Part 14

“Gimme my baby!” Happy screamed. “I’se gwine back home to-night on de fust train!”

“Honey, don’t let nothin’ detain you!” Skeeter admonished her. “I don’t want yo’ baby--I’d druther hab a cockle-bur in my sock. Jes’ take yo’ brat an’ go!”

In a few minutes the barroom was empty, the crowd splitting into two parts, following either Happy Rocket or Shin Bone home, according to their sympathies.

In the middle of the floor Skeeter found a tin coffee pot. It was battered, broken, and useless, and one side was caved in until it resembled a big, toothless mouth grinning at him in sardonic glee. He bent over it, examined it from all sides, but did not touch it. The mishaps of the night had made him cowardly.

“Nigger luck is always bad luck,” he whispered. “Dis here tin pot might be a bomb an’ bust right in my face. I’ll let Little Bit pick it up when be cleans up in de mawnin’. All dis night bad luck has kotch me befo an’ behime--mostly behime.”

Skeeter sat down to rest his mind and collect his impressions. He was not the jaunty, confident, debonair young man he had been a few hours before. He felt like something had gone out of him, fading like breath upon a razor, leaving him but a shell of his former self, never to recover what he had lost and be the same again.

Tears of weakness and nervous collapse came into his eyes and rolled down his cheeks to the corners of his mouth. He wiped them away with the palm of his yellow hand and spoke again:

“One time when I wus little I axed Marse John Flournoy whar I come from. He tole me dat a buzzard laid me an’ de debbil hatched me in de hot ashes. I don’t misdoubt dem words, because I been ketchin’ hell ever since!”

Idle Dreams

“I ain’t no scholard an’ I don’t need no book,” Skeeter Butts proclaimed as he sat under the shade of a chinaberry tree in the rear of the Hen-Scratch saloon.

“Mebbe so,” the glib-talking man beside him said; “but dis here ain’t no highbrow book. It tells all ’bout whut dreams means. Don’t you never dream nothin’?”

“Shore!” Skeeter exclaimed, clawing at a high, white collar which threatened to saw his head off. “Las’ night I dreamt dat I done died an’ went to de bad place.”

“Dar now!” his friend exclaimed, turning the pages of the book until he found the word “Hell.” “You listen to dis.” Then, with the utmost difficulty the darky read: “‘To dream of seein’ hell denotes dat de dreamer’s life is a bad one, an’ is an in-ti-ma-tion to him of re-for-ma-tion.’”

“My gosh!” Skeeter Butts exclaimed, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. “Dat shore hit me right in de center of myse’f. How do dat book know?”

“I dunno,” the negro answered. “I s’pose it’s inspired. Anyways, it don’t never miss nothin’. Is you had any mo’ dreams recent?”

“Suttinly,” Skeeter said, with a frightened expression on his saddle-colored face. “Night befo’ las’ I dreamed dat I wus up in a balloom.”

“Us’ll see whut dat means,” his friend exclaimed, fumbling with the book. “Here it am: ‘Balloom--To dream of it shows dat you will engage in many chi-mer-i-cal plans.’”

“Engage in--_which_?” Skeeter demanded in a startled tone.

“Chi-mer-i-cal,” the negro repeated with difficulty. “Dat’s de kind it specify--Gawd knows whut dat means.”

“How many of dem dreams comes true?” Skeeter asked uneasily, gazing at the gaudy red cover of the book.

“All of ’em,” his companion answered promptly. “A garntee goes wid de book. Try it on wid anodder dream.”

Skeeter hesitated a moment, thinking heavily. Then he said:

“’Bout a week ago I dreamed ’bout rats.”

“Huh!” the other darky grunted as he found the place in the book. “Here am de word: ‘Rats--Se-cret en-e-mies.’”

“Looky here, nigger!” Skeeter Butts exclaimed in a frightened voice as he sprang to his feet, “dat shore is a dangersome book. Put all dem dreams togedder an’ look whut sort of a prize-package I done drawed!”

“Dat package shore is got some lemons in it fer you, Skeeter,” his friend assured him. “De fust dream says dat yo’ life am bad an’ you oughter git reformed; de second dream specify dat you is gwine engage in--in--whut-you-call-it plans; de las’ dream orate dat you got plenty enemies!”

“Dat’s de way it goes,” Skeeter mourned.

“Does you want a garntee dat all ’em dreams will come true?”

“Naw!” Skeeter howled. “I wants a garntee dat none of ’em gits to come to pass.”

He snatched a package of cigarettes out of his pocket, lighted one with trembling fingers, burned it to his lips with furious puffs, and spat the stub out upon the ground. Then he exhaled an immense volume of smoke around his head, as if invoking protective incense from the depths of his lungs.

“How much do dat book cost?” Skeeter finally asked.

“One dollar,” was the answer.

“Make it fo’ bits an’ I’ll buy de book,” Skeeter told him.

“I cain’t do it, Skeeter,” the other darky responded. “I needs a dollar. Excusin’ dat, a nigger whut ain’t willin’ to pay one roun’ dollar to learn how much bad luck is gwine git him deserves to hab a few mo’ bad dreams.”

“Dat’s a fack,” Skeeter sighed as he laid a silver dollar on his companion’s knee and reached out his hand for the volume.

“I hates to part wid dis book, Skeeter,” his friend said, as he reluctantly handed it over. “It shore is a wonder book. I been readin’ atter it fer mighty nigh a year. One dream I had specify dat somebody wus gwine inherit me money!”

“I might could stan’ dat kind of a dream,” Skeeter said in a solemn tone of voice. “But I’s gwine roost powerful low fer a little while till I kin change dem bad dreams I’m had to good ones.”

“Dat’s de rule,” the other darky chuckled, as he pocketed the dollar and rose to leave. “Ef dat book says, ‘Lay low,’ you done got yo’ ordahs. Ef it tells a rabbit to climb a tree, Br’e’r Rabbit had better hunt a easy one to git up on an’ straddle a limb.”

“Don’t tell nobody dat I done bought dis book, pardner,” Skeeter begged. “I wants to gib it a good try-on fust.”

“I ain’t say nothin’,” the darky grinned as he started away. “Dis dollar will gib me a trip to N’ Awleens on de steamboat, an’ I’s gwine to de landin’ right now.”

* * * * *

When the man had gone Skeeter laid the book aside, and busied himself in cleaning the saloon, wiping off the bar and the tables and sweeping the room. He tried to take his mind off of the book, but the interpretations of his dreams constantly recurred to his mind, and he felt a growing uneasiness.

“I wonder who dem secret enemies is,” he sighed. “Dat book oughter had tole me mo’ ’bout dat.”

He counted off upon his fingers all the negroes whom he did not like; then he counted those whom he knew did not like him; then he exclaimed:

“Dat don’t he’p me none. Ef I knows deir names, of co’se dey ain’t really secret enemies!”

He sat down at a table, lighted another cigarette, let the hot ash fall from the end and set his trousers afire. Then he dropped his smoke, put out the fire, and viewed the damage with popping eyeballs.

“Dat’s a _bad_ sign,” he exclaimed. “A nigger ain’t in luck whut sets his pants on fire!”

He got up and walked toward the rear exit of the saloon, traveling with jerky, nervous steps, and looking behind him twice with a frightened glance. He seated himself again in the shade of the chinaberry tree, and the book lay upon the chair which his friend had vacated.

Skeeter eyed the volume a long time with increasing uneasiness. The gaudy red-cover design represented a red woman, propped up on some red pillows, asleep, and holding a red fan in her hand. In the background was another red woman waving a wand, and a winged white boy, holding a black hat in one hand and a bag of money in the other. Scattered about on the red woman’s red couch were playing cards, envelopes, and one square piece of paper which contained the numbers, “4-11-44.”

“I onderstan’s dem numbers,” Skeeter mumbled to himself. “Whar is 7-11?”

Skeeter lighted another cigarette and puffed it furiously. Twice he reached out his hand to take the book, then drew back without touching it. He looked away several times, but the gaudy cover design attracted him each time with a sort of hypnotic fascination.

“I hadn’t oughter bought dis book,” he sighed. “A nigger ain’t in luck ef he knows too much about his innards.”

Finally he overcame his fear to the point where he ventured to turn the cover, and lo! on the other side was the picture of an aged negro, his black face framed in white hair and beard, his spectacles pushed up on his flat forehead, his mouth spread wide in a snaggle-toothed laugh.

“My Gawd!” Skeeter exclaimed, springing to his feet and gazing at the face with a fear which made his lips tremble, and his hands shake, and his knees knock together. “Dar’s a tintype of ol’ Swampo, dat wild Affican nigger whut used to live in a holler sycamo’ tree in de Little Moccasin Swamp!”

He sat down, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. For five minutes he strove to recall all that he knew and had heard of Swampo.

He remembered the leering, leathery, wrinkled face of the old half-wit negro, who came to town on every Saturday afternoon, and smirked and bowed and scraped around the white folks, holding out a clawlike hand, begging for a few pennies. Once he had heard a fearful screaming among the blue jays in the swamp, and had crept through the high undergrowth to see what the trouble was; and lo! Swampo had caught a blue jay, had laid the bird on its back, and had pinioned its wings to the ground with forked sticks.

The bird’s horrible screams had brought all the jays in that part of the swamp to the spot, and they stood around the imprisoned bird, making loud and profane comments upon his unfortunate predicament. At intervals some blue jay, impelled by curiosity, walked up within reach of the captive bird’s claws. Instantly the captive reached out, seized the bird, and held him a prisoner until Swampo slunk out of the underbrush, grinning like an ape, and released it!

As he thought about this fearful scene, Skeeter’s hair stood up on end, just as it had years before when he witnessed it, and had crawled, terrified, away from that vicinity. A cold shiver passed over his sweat-drenched body; he raised his head and eyed Swampo’s wide, laughing mouth with superstitious awe.

“Swampo shore is got de laugh on me,” he muttered through chattering teeth. “I wish dat nigger hadn’t sold me dis book. I ain’t no scholard!”

Lighting one cigarette after another to bolster up his courage, he managed at last to put out a trembling finger and turn the book over so he could read the title-page. With the greatest difficulty he spelled it out, giving the peculiar negro pronunciation to the words as he uttered them:

“‘Af-ric-an Dream Book an’ Fortune Teller, containin’ de true in-ter-pre-ta-tion of dreams, an’ de numbers of de events to which dey ap-ply. Also prog-nos-ti-ca-tions an’ di-vi-na-tions by cards, dice, do-mi-noes, dreams, moles, an’ marks, phy-si-og-no-my, phy-si-ol-o-gy, signs, au-gu-ri-es, charms, an’ in-can-ta-tions----”

“My good gosh!” Skeeter almost screamed as he sprang to his feet. “Dis is a awful book! Half dem words don’t signify nothin’!”

For ten minutes he walked up and down under the trees muttering to himself, his face fear-stricken, his hands trembling, his body oozing with cold sweat.

Then with a mighty resolution he reached out for the book, folded it, and slipped it into his hip pocket.

“Dis book is done skeart me plum’ to death,” he sighed. “Ef I die, I’ll go to hell! I wonder whar Revun Vinegar Atts is at? I’s gwine to talk dis over wid some religium pusson!”

* * * * *

The Rev. Vinegar Atts occupied four chairs under a tree in front of the Shoofly church--his body on one, his feet on another, his arms spread wide across the back of two more.

“Howdy, Skeeter?” he exclaimed. “Fotch you out anodder chair from de chu’ch. I needs all I’m got.”

Skeeter looked him over and grinned. For a moment he forgot his fears in contemplation of this squat-legged, pot-bellied, moon-faced negro preacher, whose head was bald except for two tufts of hair, one over each ear, which made him resemble a mule wearing a blind bridle.

“You shore is spreadin’ yo’se’f out, Elder,” Skeeter said, as he set his chair close beside Vinegar. “You look like a buzzard whut is tryin’ to fly back’ards an’ upside down at de same time.”

“I’s like a watermillyum vine,” Vinegar boomed. “When I gits sot good, I begins to spraddle.”

Skeeter reached to his hip pocket and brought out his dream book.

“Whut you flashin’ dat book aroun’ fer, Skeeter?” Atts asked suspiciously. “De Bible say dat many study is weary on de flesh.”

“I needs some advices from a scholard,” Skeeter remarked as he lighted a cigarette. “I done smoked up a whole pack of dese here things in de las’ half-hour. I’s powerful worrited in my mind.”

“You done come to de right place fer advices, son,” Atts announced with confidence. “Ef you got anything to ax me, jes’ bawl out!”

“Does you b’lieves in dreams, Elder?” Skeeter began.

“Well, suh, dat depen’s,” Rev. Vinegar Atts announced after a moment of cogitation. “As a preacher, of co’se, I b’lieves in Proverdunce; but ef you ’terrogates me jes’ as a common cullud nigger pusson--of co’se dat’s plum’ diffunt.”

“Is you had any dreams recent?” Skeeter inquired.

“Yes, suh; I dreamt about a wash-tub las’ night,” Vinegar informed him.

“Dis book tells whut dat dream signify,” Skeeter explained, as he opened the volume and turned to the proper page. “I reads dis about tubs: ‘Ef it be filled wid water, you hab evil to fear; an empty tub signify trouble; an’ to run against one, sorrow.’”

“Lawdymussy!” Vinegar bawled.

With a convulsive movement of his body, he kicked the chair from under his feet, hurled the chairs from under his arms, and upset himself falling over on his back with his feet in the air like an overturned bug.

He jumped up, breathing like a foundered horse.

“Fear, trouble, an’ sorrer!” he bellowed. “I knowed it! I knowed it wus comin’ on all de time!”

He sat down, folded his hands, and gazed around him, his mouth hanging open like the jaws of a bull alligator.

“Here I is, Luck!” he mourned. “Jes’ come right along, throw me down, an’ set on my head, den gimme a dose of bumpo-calomel an’ lemme die! O Lawdy, dat dose of dreams is shore heavy on dis nigger’s stomick!”

“Dat’s pretty servigerous, Vinegar,” Skeeter said mournfully, “but you oughter hear whut dis book prophesy ’bout me!”

“Go ’way, little yeller nigger!” Vinegar exclaimed with a flapping motion of his hand toward Skeeter. “Don’t tell me nothin’ ’bout yo’se’f! Ain’t I got all I kin stan’ right now? Look at me--I’s skeart already; I’s got plenty trouble right dis minute; an’ as fer sorrer--I’s shore sorry you ever fetch yo’ ole yeller mug up on dis hill whar I sets!”

“Whut you gwine do, Elder?” Skeeter inquired in a voice which quavered with fear.

“I’s gwine hide out till dese here calamities is done passed over,” Vinegar bellowed.

He jerked out a soiled white handkerchief and mopped it around his face, backward across the top of his bald head, and over the back of his bull-like neck.

“Whoosh!” he snorted. “I’ll be skeart to eat my vittles! I’ll be skeart to go to bed at night! I ain’t gwine take no chances wid a dream like dat taggin’ behime me!”

Skeeter fumbled with the volume a moment, then inquired:

“Would you wish to own dis book?”

“Who? Me?” Vinegar howled. “Naw, _suh_! Whut a nigger don’t know cain’t never hurt him; but ef he knows whut’s gwine to happen, he ain’t never real sapisfied till it comes to pass.”

“Dat’s right,” Skeeter mourned. “I shore made a miscue when I paid a dollar fer dis book. It’s got a tintype of ole Affican Swampo in it--you rickoleck him, Elder?”

“I shore does,” Vinegar responded. “De white folks found him dead out in de Little Moccasin Swamp wid a live rattlesnake in his hand!”

“Yes, suh, dat’s him,” Skeeter said fearfully. “I had done fergot ’bout dat snake.”

“Atter dey kilt de snake de white folks foun’ dat Swampo wus holdin’ it so tight in his dead han’ dat dey couldn’t git it away from him,” Vinegar said. “Dey buried Swampo an’ de snake togedder!”

“Listen to dat!” Skeeter exclaimed, his hair standing up on his head. “Ain’t dat plum’ awful?”

“Whut dey doin’ wid Swampo’s picture in dat book?” Vinegar wanted to know.

“Dis book is named atter Swampo,” Skeeter informed him. “It’s called de Affican Dream Book.”

“Go ’way wid dat book, Skeeter!” Vinegar bawled. “O Lawdy, I wonder whar I kin borry a rabbit foot at?”

He sprang up, began to search his pockets, and announced tragically:

“I ain’t got no luck-charms but a buckeye, a raw pertater, de toof of a hoss, an’ de foot of a mud-turkle!”

Then happening to glance down to where a road ran around the foot of the hill on which the church was located, he waved his arms wildly and bellowed:

“Hey, Figger Bush! Come over here a minute! Come prompt, cullud man!”

Figger looked up, vaulted the churchyard fence, and came up the hill toward them, wading through weeds shoulder high.

“Don’t you say nothin’ ’bout dat book till I borrers his rabbit foot, Skeeter!” Vinegar admonished in a low tone as the two watched Figger’s approach.

A moment later, Vinegar said:

“Figger, ain’t you got no luck-charms or rabbit foots dat you kin loant me fer a little while?”

“Naw,” Figger grinned. “Dey don’t do no good. I done tried ’em out!”

“Does you believe in dreams, Figger?” Skeeter asked after the three had seated themselves.

“Shore!” Figger answered, “I dreamed ’bout a rabbit las’ night. De Revun is done reminded my mind by axin’ ’bout my rabbit foot.”

“I’s gwine tell you whut dat dream means, Figger,” Skeeter announced, looking at his book. “‘Rabbit--To dream of a rabbit denotes some bad accidunt.’”

Have you ever seen a goose sitting in a summer shower when a big drop of rain hits him on the top of his head? A whitish film comes over his eyes, he looks up at the sky with a ludicrous appearance of meekness and humble supplication, then ducks his head beneath his wing and waits for the worst to happen.

When this appalling interpretation of his dream struck Figger on the top of his head he looked up at the sky with filmed eyes, then walked to the middle of the churchyard and stood upright with legs as wabbly as those of a new-born calf.

“Fetch me a chair out here, Skeeter,” he howled. “Don’t make me stan’ up any longer--I mought fall over an’ bust my head or somepin. I’s gwine set out from under dat tree! Set down in dat chair, Skeeter, an’ see ef it is solid--it might break down an’ run one of dem spokes clean through me.”

Skeeter tested the chair, and Figger sank down upon it with an air of thankfulness. Then he sighed:

“I shouldn’t had walked through dem high weeds comin’ up here--I bet dar is a snake in dem weeds as long as a railroad track!”

Thus, in one minute, Figger Bush had reduced himself to a hopeless imbecile. The other two looked upon him with pity and compassion, trembling at the dire portent of their own dreams and entering into full fellowship of sympathy with Figger. They sat for a few minutes in silence, then Skeeter Butts announced:

“I reckin I better mosey back to de Hen-Scratch.”

“Us is gwine wid you, Skeeter,” the other two announced promptly. “We is all sons of sorrer, an’ we oughter stick togedder.”

* * * * *

At the Hen-Scratch saloon they found Hitch Diamond, Prince Total, and Pap Curtain.

“Whut ails you-alls?” Hitch inquired curiously as he gazed into the frightened faces of his three friends. “You niggers look like you is jes’ foun’ out you wus borned to die!”

“Dat’s a fack, Hitch,” Skeeter sighed, as he and his two companions seated themselves on a bench. “Us is all had bad dreams.”

“I had a dream las’ night,” Hitch announced in his deep, rumbling bass. “I dreamed I runned a donkey down an’ tied him to a tree, an’ he brayed all night. Dat dream woked me up an’ I like to never got to sleep no more.”

“Does you know whut dat dream means?” Skeeter asked.

“Naw, suh, it’s been worritin’ me all day.”

“Dis book tells whut dreams means, Hitch,” Skeeter exclaimed as he opened the pages.

The negroes bunched up close around him, and after a moment Skeeter found the place and read aloud:

“‘Donkey--If you see him runnin’, brings misfortune; if he is tied you will ex-per-i-ence great loss; if you hear him bray, signifies death.’”

As Hitch Diamond received this intelligence he was a study for the psychologist. His iron features seemed to disintegrate, becoming a heterogeneous mass of conflicting emotions; his giant form seemed to shrink until his garments became too large, and hung loose and flapped around him; his scalp moved, forming a wedge on the top of his head, the point of the wedge at the apex of his skull.

“Oh, swelp me!” Hitch mourned. “I shore hab put up a job on myse’f dis time!”

The negroes gazed upon him with mournful curiosity, but none offered encouragement or sympathy. The fear of the unknown had gripped them all. In the blazing heat of the mid-afternoon, few living things were stirring, and an unearthly stillness seemed to pervade the entire town of Tickfall. In that vast silence of sun-slashed sky, and drooping, withering earth, and quiet animate life, these six men sat, filled with superstitious awe, appalled by fear of the unknowable, confidently anticipating the very worst of misfortune.

After a long time, Pap Curtain began to fidget.

“Say, Skeeter,” he whispered, “I don’t hanker atter no trouble, but I dreamed ’bout a cart las’ night. I’s jes’ bound to know whut dat means. See if----”

His whisper ended in a gasp as Skeeter began to turn the pages of the mysterious book with nervous, shaking fingers.

Pap waited, a picture of fear. His long neck rising from his collarless shirt seemed to stretch longer; his mouth, naturally so wide that one could sling a side of bacon into it, hung open loosely, and moisture appeared upon his cracked lip which retained a habitual sneer; his large, shifty eyes rolled back in his head like the eyes of a choking horse; then Skeeter pronounced his doom:

“Here ’tis,” Skeeter said, in a voice which sounded unnaturally loud, and which made every listener jump. “‘Cart--Its ap-pear-ance indicates ser-i-ous in-ju-ry. If you go upon it or move from it, de in-ju-ry may prove fat-al.’”

“Oh, Lawd, ain’t I a fool nigger?” Pap mourned. “I wish I hadn’t ast nothin’ ’bout dat. I wus feelin’ powerful good up to now, but----”

He wiped the sweat from his face on his ragged shirt-sleeve, reached back and jerked a twist of perique chewing-tobacco from his hip-pocket, bit off a chew, and promptly spat it out on the ground with an exclamation of fear.

“I fergot, fellers!” he sighed. “Dat book specify serious injury. Dis terbaccer mought hab a dynamite cap wrapped up in it, an’ when I chaws dat cap de top of my head will be over yanside de Massassap’ River!”

He held the twist off at arm’s length, slowly released his fingers, and let it fall to the ground.

“Hey!” Hitch Diamond bellowed, flinching away. “Don’t git so brash all of a suddent--be keerful how you drap things aroun’ me! I done heerd a donkey bray, an’ dat shore signify death!”

Prince Total got up, walked with jerky steps like a string-halt horse into the saloon, and exercising the right of assistant bar-tender, helped himself to a liberal drink of red liquor; thus fortified, he came out and sat down again. He opened his mouth to speak several times, then closed it without a word. He was aching to know the interpretation of his last dream but dared not ask.

“Wus you aimin’ to ax somepin, Prince?” Skeeter finally inquired in a lugubrious tone.

Prince shook his head, and Skeeter took out a buckeye and began to shine it up by rubbing it upon the leg of his trousers. At last, when Prince could stand the suspense no longer, he asked in a feeble voice: