Part 9

“Dink ain’ fraid no draf’ blowin’ ove’ ’im, out yonder in de swamp wid dem chillun; w’en he pull off ’is clo’se an’ jump in de ditch wid a ba’l to ketch shoe-pick, is he?... An’ inny-way, you ain’ need to gimme no egvice ’bout Dink,” she went on, with animation. “If da’s all you come hyuh for,—to raise de subjec’ cuncernin’ w’at I has to do wid Dink; you gotta ’scuze me if I tell you, you welcome to go back home de same way you come hyuh. An’ no hard feelin’s, either.”

“I ain’ come hyuh to meddle you,” Nookie apologized. “I come hyuh to press dis dress I wan’ wear to Carmelite raffle tonight. I ain’ had no charcoal to my house, an’ I say you mus’ bin had fire in de funnish; so I took my dress an’ come hyuh to do my pressin’.... But you ain’ mind, is you?” She asked, falteringly.

“De i’ons an’ de fire an’ de funnish all hyuh. An’ you kin press as much as you please,” Soongy answered; putting her work aside and clearing the board for Nookie. “I ain’ min’ nothin’. ’Cep w’en people try to make me feel cheap befo’ chillun,” she went on. “Wan’ make me think I gotta eat shoe-pick, jus’ ’cause Dink bring ’um hyuh an’ ax me to cook ’um.”

Nookie laughed pleasantly, and said:

“Soongy, nobody ain’ wan’ fo’ce you to eat shoe-pick if you scawns ’um so critical. Nex’ time Dink bring a mess o’ feesh home, you jes’ sen’ ’um roun’ to my house; an’ I bet I show you how to perish ’um. Who? I’m a plum fool w’en it come to mixin’-up shoe-pick an’ tomattusus an’ seas’nin an’ things.... An’ Dink, you kin fill up yo’ plate many time as you want,” she called to him, in his hiding place. “So bring de things roun’ to me, you hyeah?”

The sound of Dink’s pleased giggle echoed from the next room, and Soongy said to Nookie, loud enough for Dink to hear:

“Come on hyuh, Nookie, an’ git thoo pressin’ yo’ dress, an’ go home an’ lemme straighten up hyuh. An’ stop puttin’ devilment in dat boy head.... Nex’ time Dink go yonder ketchin’ shoe-pick, I lay I’m goin’ fix ’im so, he go naked till de Lawd has to take pity on ’im, an’ give ’im clo’se to put on. I sho Gawd will. If I has to burn evvy scat’rin rag he got to ’is name.”

Nookie walked over to the furnace, and taking one of the irons from the fire, she spat on it to test the heat. As she began pressing her dress, she said:

“Soongy, you ain’ foolish, no. Good as you know how to make b’lieve you is.”

Ignoring the remark, Soongy went to the table and fell to washing the dishes which Dink left in the pan. Very soon, song took the place of conversation; and the two women worked on, singing cheerfully over their tasks. Now and then the wavering sound of Dink’s voice came from the next room, like a broken response.

Nookie finished pressing her dress, folded it carefully, and put it in the basket, making ready to go.

“Now I’m goin’ yonder to my house, an’ lay down till dis evenin’,” she said to Soongy, after thanking her for the use of her charcoal and irons. “An’ watch how you goin’ see me strut in dis new frock tonight, w’en I git to Carmelite house, in front all dem people say dey comin’,” she called back as she walked out. “An’ leave Dink put on ’is clo’se, so he kin come soon an’ play music on de comb, an’ make dem niggers feel good befo’ dey go yonder to Tempe wake.”

The prolonged quiet in the next room seemed to tell Soongy that Dink had fallen asleep. As soon as Nookie had gone, Soongy called to him commandingly:

“Boy! You better come in dis kitchen an’ wipe dese dishes, an’ help me straighten-up dis room, befo’ you commence thinkin’ ’bout puttin’ on inny clo’se to go ’way from hyuh tonight. You hyeah me?”

All afternoon fast-moving banks of dark threatening clouds were hovering over the East Green, and with the coming of evening the rain began falling in torrents. Gussie had just finished his supper of cornbread and coffee before the open fireplace, and was sitting watching the puffs of smoke the wind blew down the chimney, and listening to the pelting sound of the rain on the old shingle roof. He wondered how he would be able to go out if the rain continued; remembering that it was the night he had to help old man Hooblitz with his sausage-making. Rain or no rain, he had to go. Because his word was his bond; and he knew that the old man would expect him.

Aunt Fisky was sitting by the table, patching one of Gussie’s old cottonade shirts by the dim light of a flickering candle. She saw him get up and go to the door and look out, and knew by his manner that he was impatient to get away. She felt that it would be useless to try and hinder him. It would only make him cross.

Putting on his hat and coat, he told her good night and started off in the rain. He would go to Mr. Cholly Groos’s and get a cup of lemon-gin first, he told himself; then go down to old man Hooblitz’s and hurry and get through; and after that “go by an’ peep in at Carmelite’s raffle for a w’ile.” And after that, go to the church and sing over Tempe till he got tired. Then, after a full night of varied pleasures, he would go home to Aunt Fisky, and “lay down, an’ sleep de sleep o’ de sattafied.”

This singular old German with the effervescent name, was a woodcutter by day; who, requiring extra funds for the desired supply of beer and whiskey for selfish consumption, against swamp-fever, snake-bites and such-like evils, managed to overcome the need by following the craft of sausage-making at night. His retired laboratory was a small shanty on the edge of Ziffle’s Wood, adjoining the cemetery. Hooblitz cut down the trees for Mr. Ziffle, who furnished the villagers with cord wood for their cook stoves and fireplaces.

Owing to a series of harsh disagreements with his married daughter who thought not highly of her father’s spectacular inebriety; old Hooblitz lived alone at his sausage factory on Mr. Ziffle’s property. Occasionally Gussie went to help him with the sausage-making; often spending the night with him, and taking part in his deep potations and raucous revelling; when only the owls in the cypress trees and the bullfrogs in the near-by canal would be annoyed by the seeming rivalry.

Strictly speaking, the place where the sausage was made could not be called a room. It was nothing more than a tin roof supported by four posts, young cypress trees with the bark on. The floor was of mud, baked hard from the fire that burned in the center three nights of each week. Over the fire was a large three-legged cauldron, with a brick under each foot. In it was boiled the mixture he peddled in a basket, going about in the evening from door to door; no distinction being made between his white and colored patrons.

Adjoining the place where he worked,—fastened on like a casual after-thought, was the room in which he slept. Its furnishings consisted of a rude bunk nailed to the wall; a long cypress tool chest resting on a pair of tressels; a soap box and a beer keg, to serve the purpose of chairs for any chance visitors. By way of decoration, the walls were hung with old hats, coats and trousers; here and there, odd pieces of red flannel shirts and underwear adding a redeeming note of cheer to the dull squalor of the place. The most striking thing, however, was an array of empty flasks and bottles (eloquent reminders of the revels of the past) hanging by strings from the rafters overhead.

For a long time Mr. Ziffle had the feeling that his woodpiles were being rifled, gently but systematically. He discussed the fact with old Hooblitz, who, not only gave vent to friendly indignation; but expressed his willingness to act as night-watchman and shoot the unworthy rogue, regardless of caste or color.

But his enthusiasm did not succeed in removing suspicion from Mr. Ziffle’s mind. He was convinced that Hooblitz was the crafty pilferer. So he determined to put the matter to a test. Whereupon he took a dozen or more sticks of wood and bored them full of gimlet holes; into which he poured a small quantity of gunpowder, plugging them up afterward. Then he placed the loaded cord sticks on the tops of the various woodpiles, and sat down patiently to wait results.

The night set in with a driving rain, just as old Hooblitz lighted his fire and filled the big iron pot with the ingredients for the unsanitary brew he would peddle as sausage. Looking at his supply of wood, he saw there was not enough to finish the boiling, and that he would have to pay a secret visit to Mr. Ziffle’s woodpile to get a few sticks to last the night. He was just about to go out, when the door flew open suddenly, and Gussie lunged into the room, dripping wet and blowing like a porpoise.

Displeased with the untimely interruption, and not wanting Gussie to find out the secret of his wood supply, knowing that he would speak of it in the village and Mr. Ziffle would hear it eventually; old Hooblitz stood looking at the unwelcome visitor, leering at his discomfort with a sort of malicious delight. Gussie sat down dejectedly on the beer keg, beating his wet cap against its side. The old man continued to laugh, wondering at the same time how long he would have to wait before going about his work. Getting up slowly, Gussie shook himself several times, like a wet dog trying to dry himself.

“Gawd knows, Mr. Hooblitz,” he began to complain, “I ain’ see w’at you got to laugh at. If I had knowed ’twas goin’ rain like dis, I sho would ’a stayed ’way from hyuh tonight.... You ain’ goin’ make no sausage, bad weather like dis, is you?”

’Twasn’t raining on the inside; the old man told him curtly. He didn’t have to stay, if he wanted to go back home; the old man went on. He got along without help before; he could get along without it again. Little bit of rain didn’t make him afraid to work for an honest living. The house had a roof over it. And there was a good fire, in the bargain.

“Li’l bit o’ rain!” Gussie exclaimed; surprised at his disagreeable manner of talking. “Man, you ain’ seen de water fallin’ out-do’as, if you wan’ call dat a li’l bit o’ rain.... Look how I’m soaked clean thoo to de skin, if you ain’ b’lieve w’at I’m tellin’ you.”

“Well, w’at you want me to do?” The old man asked indifferently, with a flat harsh drawl.

“Gimme li’l somh’n to drink,” Gussie told him frankly. “Li’l somh’n to warm me up befo’ I start ’way from hyuh. ’Cause I ain’ goin’ stay wid you an’ do no work tonight.... I done already seen whah you too cross an’ crabby for me to stay hyuh an’ play ’roun’ dis sausage pot. Wet as I done got comin’ ’way down hyuh in de woods for nothin’.... An’ inny-way, I got to go yonder to Carmelite raffle an’ see’f I can’ win’ one dem quilts for Aun’ Fisky.... An’ got to go yonder to Tempe wake, too.... So gimme a drink o’ somh’n-nother, Mr. Hooblitz, so I kin leave hyuh w’en it slack-up rainin’ a li’l bit out-do’as.”

The old man took a flask from his pocket, and holding it out to Gussie, said roughly:

“Here. Take a drink. An’ I hope it lands you in Hell before morning.... An’ hurry on back to your damn niggers; if that’s what you want to do. I reckon I kin git along good enough by myself.”

Gussie looked at the flask; then contemplated the old man’s face for a second before answering.

“But no, Mr. Hooblitz. You sho is cross tonight.... W’as de matter? You begrudge me a li’l bit o’ licker to keep me from ketchin’ col’, wet as I’m is? An’ come hyuh to help you, too?... Hyuh, take yo’ licker back,” he went on, holding out the flask to the old man. “I ain’ got to drink it, if da’s de way you wan’ talk. Frien’ly as me an’ you bin for so long.”

Old Hooblitz took the flask, and after helping himself to a long swig, he handed it back to Gussie, saying:

“Don’t be so damn touchy about your niggers. Take your drink, an’ go on back to ’um. You might miss the excitement if you stay here too long.”

Gussie put the flask to his mouth and took a long pull. He handed it back and the old man put it in his pocket and sat down sullenly. Gussie shook himself in his wet clothes, put on his cap, buttoned his coat well about his neck, and started for the door. He looked out to see if the rain had abated.

“’Tain drappin’ so hard like it ’twas,” he said, turning to the old man. “But ’tain no use stay’n hyuh no longer. So Mr. Hooblitz, I’m goin’ tell you good-night.”

The old man made an inarticulate grunt as Gussie left, calling to him as the door closed:

“Damn you an’ your good-night! I don’t care if I never see you no more.”

Going over to the bunk, he lifted the straw mattress and brought out a quart bottle of whiskey. He filled the empty flask he had in his pocket, took a generous gulp, put the flask back, and looked out at the weather.

The rain was falling in torrents.

He would have to go out after the wood, as the fire was burning very low. Going over to the array of clothing on the wall, he took an old coat from the peg, threw it over his shoulders and started out in search of the woodpile. After stumbling through the dark, he came back after a while with four sticks of wood, his clothing thoroughly drenched.

“A good dram’ll warm up the inside, an’ I’ll be dry in no time,” he said to reassure himself, lifting his flask and drinking heartily. Then he raked the fire together and put on two sticks of wood, and went into his room to lie down until the cooking required further attention.

The rain pelted on the tin roof of the shed and the ringing sound went echoing through the room like a savage serenade. The malodorous fumes of the boiling pot also went into the room, bringing him visions of profitable sales and more comforting flasks for the lonely nights to follow. The thought made him happy, so he took another long drink of thankfulness; closing his eyes so as not to be shocked by the dismal aspect of an empty bottle.

The rain rattled and the fire cracked, but nothing disturbed the pleasure of his dreaming. The pot gurgled and the fire cracked louder than before, but the rude noise failed to penetrate the chaotic lethargy that wrapped his maudlin mind.

Suddenly the gunpowder exploded, sending the loaded cord sticks flying in every direction; the seething pot soaring into the air against the tin roof, rattling like a charge of light artillery; the heterogeneous contents, scattered to the four winds like the spoils of battle.

But old Hooblitz heard no sound. No hint of the loud catastrophe. He lay unmoved on his dingy bed, wrapped in a fringe of bibulous ecstasy; half-hidden in the reek of steam that filled the room; oblivious to all mundane things; until the coming of morning confronted him with the cruel truth, and the accusing presence of Mr. Ziffle, asking if he was ready to deliver the culprit to justice.

Gussie went stumbling along the muddy street through the rain, wondering how soon he would come to a shed under which he could take momentary shelter. The nearest one was Mr. Honnus’s bar-room. He could see the pale gleam of lamplight reaching out across the street in the distance, but the welcome reflection was still several blocks away. He hurried on, quarreling with himself for going on such a wild goose chase, and cursing old Hooblitz for sending him off in the rain with so little consideration.

When he reached Mr. Honnus’s shed, he sat down on the door-step, deliberating whether to go in and have a drink to warm him up; or to continue right on to Carmelite’s house and dry his clothes by her kitchen stove before the raffle started.

He came to a decision without long delay. The bar-room door opened, and Chicken-Volsin coming out, Gussie had to get up to let him pass. Seeing Gussie’s wretched condition, Chicken-Volsin exclaimed:

“Great Gawd, man! Whah you come from? You look like somebody bin wollin’ in de ditch.... Come inside wid me an’ git somh’n to drink.”

“Sho Gawd will,” Gussie answered, well-pleased. “’Cause I feel like I’m ’bout to git de chills; wid all dis col’ rain searchin’ ’round my body.”

“Whah in de name o’ Gawd you bin, Gussie?” Volsin asked in amazement; walking over to the bar and calling for whiskey.

Gussie gave him a brief account of his useless journey to old Hooblitz’ place; the unfriendly manner in which he had been treated; and his determination to get to Carmelite’s raffle that night, rain or no rain. Anybody that had a spare dime could go and take a chance. And he had his mind set on winning one of Carmelite’s quilts for Aunt Fisky; so he would go, if he had to swim there.

Chicken-Volsin tried to shame him about his appearance, but Gussie assured him that he could sit by Carmelite’s stove and dry out before he went in the front room “munks de people.”

“Some mens sho is foolish ’bout goin’ wid wimmins,” Volsin twitted.

“’Tain’ de wimmins takin’ me to Carmelite house,” Gussie explained. “It’s dem quilts she rafflin’.... I ain’ give Aun’ Fisky nothin’ for so long, I wan’ bring ’uh home somh’n nice to make up for it.... An’ two or three dimes ain’ goin’ break nobody. So da’s w’at I’m goin’ for.”

Chicken-Volsin accepted the excuse without further comment, and offered him another friendly drink. Gussie swallowed the whiskey with relish, and seeming to have forgotten his discomfort, started to go.

Chicken-Volsin walked to the door with him and saw him go out in the rain. He stood watching him running across the street, and laughed to think what a fool Gussie was, exposing himself to such weather “for nothin’ but one li’l ole raggedy quilt.”

On reaching Carmelite’s house, Gussie pushed the gate open hurriedly, and ran up the steps, stamping his feet loudly on the gallery, trying to dry them. Carmelite was in the kitchen, and hearing the strange noise, she came out to see who had arrived. As she entered the room, the front door flew open unceremoniously, and she saw Gussie lunge into the room; his shoes covered with mud, and rillets of water running from his clothing and dripping from his cap, all over her neat, well-scrubbed floor.

She looked at him, filled with consternation, struggling for appropriate speech.

“Look! ole ugly w’ite nigger.... Is you done los’ yo’ good mind?” She almost shouted. “W’at you _mean_, comin’ up in my house dis-away?... Wettin’ up all my funnuchuh, an’ trackin’ dirt all ove’ my nice clean flo’ wid yo’ big ole muddy shoes?... _Git_ out o’ hyuh an’ go whah you b’long!... Nobody ain’ ax you to come hyuh, no-how.”

“Carmelite, don’ holluh at me like dat,” Gussie appealed to her quietly. “Lemme git to de kitchen an’ set by de stove, an’ git dry befo’ people start to come an’ ketch me lookin’ like dis.... Mizabul as you see me hyuh, wid all dese wet clo’se on.”

“_Who?_” Carmelite shouted with indignation. “You ain’ think you goin’ stay hyuh tonight an’ go munks people, trampy-lookin’ an’ lavadated as you is?... Who?... Gussie, you mus’ be a fool!... So you better make up yo’ min’ to go ’way from hyuh right now; an’ no mo’ talkin’ ’bout it.... You hyeah w’at I say?”

Gussie looked at her dejectedly, wondering whether to go or stay. He tried to reason with her, telling her that he only wanted to get dry before going out again; that was all. She wouldn’ have the heart to turn him out in the rain, after he came all the way from the woods to take a few chances just to help her out? Nobody would turn a dog out-doors a night like that. He wouldn’ bother anybody out in the kitchen all by himself. Who would care anything about him, as long as they were having a good time in the front of the house?

Taking a half dollar out of his pocket, he held it out to Carmelite saying:

“Hyuh; take dis fo’-bits, an’ pick some good numbers, an’ see’f you can’ win de quilt for me; so I kin take it yonder to Aun’ Fisky.”

Carmelite took the coin without a demur. It was an unexpected ameliorating charm. A welcome token of truce.

“Come on out hyuh an’ set to de stove; so I kin hurry up an’ wipe dese tracks off dis flo’ befo’ innybody git hyuh,” Carmelite said in a quiet voice, starting for the kitchen with Gussie following her. “An’ ’tain no pity for _you_ make me change my min’; no,” she went on. “If ’twasn’ say I know Aun’ Fisky so long; an’ know w’at she got to put up wid; I _sho_ would make you take de road tonight; brazen as you is, comin’ hyuh like dis.”

Gussie pulled a chair close to the stove and sat down; glad to get where it was warm, and thankful to be under shelter at last. Carmelite took a floor-cloth from behind the door and went to the front room to wipe up the mud tracks from Gussie’s shoes. After a while she came back; and seeing Gussie looking at the coffee pot on the stove, she said:

“I’m goin’ give you a cup o’ coffee; an’ you stay hyuh an’ drink it. An’ don’t you come to de front w’en people git hyuh, an’ de raffle be goin’ on in yonder. You hyeah?”

Gussie told her that he would stay in the kitchen. All he wanted was to get dry. And maybe after he drank his coffee, he would go to sleep for a little while, before he passed by Tempe’s wake, on his way home.

“Well, you stay hyuh in de kitchen,” Carmelite reminded him. “An’ if inny one yo’ numbers draw de quilt, I’ll fetch it out hyuh to you.”

She poured a cup of coffee and placed it on the apron of the stove for him. Hearing voices at the front, she went to look after her guests; leaving Gussie to take his enjoyment as he felt inclined.

When Carmelite came into the room, Scilla was standing in the middle of the floor unpinning herself from the folds of an old gray blanket. Mozella was sitting in the rocking-chair, wiping her bare feet with a towel, and making ready to put on her shoes and stockings, which she had carried in her hand. Pinkey was leaning against the door, hesitating to come in, for fear of leaving mud tracks on the floor.

“Gawd knows, Carmelite,” she remarked half-regretfully, “you sho picked out a nasty night to make people come ’way from home, an’ bring a whole lot o’ mud an’ confusion in yo’ house,—jus’ for one quilt.”

Carmelite gave an unconcerned laugh and told her not to worry about the mud. She had plenty of rags and soap to clean it up tomorrow. She wasn’t too old and feeble to get down on her two knees to scrub. ’Specially after people had come so well-meanin’ to help her make a few dimes, to pay for all the sewin’ she put on that nice Jacob-ladder quilt she was goin’ leave ’um to view later on. No indeed.... A little bit of mud tracks wouldn’t upset her, if the crowd was goin’ to be plennyful.

Keziah came in, followed by Frozine who was carrying a lantern; her skirt tucked up above her knees; her white stockings and battered pair of loose-fitting men’s shoes giving her a most ludicrous appearance.

Soongy and Lethe were sitting in the corner, staring at her in amused silence. Dink was standing across the room, looking at her with his hand over his mouth, struggling to keep back a convulsive outbreak.

Carmelite went to take the lantern from Frozine, saying:

“Frozine, you come clean from home all thoo de street like dis? Wid a lantun shinin’ ginse yo’ laigs so brazen? Callin’ people tenshun to you, crittacul-lookin’ as you is?”

Who? Frozine remarked with a fine indifference. She didn’t have people to study about.... She didn’t play with mud in the day-time; so she knew good and well that she wasn’t going to take no chances with any Gritny mud in the night-time.... Fallin’ down in the dark and wreckin’ herself, without a lantern.... No indeed.... People laughin’ didn’t worry her. They could laugh at her legs as much as they pleased. Laughin’ couldn’t hurt her feelings.... But she sure Gawd was going to look to keep her legs from getting hurt.... Yes indeed.... Because she had too many things she had to do, before she “runned up on a accident an’ come to be a cripple befo’ her time.”

“Hyuh Bennee done come, Carmelite. An’ got Duckery wid ’im, too,” Soongy called to her as she went back with Frozine’s lantern.

The two young men came in smiling to everyone present, and the buzz of conversation and merry laughter began to fill the room.