fer a fack?” Pap demanded.

“I ain’t heerd nothin’,” Figger mumbled, longing to escape.

Pap walked over and laid an impressive and detaining hand upon Figger’s shoulder. The crowd moved with Pap and enclosed him, and Figger found himself shut in on all sides.

“I been explavacatin’ dat de Uplift League ain’t been run right. Ain’t dat so?” Pap snarled.

“’Tain’t been run to suit me,” Figger murmured knowing that he could escape more easily if he agreed with Pap than would be possible if he started an argument.

“Suttin, it ain’t!” Pap howled triumphantly. “’Tain’t been run to suit nobody. De dues is too high, de members of de league is too choosy about admittin’ new members, an’ a poor an’ meek-seemin’ man ain’t got no show. Ain’t dat right?”

“Shore is,” Figger muttered, with some reluctance.

“You know how ’tis yo’ own self, Figger!” Pap howled, elated over Figger’s endorsement of his position. “I remember once you wusn’t allowed to come inside de league meetin’ because you had on shoes ’thout no socks!”

“Dat’s so,” Figger agreed.

“I argufies dat wus a insult an’ a outrage!” Pap snarled. “Don’t you agree wid dem sentiments?”

“Yes, suh.”

“I proclamates dat de members of de league oughter be allowed to dress as dey dern please,” Pap howled. “Let ’em come wid socks or widout socks—dem’s my docterines!”

A murmur of acquiescence arose from the little group, and Pap with true oratorical instinct felt that he had shot off the one big set-piece of fireworks in his display, and that he had better quit at his climax. Let it be said to his credit that he did not linger to shoot off a single lonesome skyrocket of eloquence, but closed his mouth right there, and laid hold upon Figger’s arm and led him down the street and away from the rest of the group.

“I wants you to go to my cabin wid me, Figger,” he whispered. “Us oughter git togedder an’ whup out dem ins an’ git in ourselves.”

“Scootie is expectin’ me home ’bout now,” Figger remonstrated.

“I won’t keep you long,” Pap assured him.

“Whut you think is my chance to git elected?”

“I reckin you got some show ef you kin git enough niggers to vote fer you,” Figger told him.

“It’s principles dat gits votes,” Pap proclaimed. “I’s preachin’ de only docterine whut hits a nigger right—eve’y feller do as he please!”

“Preachin’ don’t git no votes,” Figger disagreed. “Mostest votes is got by de man whut gits de mostest niggers to vote fer him and wuck fer him.”

“Dat’s why I needs you, Figger,” Pap said, as they walked up the steps and sat down on a bench on Curtain’s porch. “I wants you to come in wid me an he’p me git elected.”

“Dar ain’t nothin’ in de race fer me,” Figger declined promptly. “I don’t care who is de head leader of de league. I ain’t in de Uplift bizzness. I’s in de barroom bizzness.”

“Dar’s plenty in it fer you,” Pap told him. “A presidunt is got to hab a vice-presidunt, ain’t he? I wants you to run wid me an’ be my vice-presidunt. In case I dies or gits in jail, you gits de presidunt job.”

Figger Bush drew in his breath sharply, then sat for a long time in silence, looking into the thick branches of an umbrella china-tree. Honors had been suddenly thrust upon him. Pap was old and his chance of dying was good. He was a “slick-head” negro, and his chance of getting into jail was better. It did not require much imagination for Figger Bush to see all obstacles cleared away, and behold himself as the honored president of the Uplift League.

Scootie’s hot cakes got cold; Figger never did come home to eat them.

Skeeter Butts tended bar alone until sundown before he saw his partner again. When Figger entered, Skeeter howled:

“Looky here, you done been gone long enough to go to a fun’ral an’ mourn de loss of yo’ best frien’. Did dem hot cakes knock you out?”

“Ain’t had none,” Figger answered, glancing up in surprise at the sudden recollection of his lost dinner. “Fergot all about ’em.”

“Whut ails you? Whar you been at? De fust notion you know, you’ll git fired!”

“Ef I gits elected, I don’t keer ef——”

“Ef you git—whut?” Skeeter interrupted, his eyes bulging with astonishment, which rapidly changed to anger and disgust.

“Pap Curtain is candidated me to run fer vice-presidunt wid him,” Figger explained. “Ef Pap dies or gits in jail, I gits to be plum’ presidunt. De chances is pretty good. Pap digs wells fer a livin’ an’ he’s got plenty good chances to git blowed wid dynamite.”

“Positively not!” Skeeter howled. “Dynamite might blow up whar Pap wus, but ’tain’t never been quick enough to blow up whar Pap is.”

“Anyhow, Pap’s a snoopy, slick-head nigger, an’ he’s got a good chance to git in jail,” Figger continued.

“Listen to yo’ fool talk!” Skeeter ranted. “Slick-heads don’t never git in jail. Dey chooses ’em a pardner or a vice-presidunt, an’ it’s dat mud-head dat gits in jail.”

“Anyways, I’ll shore be presidunt some of de time, because when de gram jury meets, Pap always gits de trabbel-itch an’ leaves town,” Figger rambled on.

Overcome by an assortment of emotions, Skeeter Butts placed his feet on the table and let himself down in his chair until he was sitting on his shoulder-blades. He fanned himself with his derby hat and glared at Figger fairly speechless with wrath.

“Of co’se, I mought not git elected, but me ’n’ Pap will gib ’em a good race——”

“You bet you ain’t gwine be elected,” Skeeter shrieked. “You ain’t gwine be allowed to run! You’s de wuss loontick I ever did see.”

“I ain’t no loontick,” Figger retorted. “De last words you said to me befo’ I lef’ fer dinner—an’ I shore regrets dat I loss dat dinner by deprivity—you said you hoped Pap would git elected. Now I ups an’ offers to he’p Pap an’ you go poppin’ off——”

“Stop talkin’ to me about Pap Curtain,” Skeeter shouted. “Dat ole brayin’ jackace is jes’ makin’ a noise to git hisself heard. He won’t lose nothin’ ef he gits beat, but ef you runs wid Pap, us is gwine to lose half dis saloon bizzness because de yuther side won’t paternize us none.”

Figger gasped for breath.

“I fergot that arrangement entirely, Skeeter,” he exclaimed. “Us wus gwine keep out of it. But dat won’t be so awful bad. Pap an’ me an’ our crowd will suppote de Hen-Scratch.”

“I’s sorry you done mint us, Figger,” Skeeter said sadly as he arose to go out for his evening meal. “But I freely admits dat you wus a fool an’ didn’t know no better.”

III

Skeeter slapped his derby hat on his head with such force that it popped like a tambourine in a minstrel show, and stalked angrily out of the room.

He moped down the street and sauntered slowly into the Shin Bone restaurant, sighing pitifully and feeling very sorry for himself.

A slovenly waitress suppressed a yawn, shuffled across the floor in slipshod shoes, and asked indifferently: “Whut’s yours?”

Skeeter waited a moment, hoping that his appearance of personified calamity would impress the woman and she would sympathize with his heart-break, but she looked like she was going to sleep while standing in the middle of the floor so he barked his order:

“I’s had so many troubles my appetite is plum’ gone, Pearly. Gimme a plate of gumbo soup, a dozen fried oystyers, a bait of fried catfish, two slices of apple pie an’ a glass of milk, a hunk of watermelon an’ a cup of coffee.”

He smoked cigarettes and thought up mean things to say to Figger Bush until the order was filled, then courted suffocation for twenty minutes by eating so rapidly that he did not take the time to breathe.

He had reached out for the pie and milk when Shin Bone, the proprietor of the eating-house, came from behind a screen and seated himself at the same table.

“’Lo, Shinny,” Skeeter mumbled as he tried to stuff a whole slice of pie in his mouth at one time, and therefore became incapable of coherent speech for the next few minutes.

“Hello,” Shin replied, watching Skeeter with interest until the last of the first slice of pie was washed down by the milk. “How’s bizzness?”

“’Tain’t so awful bad,” Skeeter replied. “You an’ me is got good trades. Folks comes to yo’ place because dey gits hungry reg’lar, an’ dey comes to me because dey gits thirsty reg’lar. All we got to do is to wait till dey comes.”

“I ain’t find dat true now, Skeeter,” Shin said gloomily. “Wid me, bizzness is plum’ rotten.”

“How come?” Skeeter asked unconcernedly.

“Pol’tics.”

Skeeter’s interest revived. His second slice of pie lingered half a foot from his mouth, poised upon his hand.

“Dis here Uplift League election has done loss me all de customers I’m got,” Shin mourned. “Dey done boycotted me, an’ tunked my bizzness in de head wid a ax.”

“Dey hadn’t oughter done it,” Skeeter exclaimed, working himself into a panic. “How did it come to pass?”

“My wife, Whiffle, is de niece of Pap Curtain,” Shin explained. “Pap is runnin’ fer de presidunt of de Liftuppers ag’in Mustard Prophet. All niggers dat favors Mustard is done cut me out.”

“But Pap oughter git you some customers,” Skeeter protested.

“Pap ain’t got de right follerin’,” Shin sighed. “Niggers dat votes wid Pap is de no-shirt, no-sock outfit, an’ dat kind ain’t got no money to buy vittles. Dey begs deir grub from de cook-ladies in de white folks’ kitchen. Mustard Prophet is got de high-brow, uppity niggers wid him an’ dey’s got de money an’ eats here wid me.”

Skeeter nodded in speechless comprehension of the tragedy, the hand which held the pie wavered and sank slowly to the table, for that pie didn’t look good to Skeeter any more.

“Dem Mustard Prophet voters say dey ain’t never comin’ in here no more,” Shin said dolefully.

“Ef dey don’t feel no better dan I does now, dey wouldn’t fotch you much trade, fer dey couldn’t eat no more dan a brass monkey,” Skeeter sighed, pulling his slice of watermelon closer to him, although unconscious of his action. Beads of apprehensive perspiration stood out on his forehead and a sudden weakness assailed him.

“Whut ails you, Skeeter?” Shin inquired solicitously, for Skeeter had suddenly collapsed like a punctured tire. “Don’t you feel good?”

“Somepin I done et is disagreed wid me,” Skeeter moaned. “Lemme git dis coffee down me befo’ I die!”

Shin waited until Skeeter consumed his coffee and rallied.

“Of co’se, Whiffle cain’t he’p bein’ my wife, an’ she cain’t he’p bein’ kin to Pap, an’ we bofe cain’t he’p it ef Pap runs fer presidunt, but we shore is got our nose broke.”

“Don’t tell me no more, Shinny,” Skeeter exclaimed, waving both hands and rising to his feet. “My head is crazy now.”

“Is you got troubles, too?” Shin asked sympathetically.

“Troubles?” Skeeter howled. “Ain’t you heerd about Figger Bush? He’s runnin’ fer vice-presidunt wid Pap Curtain.”

“You an’ me bofe blowed up suckers, Skeeter,” Shin said in tragic tones. “Our bizzness is bum an’ busted.”

“It’s powerful bad, Shinny,” Skeeter agreed.

“Badder dan you think, Skeeter,” Shin said. “Pap an’ Figger is shore to be elected.”

“How does you dope dat out?” Skeeter asked, panting for breath.

“It lines up dis way,” Shin informed him. “Ginny Babe Chew is runnin’ her petticoat pol’tics fer presidunt. All of Pap’s follerers is sinners in de sight of de Lawd, an’ Ginny Babe Chew is done pronounced on deir sins copious an’ frequent, so Pap an’ his crowd hates her. In dat case, Mustard Prophet ain’t gwine git as many votes as he oughter had because Ginny Babe is runnin’ an’ she’ll git her voters from Mustard’s crowd. Of co’se, when de high-brows splits up deir vote, Pap an’ Figger will snow ’em over an’ got in solid.”

Skeeter felt a sudden weakness in his knees and sat down forcibly on the top of the table. Whereupon he felt considerable moisture in the vicinity of his coat-tail and sprang up to find that he had seated himself upon his slice of watermelon.

“By jacks!” he exclaimed dramatically. “Figger is done ruint my bizzness an’ I done ruint my pants!”

“Ef I wus you, I’d git rid of ’em bofe,” Shin suggested, as Skeeter walked out of the restaurant, wiping the moisture from his trousers with his handkerchief.

When Skeeter had gone, Shin found that the slice of watermelon had not been completely crushed and was not entirely unedible, so he drew himself up to the table and thankfully ate the uninjured part.

“Ef Skeeter wusn’t such a lightweight, dis whole chunk would hab been sp’iled,” he grinned.

He felt better after eating the melon until he suddenly recalled that Skeeter had left the eating-house without paying for his meal.

When Skeeter was outside of the restaurant, he promptly forgot his trousers and started for his home in a trot. He went up the long hill toward the Flournoy place like a brown shadow passing through the darkness, threw open the door of a little shed and seized the crank of his “flivver.”

A moment later he was out in the public highway, speeding through the night toward the Nigger-Heel plantation, on which Mustard Prophet was the overseer.

He found Mustard sitting on the porch of his house, shirtless and barefooted, smoking a vile corncob pipe.

“Set down, Skeeter,” he said in greeting. “Take off all yo’ clothes an’ git cool. Dar ain’t no lady folks aroun’.”

“I feel real chilly, Mustard,” Skeeter said in reply. “Dat is, I’s got cold foots.”

“Whut ails you?”

“I been hearin’ dat a move is started to kick you out as presidunt of de Liftup League.”

“Dat’s so,” Mustard said indifferently. “Dey cusses me fer whut I does an’ dey cusses me fer whut I ain’t do, an’ now dey is tryin’ to boost me out an’ drap me down.”

“I don’t favor it, Mustard,” Skeeter said earnestly. “I come out to offer my he’p. You oughter hab me to scuffle fer you durin’ de day while you got to wuck on dis plantation.”

“Dat’s a good notion, Skeeter,” Mustard said thankfully. “I app’ints you he’per right now.”

“Hol’ on, Mustard,” Skeeter said. “It don’t go so fast an’ easy as dat. In de fust place, I wants de Hen-Scratch saloon to be de headquarters of yo’ side in de race.”

“I’ll arrange dat,” Mustard said easily.

“In de nex’ place, I wants to run wid you on yo’ side fer vice-presidunt,” Skeeter continued.