Part 13

“I’ll fix dat easy,” Mustard said. “Dar ain’t nobody wid good sense dat wants to be vice-presidunt of nothin’. Dat’s like bein’ de curl in a pig’s tail—jes’ ornamental behind.”

“’Tain’t no diffunce, I wants dat job,” Skeeter insisted.

“I announces you to-morrer,” Mustard said.

“Dat’s all, Mustard,” Skeeter concluded, as he slapped his hat on his head. “I got to hustle back now an’ start my voters to wuckin’.”

“Dar now!” Skeeter said to himself exultantly, as his little machine rattled off the miles back to Tickfall. “I done got dat fixed right. Figger is vice-presidunt on one side an’ I is vice-presidunt on de yuther side, an’ bofe sides is promised to make de Hen-Scratch deir headquarters.”

Seven miles of sandy road slipped under his flying wheels like a brown ribbon while he contemplated this master stroke of business. He placed his little machine under the shed and climbed into bed before he spoke to himself again:

“Dat’s whut I calls a good sense compromise.”

IV

“Now, Figger,” Skeeter Butts announced the next morning, “I got such a idjut fer a partner in dis here saloon dat I had to go git myse’f candidated fer pol’tics.”

“Is you runnin’ fer presidunt?” Figger asked. “I thought you said you squealed too much when you talked.”

“I’s runnin’ fer vice-presidunt,” Skeeter said solemnly. “I’s runnin’ wid Mustard Prophet an’ us is shore gwine gib you an’ Pap Curtain a happy time gittin’ elected.”

“Dat looks bad to me, Skeeter—pardners in bizzness runnin’ ag’in’ each yuther.”

“Dat’s de best bizzness trick I’s done yit,” Skeeter said confidently. “Bofe sides uses dis house fer headquarters. I sells drinks to de Mustard Prophets an’ you sells drinks to de Pap Curtains, an’ we ketch ’em comin’ an’ gwine.”

“I sees,” Figger exclaimed in a voice which throbbed with admiration. “Dat’s de best nigger idear in Tickfall. We’ll git rich an’ one of us will git elected.”

“Look out fer Ginny Babe Chew!” the voice of Little Bit proclaimed from the other end of the room, where the little darky wrestled with a broom. “She’s de one whut’ll ketch you-alls comin’ an’ gwine!”

“Us don’t care nothin’ fer dat ole squawkin’ fat hen,” Skeeter replied contemptuously.

“You better not git too close,” Little Bit warned. “Dat ole hen’ll peck you!”

“Shut up! You git dis saloon cleant up. Us is expect plenty comp’ny to-day.”

“It wus a narrer squeak fer us, Figger,” Skeeter said earnestly. “When you didn’t stay neuter dis bizzness wus ’bout to go bust ontil I made dem new arrangements.”

During the day Pap Curtain came in and held sundry whispered conferences with Figger Bush. Mustard Prophet drove to town and was closeted for two hours with Skeeter Butts. Both men were arranging for a conference at the Hen-Scratch saloon that night with their henchmen, and both barkeepers were feeling elated at the prospect of a prosperous evening.

Then Vinegar Atts entered and spoiled it all. He left his little red runabout snorting and spitting outside the door while he entered with haste carrying some of the paraphernalia of a fisherman.

“Gimme a little snake-bite med’cine, Skeeter,” he yelled. “I’s in a hurry. I’s gwine fishin’ an’ I’s heard tell dat snakes in plenty in de swamp.”

“Is fish bitin’?” Figger inquired.

“Dunno,” Vinegar replied. “I done selected dis occupation to keep from stayin’ in town. Dat Uplift election is done deprived me of my goat. I’s skeart to stay here an’ git on either side. It’ll bust up my Shoofly chu’ch.”

“Ef us wus twins an’ could git on bofe sides, dat wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

“Whar you been at dat you don’t know nothin’?” demanded Vinegar in disgusted tones. “Some of dem niggers whut represent bofe sides come to my chu’ch to prayer-meetin’ last night, an’ dey got in a fight at de door of de meetin’-house!”

“Dey oughter be churched!” Skeeter exclaimed.

“Dey would hab been churched, only I agonized wid ’em an’ got ’em to bury de hatchet. But I ain’t runnin’ no risks. Dey buried de hatchet, but dey left de handle stickin’ out!”

“Dat’s bad news, Rev’un,” Skeeter sighed. “Dis here am de official headquarters of bofe sides.”

“Bad luck, Skeeter!” Vinegar bellowed as he started toward the door. “You better hang a piece of black crape on de Hen-Scratch door and go fishin’ wid me. Dem niggers will shore rough-house you when dey git started, an’ you’ll be same as dead.”

Vinegar departed, leaving uneasiness and anxiety where confidence had been.

In the evening, the saloon rapidly filled with negroes who came in from the country. They were all hardy men, with muscles of oak and iron—one-shirt, one-gallus fellows of the baser sort, who despised the colored man who lived in town, wore a derby hat, sported a high collar, and was stuck up. These were all sullen and devoted adherents of Pap Curtain, and after listening for a while to their bitter anarchistic talk, Figger Bush became frightened of his own supporters and wished there was some easy and unostentatious way to resign.

“Dem fellers is rambunctious,” he whispered fearfully to his partner. “Dey comes at eve’ything butt-end fust an’ hits it wid a jolt. I wish I hadn’t never et outen de same spoon wid ’em.”

“Don’t stir ’em up too much, Figger,” Skeeter urged him. “Mebbe when some of my gang comes in dey’ll calm down a little.”

But Skeeter found that when a bull is mad the sight of another bull does not calm his spirit; it rouses him to battle.

A number of town negroes drifted in, took a look at the situation, and drifted quietly out. They had counted the number of Pap’s adherents and had gone for reënforcements, for the saloon was soon filled with men who were loud in their praise of Mustard Prophet, and they outnumbered Pap’s followers three to one.

Pap’s crowd, dusty, ragged, trampish-looking, drew off at one end of the saloon and composed a little, sour, ugly bunch; over against the more dressy Tickfall bunch, they were a sad contrast, and they felt it.

Then Pap Curtain entered the scene, and his followers took heart.

Pap was practicing the political trick of looking like he belonged to the great common people, and had come up from the commonest of them all. He was a grave-digger and well-digger by profession, and he looked to-night like he had just finished the job of digging all the graves and wells that would be needed in Tickfall Parish for many years to come. There was fresh clay on his clothes and hat and shoes; clay streaked his yellow baboon face, and was plastered thick upon his horny hands. He joined his bunch with many noisy greetings and much hand-shakings, and glared over at the town crowd with every manifestation of contempt that he could devise.

Mustard Prophet came in and joined the town crowd. He was a good-natured, easy-smiling, hard-working negro who had the confidence and esteem of all the people in the town, white and black. Yet he was a real country negro, who had never lived in Tickfall in his life, while Pap had spent many years in Tickfall and owned his cabin there.

Smilingly, Mustard turned to Skeeter, and said, loud enough for everyone to hear:

“Less git dese here obsequies started, Skeeter. What am de plogram?”

“I ain’t fixed up no special diagram,” Skeeter muttered. “Mebbe we mought start somepin off ef bofe de leadin’ candidates made a speech.”

“Let ’em speech!” a number of voices exclaimed.

“Brudders, I introduces Pap Curtain,” Skeeter announced. “He’s runnin’ fer presidunt of de Uplift. We axes him to say de fust words.”

“I ain’t used to speakin’ ’thout I kin cuss,” Pap Curtain began, in his snarly voice, gazing at the Prophet aggregation with contemptuous eyes and sneering lips. “When I sees a lot of dude niggers tryin’ to ack like Gawd made a mistake when He didn’t make ’em white, I don’t cuss, because I ain’t able to do the subjeck jestice. I thanks de good Lawd dat I ain’t nothin’ but a corn-fiel’ nigger, brudder of de cotton-fiel’ mule, an’ I makes my livin’ diggin’ wells, ditches, an’ graves. I done dug de graves of all de dead, an’ now I’s gittin’ ready to dig de graves of some dat’s livin’. We corn-fiel’ niggers will bury Mustard Prophet an’ his Tickfall dudes when de day of votin’ comes!”

A sullen note of applause came from Pap’s ugly-looking crowd, but there was no enthusiasm, no good-will. In a word, Pap’s crowd were not good sportsmen. One man took a big red apple out of his pocket, wiped it off on the leg of his trousers and began to eat it.

“I now introduces Mustard Prophet,” Skeeter announced uneasily.

There was handclapping, several shouts of applause. Mustard’s crowd had been trained in the lodges and the various clubs and knew a little better how to act under the circumstances.

“I don’t see no reason fer gittin’ sour an’ ugly, brudders,” Mustard began. “Nobody ain’t gwine lose much ef he don’t git elected presidunt of de league. In de last year I ain’t got nothin’ fer my presidunt job but a cuss-word eve’y time I do somepin dat don’t please nobody. Of co’se I wants to keep on wid dis job an’ hopes you won’t fergit to vote fer me. Pap Curtain says he’s a corn-fiel’, cotton-fiel’ nigger, but dar ain’t no man, white ner black, dat ever seed him wuckin’ in no kind of fiel’ as a country nigger oughter do. He lives in dis town, an’ he owns his house in dis town. As you-all knows, I’s a real country nigger, never did live in town, an’ I been de overseer of Marse Tom’s plantation fer twenty year. I tries to stand by de high notions of de Uplift. I preaches dat a feller ought to dress up in work clothes when he wucks, an’ put on his compan’y clothes when he goes out in sawciety, an’ wear his Sunday clothes at de lodge an’ de fun’ral an’ de meetin’-house——”

At this point the apple-eating adherent of Pap Curtain had consumed his apple to the core. He balanced it on his thumb as a child prepares to shoot a marble, and flicked it across the room, where it landed on the top of Mustard Prophet’s bald head.

Mustard Prophet stepped down from the chair on which he was standing, walked quietly across the room, laid hold of the collar of the offender, kicked his shins, punched his jaw, then turned him around and booted him across the room.

It was no more than the offender deserved, but he offered all the resistance and counter-offensive in his power, and while this was going on someone slipped behind Mustard and administered a lusty and soul-satisfying kick to him.

The notion became contagious. The two forces joined in combat, but, strange to say, they did not fight with fists, but with feet.

“Look at dat!” Little Bit exclaimed, as he scrambled to a safe place on the top of the bar, where he danced up and down in his high-heeled pumps. “Eve’ybody is tryin’ to kick eve’ybody else!”

In a moment the crowd was so cramped for room that they had to abandon that mode of combat and began to fight with their fists. They milled around and around, pounding, scrouging, punching with elbows, while their voices rose in a mighty diaphony of imprecation and abuse.

“Lawd! Lawd!” Little Bit exclaimed in a prayerful voice from his place of safety on the bar. “Eve’ybody is tryin’ to hit eve’ybody else!”

In the fury of battle the men sought other weapons and found the numerous chairs most convenient. In the jam they found it impossible to swing the chairs and hit with them, so they held the chairs before them, as a lion-tamer does, and charged their opponents, holding their heads low to avoid being clubbed. The resemblance to a lot of milling, horning cattle struck Little Bit at once, and from his vantage-point upon the bar he announced the procedure:

“Eve’y bully is tryin’ to hook eve’ybody else!”

Skeeter Butts had seen as much of the fray as he could stand, so he ran behind the bar, seized his automatic pistol and fired it in the air, holding the weapon out of the window. He knew how dangerous such a performance was, for it might suggest to the angry negroes the use of their own guns. But he took the chance with the hope that the town watchman would hear the firing and come to the rescue.

The negroes took no notice of the pistol-firing, for some of them had found new and mightier weapons. There were half a dozen tables in the room, and when some of these were overturned, the men wrenched the legs off, and with shouts of glee brought these mighty clubs into action.

“Gawdlemighty!” Little Bit screamed. “Eve’ybody is tryin’ to kill eve’ybody else!”

Figger rushed to the electric-switch and turned off the lights.

“Bless Gawd!” Little Bit bawled. “Eve’ybody cain’t see eve’ybody else!”

Suddenly a voice cut through the sound and fury of that room.

“Hey, you niggers! Turn on the lights!”

Silence except for the tramping of many feet going toward doors and windows.

“Halt!”

Silence, broken by the sound of running feet. The light flashed on and Little Bit stood by the switch.

“Dey’s all went, cap’n,” he snickered. “Nobody here excusin’ me!”

The watchman pushed open the swinging door and passed out into the night.

“I guess de meetin’ is over,” Little Bit giggled. “I’ll shet up an’ go home to bed.”

He carefully examined his garments to see that they had not been hurt in the scramble, smoothing his flowered shirt-waist shirt, and pulling up his purple-silk stockings till they were trim and neat over his legs.

“I’m glad dem scufflers didn’t spile my ladylike clothes,” he said proudly. “Ginny Babe Chew says I’s de sensation of de town!”

V

During the night there was an exodus from Tickfall on the part of certain citizens.

Skeeter Butts and Figger Bush left for the fishing-camp, where Vinegar Atts had taken refuge. They found Pap Curtain and Mustard Prophet sitting in front of a camp-fire, telling the pastor of the Shoofly church the story of their rival race for president of the Uplift League.

The place of assembly was known as the Buzzard’s Roost, a camp hidden deep in the Little Moccasin Swamp on the banks of the Dorfoche Bayou. During the next day, their company was augmented by various negroes who nursed wounds and bruises acquired in the affray in the saloon. But they were all fugitives—and friends now.

Followers of Pap Curtain and followers of Mustard Prophet dug bait and cut poles and rigged up fishing-lines and entered into friendly piscatorial rivalry and forgot all about the elevation of the poor, oppressed colored race. Ten days passed in a happy vacation for the whole care-free bunch.

Then Little Bit made his appearance at the Buzzard’s Roost with an important announcement:

“You won’t git arrested ef you comes in now, brudders. De police is done fergot all about you.”

“Whut’s de good news in Tickfall, Little Bit?” Skeeter inquired.

“De election is done winned,” Little Bit told him.

“Who am presidunt?” Mustard Prophet asked hopefully.

“Ginny Babe Chew.”

A low moan of sorrow came from the throats of the crowd.

“Yes, suh,” Little Bit continued. “De Uplift League met an’ called a election immediate, an’ Ginny got all de votes.”

“Who else wus ’lected?” Figger asked.

“Me!” Little Bit grinned proudly. “I was ’lected fust high janitor at four dollars per mont’ pay. I’m de only man whut got a job. De lady folks took a look at dese here ladylike clothes an’ dey ’lected me unanermous.”

There was silence for quite a while. Then Skeeter asked:

“Is de Hen-Scratch pretty much busted up, Little Bit?”

“Naw. ’Tain’t hurt any. I nailed de legs on de tables an’ patched up de broke chairs an’ us is jes’ as good off as ever.”

Skeeter glanced toward his automobile and rose to his feet.

“I’s gwine back to town, niggers!” he announced. “You-all kin foller. De fust drink in de Hen-Scratch is a free-fer-all on me!”

A shout of applause greeted this.

“But listen, fellers,” Skeeter said earnestly. “From dis time on, as fer as I’m concerned, pol’tics is nix!”

Family Ties

I

There were two men in Tickfall to whom everybody came with their troubles—Vinegar Atts, pastor of the Shoofly church, and Skeeter Butts, proprietor of the Hen-Scratch saloon. Both were reputed among their fellows to be wise in all human experience and equal to every emergency of life upon the earth.

Generally a man in trouble went first to Vinegar Atts, after which he poured his tale into the ear of Skeeter Butts. Each of these modern solons gave the troubled one some expert advice; then the preacher and the barkeeper got together and held a consultation, in which, as in a consultation of physicians, the diagnosis of each was confirmed, but the treatment was changed.

This time it was Shin Bone in trouble. Shin was the proprietor of a hot-cat eating-house, which made him and his wife very popular in the community, for there seems to be a natural affinity between a colored person and a piece of fried catfish.

“Whut ails yo’ mind, Shin?” Vinegar asked as Shin sat down on the cabin porch, dropping his old wool hat at his feet.

“I’s in deep troubles,” Shin said sorrowfully.

“A nigger’s trouble is like de rainbow—’tain’t got no end,” Vinegar philosophized. “But I don’t turn no nigger friend down because his troubles won’t terminate. I’s willin’ to he’p you fer any amount up to one dollar.”

“’Tain’t money troubles,” Shin said. “My bizzness is doin’ fine, but I ain’t gittin’ along so powerful good in my fambly.”

“You ain’t got no fambly, excusin’ Whiffle an’ yo’ baby,” Vinegar observed.

“De baby is all right,” Shin explained; “but Whiffle ain’t doin’ so well.”

Vinegar sat for a while in an expectant attitude, waiting for Shin to go on with the narration; but Shin found it hard to tell what he had come to say. He made several abortive efforts to get his mouth to going which got no further than a wretched silence and made him look like an idiot.

“Well?” Vinegar bellowed. “Why don’t you say somepin? You ack like one of dese here deef an’ dumb mutes celebratin’ de Fo’th of July wis noiseless powder.”

“My ailment is dis,” Shin said desperately, speaking the words in a rush, as if in a hurry to get the confession over. “My wife, Whiffle, is payin’ entirely too much attention to yuther nigger men.”

Vinegar drew a corncob pipe from his pocket and took a long time to light it, while his attention seemed to be concentrated upon a row of dead trees whose snaggy branches were visible on the Little Mocassin Ridge, four miles away.

Shin fidgeted and twiddled his thumbs. Finally he reached down at his feet for his wool hat, and began to gnaw at its brim, as if he were starving to death. He had chewed nearly around the circuit of the brim before Vinegar took his eyes off the old dead trees; and even then Vinegar merely looked at him and said nothing.

“Yes, suh,” Shin continued, finding it easier to talk now that he had made a start. “I always believed dat Whiffle wus jes’ as good frien’ to me as a wife nachelly gits to be, but now I done changed my mind.”

“Who is de man whut runs atter her?” Vinegar asked.

“I don’t know, an’ I cain’t find out,” Shin responded. “Of co’se, no nigger man ain’t gwine come to see her when I’m hangin’ aroun’. Whoever is courtin’ Whiffle comes to de back door of de resteraw when I’m out in town somewhar.”

“Mebbe it’s some of her kinnery dat has sneaked back to town an’ ain’t hankerin’ to be perceived, especially by de police.”

“It couldn’t be none like dat,” Shin replied. “Whiffle ain’t got but one kinfolks, an’ dat wus her brudder. Dat brudder is plumb absent fer good an’ all. You knows whut happened to him, don’t you?”

“Naw, suh,” Vinegar answered, scraping his head with the palm of his hand to stir his recollection.

“It come to pass at our weddin’,” Shin told him. “Atter we got hitched, a passel of niggers moseyed over to our house to wish us a fussless married life an’ git a sasser of ice-cream an’ cake. Us soon gobbled up our vittles, an’ I gib her brudder, Pewter Boone, a ten-dollar bill to go git some more eats. He went.”

“Well?” Vinegar snapped. “Go on wid de story.”

“Dat’s all,” Shin responded. “As I tole you, Pewter went. He tuck my ten dollars an’ jes’ nachelly abandoned me. He ain’t never come back, an’ I’m got a hunch dat he’s gwine till yit.”

“I don’t remember when dat nigger lived in Tickfall at all,” Vinegar said.

“He didn’t live here,” Shin said impatiently. “He got his raisin’ in N’Awleens. Jes’ dropped in day o’ the weddin’ an’ then dropped out before I even took time to get a good look at him. But dat Pewter nigger ain’t got nothin’ to do wid dis. Us is done side-tracked an’ got off de subjeck.”

“Whut does you want me to do?” Vinegar asked.

“Keep yo’ eye out fer me, an’ find out who dat nigger is whut hangs aroun’ Whiffle.”

“Naw, suh,” Vinegar said promptly. “I don’t monkey wid no love scrapes. I’m a exput in givin’ religious advices, but I ain’t no mattermony-fixer. I declines.”

“Who muss I take my troubles to?” Shin asked desperately.

“Tell yo’ sorrers to de barkeep,” Vinegar chuckled. “You knows as well as I do dat Skeeter Butts is de exput mattermony-fixer of dis town.”

Shin placed his hat on his head and stood up.

“I aimed to ax Skeeter, too, Rev’un, but I decided to come to see you fust.”

“Dat wus right,” Vinegar applauded. “I loves to git fusters on eve’y scandal in town.”

II

When Shin Bone revealed his trouble to Skeeter Butts, the situation delighted the very soul of the barkeeper.

“At de fust off-startin’, my notion is dat a lot of hongry niggers is hangin’ aroun’ yo’ kitchen beggin’ fer free vittles,” he told Shin. “Whiffle ain’t figgerin’ on bustin’ up her happy home by runnin’ off wid some yuther nigger man. I know she ain’t got no husbunt to brag on, but she done de best she could at de time, an’ husbunts ain’t improved so much dat she aims to lop you off.”

“Kin you kinder watch aroun’ an’ see who it is dat’s hangin’ aroun’ de kitchen?” Shin asked.

“Why don’t you do yo’ own watchin’?”

“I cain’t git close enough to see.”

“Stay fur away an’ look,” Skeeter suggested.

He rose, walked around the bar, and brought out a pair of army field-glasses enclosed in a leather case. They were handsome things. He adjusted the lenses to his vision, handed them to Shin Bone and indicated an old tree whose dead limbs pointed upward like the fingers of a gnarled and twisted hand in the Little Mocassin Swamp, three miles away. Shin placed the glasses to his eyes and uttered a yell of surprise.

“My Lawd!” he exclaimed. “I see a red-head woodpecker settin’ on one of dem limbs!”

“Suttinly,” Skeeter said. “You kin look jes’ as fur as you wants to when you look through dem glasses.”

“I ain’t aimin’ to see no furder dan a suttin nigger man,” Shin replied. “Atter I see who Whiffle’s beau is, I expecks to git a little closer.”

“How close?” Skeeter grinned.

“Close enough to shoot at dat nigger six times; an’ ef I has bad luck an’ misses wid all dem shots, I’s gwine throw brickbats at him half an hour,” Shin told his counselor.

“All you got to do is to borrer dem glasses an’ keep yo’ eye on de kitchen.”

“Whar would be a good place to hide while I watches?”

In his mind, Skeeter took a survey of all the surrounding country before he offered a suggestion. Finally he pointed to a tree half-way across the town, on a little hill, and said:

“Ef you climb up in dat tree an’ hide yo’se’f in de leaves, I figgers dat you will hab a straight line to look right at yo’ kitchen door. Ef I wus you, I’d go out to dat tree right now an’ take a look wid dese glasses.”

“I’ll shore try dat on!” Shin exclaimed. “Does dese here glasses b’long to you?”

“Naw. Dey ain’t really mine, but I’ll lend you de loant of ’em,” Skeeter said. “A feller come to dis saloon an’ borrered some money, an’ lef’ dese here spy-glasses fer s’curity. So, of co’se, dey is mine ontil he fetches back de money whut he borrered.”

III

Shin went out to the tree that Skeeter had indicated, seated himself among the branches, and directed his vision to the kitchen door of his restaurant. So powerful were the lenses that it seemed to him that the door was only ten feet away.